Neither result was what she'd had in mind.
His silence didn't help.
Self-consciously, Victoria rose, determined to clarify her position. "I'm a big girl, Zach," she said lightly, forcing herself to meet his gaze, uncertain and more than a little uneasy about what she'd see there. "You stay. Have your coffee. I'll go home, prepare for court, and catch a few hours' rest."
He didn't look pensive or brooding or even mystified, as she'd expected. He looked torn. He was torn, she suddenly realized. Rather than pondering the implications of what she'd just said, he was having an internal battle over what to do. She knew it as surely as if he said it. He was torn between his parents' decent, old-fashioned teachings about how a woman should be treated and his attempt to respect her independence.
"Victoria . . ." He came to his feet, gripping the edge of the table and leaning toward her.
She had to take a stand—now.
"I tell you what. You pay for dinner," she quipped lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That will appease your unnecessary feelings of guilt. It'll also do a lot more for me than your seeing me to my door. My legs are as functional as yours, but you're richer than I am."
His tight-lipped smile told her he'd picked up on the fact that she was putting a lighter slant on the conversation—and that he didn't like it. "If you prefer it that way, fine. Dinner's on me."
"Thank you." She averted her gaze. "Good night." Scooping up her purse, she turned toward the door.
"Victoria?"
She glanced back questioningly.
"Let me know how it goes tomorrow."
"I will." She walked away, feeling Zach's penetrating stare bore through her and wondering whether he was thinking about the investigation, or about the unresolved personal issues they'd both assumed had been put to bed long ago but that seemed destined to keep resurfacing.
She stepped outside, already scanning the street for a taxi. It was late, she was worn out and confused, and she wasn't up for the half-mile walk to her apartment.
That's when she saw him.
He was standing diagonally across the street, partially concealed by shadows. But she saw the glowing ember of his cigar. And she felt his penetrating scrutiny.
He was still following her.
* * *
14
Without missing a beat, Victoria pivoted and weaved her way back through the warm, bistro-like tables at Lusardi's, not slowing down until she could see Zach.
He was ordering coffee, but when he saw her, he stopped and held up a detaining palm to the waiter. "What is it?" he demanded as she reached the table.
"Mr. Cigar." She kept her voice low. "He's outside. Across the street."
"Got it." All in one motion, Zach came to his feet, instructing the waiter to cancel the coffee and reaching into his pocket. He peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. "I apologize for the inconvenience," he told the waiter. "This will more than cover dinner. The rest is for you."
Their waiter beamed. "Grazie, signore."
Zach was already guiding Victoria toward the door. "Did he spot you?" he asked quietly.
"He must have. He was watching the restaurant entrance when I walked out."
"Then he'll assume you saw him, too, and that you went back inside to get help. Or worse, call the police."
"So he'll disappear?"
"Only from view. He's probably hanging out inside another building, waiting to see if a cop shows up. If not, he'll get brave again." Zach opened the door and eased them both outside, casually adjusting his collar while scanning the area. "Is he still there?"
"No. He's gone."
"Not gone," Zach corrected. "Just out of sight." He angled himself to face Victoria. "Listen to me and don't argue. I'm going to walk you home. We're not going to take a cab, because that would defeat the whole purpose. I want him to feel safe. I want him to follow you. I don't want him to know he was spotted. Let him think you went back inside to see where I was. In the meantime, you and I are going to walk to your apartment hand in hand, chatting and acting like we're close friends. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Good." He reached down, took her hand in his, and interlaced their fingers. "Let's go. Slowly. And having easy, intimate conversation."
Like we used to, flitted through Victoria's mind as she fell into step beside him.
They headed up Second Avenue toward Eighty-second Street.
"Your hand is cold," Zach murmured. "Are you frightened?"
"A little. More shaken, actually. I'm also freezing. It was warm when I got dressed. Now I wish I'd worn a coat."
Zach released her hand and shrugged out of his sport coat. "Here." He wrapped it around her shoulders, then draped an arm around her to keep it in place. "Better?"
That depended on how one defined "better."
Enveloped in Zach's coat, Victoria was instantly accosted by his scent—the fresh, woodsy aroma of his Armani cologne and the clean, masculine scent that was just plain Zach.
Her body reacted as if to a caress, and a hot tremor shuddered through her.
"Victoria?" Reflexively, his palm rubbed the chi.ll from her arm. "Are you warmer now?"
"Um-hum." She stared at the sidewalk, dimly aware of the throngs of people walking around them. Everything seemed surreal, as if she were reliving a treasured moment from the past. Except that it wasn't the past, and Zach was only walking her home to protect her from the wacko who was following her.
She tensed, wondering if Mr. Cigar was one of the seemingly innocuous people moving up and down Second Avenue, or whether he was hovering in the shadows, watching her head for home and creeping along behind her.
Zach paused at the corner of East Eighty-second Street, glancing about nonchalantly as he waited for the light to change. "I don't see him," he murmured, his breath ruffling Victoria's hair.
She nodded.
The light changed.
They crossed over, heading west toward her apartment. Zach tucked his coat more fully around her, eased her closer against him, and Victoria had to fight the insane urge to lean into him.
