"I see." Her father pursed his lips, eyeing her rather than the diamond. His forehead creased in thought, as if he were deciding which stock option to exercise. "Hamilton is intelligent, respected, extremely affluent, and well connected," he announced.
Victoria didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Even now, with his own future hanging in the balance, Walter Kensington's priorities didn't change. The list of Zach's virtues he'd chosen to enumerate was thoroughly typical.
"Yes, Father, he's all those things. He's also the finest man I've ever known."
To her surprise, her father nodded. He studied her ring, that odd expression flickering across his face. "You're happy with him, then."
"Very."
Another nod. 'Then I'm pleased for you." A frown. "Hamilton's based in Europe. Your legal career—"
"Won't be affected, Father. Zach's going to relocate. He and I plan to settle within commuting distance of Manhattan." Victoria gave her father a tight smile. "I still won't accept your partnership offer. But I'll be nearby enough for you to continue pressuring." She turned and walked toward the door. "Call me after you've conferred with your client. If I haven't heard from you by tomorrow morning, you'll hear from me."
"Victoria?"
She glanced back questioningly.
"I accept your offer to walk you down the aisle."
* * *
32
Victoria retreated as far as Miss Hatterman's cubicle, then ducked inside.
She wouldn't let herself feel guilty for what she had in mind. She'd given her father every chance to tell her the name of the Hope Institute's CEO. Not surprisingly, he hadn't. She couldn't blame him. He had a responsibility to his client, corrupt or not. She'd been prepared for his reaction. As a result, she'd made plans to get what she needed in a more creative way—and help her father in spite of himself, just in case his conscience didn't prevail over his commitment to attorney-client privilege even after he'd confirmed the truth. She was more determined than ever to save him from himself now that she knew for certain his culpability was limited.
Miss Hatterman's area was dark, piles of work neatly stacked up on her desk to be tackled first thing Monday morning. But darkness was fine for what Victoria had in mind.
An instant later, she saw what she was waiting for.
One light on the secretary's phone lit up. It was her father's private line. He was making a call.
And Victoria knew just who he was calling.
She was half tempted to eavesdrop. But she couldn't take the chance. If her father's keen ears heard the telltale click of another extension being picked up, she'd blow her one and only opportunity. She had to have patience—for everyone's sake.
The light vanished, then flashed back on. Her father was obviously searching for his client. The second time the light stayed on long enough to indicate the elusive CEO had been reached. Two minutes, three. Then, the light went off, this time for good. Not a shock that the call was brief. Walter Kensington always conducted important business meetings in person. And Lord knew, this meeting was important. Her father's entire career and future were on the line.
Quietly, Victoria left the office and took the elevator downstairs.
* * *
She lingered in the lobby, knowing that the minute she stepped outside, Mr. Cigar would be on her trail. She had to time this just right, so she could do what she had to without alerting him.
A whirring sound told her the elevator had been summoned. Her head snapped up, and she watched the ascending floor numbers. When the elevator stopped on fourteen, she knew who was getting in.
She paused until it began making its descent. Then she turned on her heel and left the building.
* * *
Outside, she began walking briskly, as if she were headed somewhere important. She glanced at her watch and frowned, seemingly troubled by the time. Mr. Cigar should have a clear view of her. It was Saturday, and there weren't many commuters dashing about.
She timed reaching the corner just as the light changed and traffic resumed moving up Park Avenue. Abruptly, she pivoted, as if waiting to cross over to the other side of Park.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her father hail a cab in front of his building. She didn't spare a glance in that direction. The last thing she wanted to do was to alert Mr. Cigar to her father's presence. Hopefully, he had his eye on her, not her father. At the same time, she didn't want her father to spot her. So, to play it safe, she stepped behind a heavyset woman whose arms were loaded with bundles and who was also waiting for the light to change.
The minute her father's taxi sailed by, she stepped out from behind the woman and her bundles and marched over to the edge of the curb. Perfect. Another couple of unoccupied taxis were cruising up the street. With a quick, dark scowl at her watch, she raised her arm to flag one down.
Please, she prayed silently. Don't let this be one of those days they decide not to stop.
It wasn't.
The first cab eased toward her, its sleepy-eyed driver eyeing her as if trying to decide whether or not this fare was worth the trouble of stopping. Victoria gave him a bright smile. He pulled over. She scrambled in, slammed the door, and said, "At the risk of sounding like a bad movie, follow that cab." She pointed.
The cabby twisted around and blinked. "What?"
She had to talk fast. Her father was already a block ahead. "I'm a lawyer. I work with that man. He forgot some important papers. I've got to give them to him."