"Tell me about your life these past years." His abrupt request jarred her out of her sense of unreality.
Victoria's head whipped around, tilting back so she could see him. "Excuse me?"
Shadows danced across his features, hiding his expression from view. "We're supposed to be talking. So tell me about your life since law school. Surely you've done more than protect your family and start a practice."
"Yes. I busted my tail for three years at a private firm that was a lot like my father's. I hated it. I couldn't wait to get out."
"And did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Get out."
"You know I did."
"I don't mean work. I mean men."
This time Victoria stopped dead in her tracks. "You're asking about my social life?"
"Keep walking. And, yes, I'm asking about your social life. I might as well know how many of the images I tortured myself with were real."
She ignored his command to keep walking. In fact, she scarcely heard it. Her mind was on overload, her breathing fast and unsteady, partly from angry disbelief and partly from the hazy state she'd been fighting when this absurd conversation began.
"I see." Her voice was as raw as her emotions. "And which did you want to hear about first—the lengthy, serious relationships or the short, hot affairs?"
A muscle worked violently in Zach's jaw. "Was that meant to be amusing? Because it wasn't."
"It was meant to be a brutal reminder that what I do, and who I do it with, is none of your business."
"Goddammit, don't you think I know that?" he muttered roughly. "Don't you think I tried to drum that into my head every damned day?"
It happened too fast to predict, much less to prevent.
One minute they were standing there, glaring at each other.
The next minute, they were in each other's arms.
Zach pul
led Victoria close, braced her against him. His hand groped beneath her hair, tightened around the nape of her neck, and lifted her mouth to his.
Their breath mingled, their mouths came together, and the world came apart.
There was nothing tentative about the kiss. No tender brushing of lips, no slow, incremental explorations. It was hot, open-mouthed, frantic. They were locked together, their bodies straining to be closer, their joined lips separating only long enough to allow for short, harsh gasps of air before fusing again. Zach's coat toppled to the sidewalk, forgotten, a crumpled pile of wool at Victoria's feet.
Neither of them noticed.
Oblivious to passersby, to anything and everything but the wildness that was taking place between them, they sank into the moment, Zach's tongue taking Victoria's in deep, plunging strokes, one hand tangled in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist, crushing her against him. Victoria's fists knotted in his sweater, then slid up to encircle his neck, to hold him as tightly as he held her.
Neither of them knew how long they stood there.
Nor had they any idea how much longer they might have gone on doing so had two carloads of teenagers not driven by, honking repeatedly and shouting encouraging, if embarrassing, pointers out the windows.
They broke apart, staring incredulously at each other as they tried to catch their breath, to collect their thoughts and regain their equilibrium—in more ways than one.
"Victoria..." Zach began hoarsely.
"I dropped my purse." Victoria's voice sounded high and thin, and she stepped away from Zach, combing her fingers through her hair and searching the sidewalk.
The purse was nestled atop Zach's sport coat.
"And they say New York is unsafe," Victoria commented shakily, scooping up the purse and slinging the shoulder strap over her arm. "I just gave any thief the perfect opportunity to—"
"Victoria." Zach caught her elbow, forced her around to face him. "Stop it. Stop running."
Her insides felt hollow and, at the same time, racked with turmoil. She felt more like collapsing than anything else. "Actually, I think running might be a very good idea about now. I can't deal with this. I can't think about it, much less discuss it. These last few days have been ..." She broke off, her hands trembling as she felt herself slip one notch closer to losing it. "I have to get out of here."
She took off.
Moving as fast as her high heels would allow, she liter- ally ran the remaining distance to her building. She groped in her purse for her keys, yanking them out as she reached the town house. Instinct told her Zach was not far behind, whether to force her to talk to him or to ensure her safety, she wasn't certain.
Nor did she intend to find out.
She needed to be alone.
She was still shaking when she let herself into the apartment. Shutting and locking the door, she sagged back against it, her heart racing. She just stood there, staring into the darkness. She felt numb, void of any reaction other than shock.
So she was surprised when, minutes later, she tasted the warm, salty wetness of her own tears, and realized how hard she was crying.
* * *
This was like a goddamned soap opera, the man thought, watching his gorgeous target dash up the street and storm into her apartment. Whoever the guy was, he'd obviously tried something she wasn't ready for. What was it with women? What had she expected after a kiss like that? She'd done everything but drop bread crumbs marking the path to her bed. And now she was playing the injured virgin.
Well, at least she was playing. Until now, he'd begun to wonder if she ever cut loose. It was home to office, office to court, court to dinner, dinner to home. Her big night out was a visit to her aunt and uncle's place. Boring. And except for that one trip to the Institute, no threat whatsoever. He wondered why he was still watching her. But orders were orders. The whole disinfection team remained on alert. The target could become a real problem, the team leader had said. Well, he sure as hell didn't see it. But then, he wasn't the one making the decisions— or paying the bills. So he'd make sure she tucked herself in like a good girl and went to sleep. Oh, he wished he could join her, show her a few things to do in bed besides sleep. He'd be glad to distract her, take her mind off the Institute.
He glanced around, saw no sign of that tall guy she'd blown off, and lit his cigar. Puffing lightly, he eyed her bedroom window, waiting for the light to go on.
It didn't.
Now that was weird.
He was about to cross over and check things out, when he heard a quiet thud. Then another. Deliberately muted, but audible—at least to his trained ear.
Footsteps.
Going deadly still, he located their source. Shit. It was that tall guy again.
He ground out his cigar and vanished into the night.
* * *
Dammit.
Zach cursed silently as the glowing cigar ember disappeared. He'd been so close. But his shoes had made enough noise to alert Mr. Cigar and send him running.
He closed the distance anyway, searching the area. Victoria's description was accurate. Mr. Cigar was unobtrusive and nondescript. Average height, reedy, fluid of motion. He was also light on his feet and fast as hell, with sonarlike instincts to warn him.
Yeah, he'd done this kind of work before.
Frowning, Zach took out his pocketknife, pulled out the small blade, then squatted. He stabbed at the still-smoldering cigar stub, spearing it with the knifepoint. He looked it over without touching it. Doubtful there were any clear fingerprints. Still, he'd give it to Meyer, just in case. Maybe they'd get lucky. If the prints were readable, and if the guy had a record, maybe they could get a handle on him.
Zach angled his knife toward the nearby streetlight until he could make out the lettering on the paper band of the half-smoked cigar. No help there. A common Mexican brand—the kind thousands of people smoked. Trust this bastard not to make it easy.
Who the hell was he? Did he work for Victoria's father? And, if so, why was he still following her? Did Kensington doubt his daughter had believed his story about Audrey? Did he suspect Victoria had an ulterior motive for joining his firm? Or had he just not had enough time to call off his dogs?
And where was Victoria?
Zach had seen her dart into the building. But there was no light on—not anywhere in her apartment.
He knew she was reeling from that kiss they'd shared. So was he, for that matter. He also knew she needed time alone. But right now he didn't give a damn. Her safety came first.
He crossed the street and pressed the buzzer.
It took three long rings for her to respond.
"Yes?" Her voice choked.
'It's me. He was out here. Let me up."
Silence.
"Victoria, I'm coming up there. Either buzz me or I'll find another way in."
The buzzer sounded.
Zach took the steps two at a time.
Victoria opened her front door as he reached it. She looked pale but composed, her hazel eyes veiled, slightly damp. "I just looked out my bedroom window. I didn't see him."
"He was across the street. He took off when he saw me." Zach stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and holding up the speared cigar. "Do you have a plastic bag? One that seals?"
Victoria's gaze widened. "His?"
"Yup. I'm no expert, but there might be fingerprints. I'll take it to the FBI and have them check."
She nodded, went into the kitchen, and returned with a small, resealable plastic bag. "Here." She held it open until Zach had shaken the stub free, let it drop into the bag. Then, she sealed the bag and handed it to him.
"I'll take it in first thing in the morning." He placed it carefully on her counter, then tossed his sport coat onto a chair.
Realizing he meant to stay, Victoria gave a hard shake of her head. "I'm not up for conversation, Zach. You saw me to my door, so to speak. I'm fine. You scared that man off, for which I'm grateful. Now, please, I need to read over m
y case and get some sleep."
"Go right ahead. I'll take the sofa."
"You'll take the . . ." Her jaw dropped as his meaning sank in. "You're not staying here."
"The hell I'm not." He took one step closer, but fought the urge to reach out and shake her. "This isn't about us, Victoria. This is about you. Your safety. Mr. Cigar's not here to shop for an apartment. He's stalking you. I thought after your talk with your father, this would end, but it hasn't: Why? Until I know the answer to that, you're not staying alone. So you have two choices: either pack a bag and move in with me at the Plaza Atheénée, or throw me a pillow and go do your work."
She just stared at him for a moment. Then she exhaled with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck and looking incredibly tired. "Fine. I don't have the energy to argue with you." She walked away, returning to toss him a pillow and a blanket. "It's almost eleven o'clock," she announced. "I'll be leaving at six a.m. for my meeting with Meg and Paul. So the lights, the coffeemaker, and the hair dryer will go on at five."
Zach acknowledged her pointed warning with an equally pointed statement of his own. "That works out well. My hotel is three blocks from your office. We'll get a cab and I'll drop you off. You're not walking." With that, he retreated to the living room and began making up the sofa.
Victoria didn't take that too well. She marched into the living room, her chin lipped up angrily as she faced him. "Don't push your luck," she advised him. "You're catching me with my reserves down. That doesn't mean I'm always so malleable. I won't have my life arranged for me. I won't be told what I can and cannot do. And I won't let you be my self-appointed knight in shining armor. That approach might work with your European women, but, if you recall, it doesn't work with me."
Zach went very still. He tossed down the bedding, inclined his head in question. "My European women?"
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, but she didn't flinch. "A random, if poor, choice of words—not an inquiry."
She'd become quite the master at hiding her emotions. But Zach wasn't buying it. Nor was he willing to let her off so easily. Painful or not, it was time for them to talk.