"Yeah?" The cabby searched the empty seat beside her. "So where are the papers?"
Great. She had to get a nosy driver.
"Okay," she amended. "You got me. The truth is, he and I are lovers. His wife just found out about us. I've got to warn him before he sees her."
The cabby's approving gaze swept Victoria. "The man's got good taste." He turned, scowling at the road. "He's almost two blocks ahead of us."
"But it's Saturday and there's not a lot of traffic. Please. We're going to lose him." Victoria whipped out a twenty-dollar bill. "He's not going far." She hoped that was true. "Just a mile or two. I'll double whatever the fare is, and add this twenty as a tip."
"You got it, lady."
In true New York cabby style, the driver floored the gas and zoomed through the red light.
They narrowed the gap between the two cabs pretty quickly, weaving in and around other cars to keep their quarry in sight.
"You're lucky it's Saturday, lady. Otherwise you'd be in deep shit."
"I know." Victoria was forcing herself not to lean forward and look agitated. If Mr. Cigar had found a way to follow her—which she doubted he'd been able to pull off, given how fast she'd acted—she didn't want him to suspect she was in hot pursuit of another vehicle.
With dollar signs in his eyes, her cabby dodged red lights and poky drivers, fairly flying up Park Avenue. Twenty blocks. Thirty. Where the hell was her father going?
The other cab turned west on Eighty-fifth Street and shot up to Fifth Avenue. There it turned south and continued at a much slower pace. Victoria watched it, a horrible sense of dread forming in the pit of her stomach.
"Slow down," she instructed her driver in a taut voice.
"Why? I thought you wanted to catch up to—"
"Slow down!" she ordered, seeing the other cab veer over to the curb and stop.
Oh, God, no.
Her father bolted out, tossed in a few bills, then strode over to the adjacent building: 1029 Fifth Avenue.
Jim and Clarissa's address.
Victoria could taste her morning coffee rising from her stomach, feel it burning in her throat. "Pull over."
She watched her father say a few quick words to Leonard, who responded with a rueful shake of his head and a negative reply. Walter Kensington then tensed with anger, delivering a biting retaliation, which made Leonard flinch. The doorman tried again to dissuade him, saying something tentative—but Victoria's father cut him off immediately. He barked out a command, slicing the
air with his palm and pointing vehemently at the apartment. Leonard relented, calling upstairs with the expression of a condemned prisoner. He hung up, gave Walter a terse nod, and stepped aside as Victoria's father blew by him and disappeared into the apartment.
"Lady? Are you getting out or not?"
Dazed, Victoria looked at the cabby. "What?"
"Are you getting out?"
"Oh. Yes." She glanced at the meter, pulled some more bills out of her wallet and handed them to him, along with the twenty. "Thanks."
"Any time." Grinning, the driver stuffed the cash in his pocket. "And listen. If you don't mind my saying so, you're a knockout. Find yourself someone else. That guy's old enough to be your father."
"Yeah. Right." Victoria climbed out, feeling like a condemned prisoner herself. Her uncle? Oh, God, please don't let this be happening. Please let there be some other reason why her father was here.
But what? What could possibly take precedence in her father's mind over saving his neck? Why would he go anywhere other than straight to the Hope Institute's CEO?
Even if that's why he's here, lots of people live in this building, she reminded herself. She shouldn't, wouldn't, jump to conclusions.
She walked slowly up the sidewalk, too shaken to think straight. One thing was for sure—if her worst fears were confirmed, she was in no condition to take any on-the-spot action. Not until she pulled herself together.
First things first. She had to get the facts.
"Miss Kensington." Leonard stared when he saw her. Normally, he welcomed her like a close friend, beaming and teasing. Not this time. This time he looked positively green. He was already a wreck from his altercation with her father, and now this. "What can I do for you?"
Victoria swallowed. "Is Dr. Kensington at home?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Is that who my father just went up to see?"
Leonard began twisting at the rim of his cap. "Miss Kensington—"
"I need an answer, Leonard. Did my father ask to see Dr. Kensington and did you send him up to the penthouse? Yes or no?"
Reluctantly, the doorman nodded, dousing Victoria's last flicker of hope. "Yes. I tried to stop him, but he was insistent. He said it was urgent. Something about a business mat-ter they were both involved in that was about to blow apart."
Her uncle. Her only constant. Everything she'd counted on and believed in. It couldn't be.
Is that why he'd been so adamant about defending his brother? Is that why he'd encouraged her to walk away from her investigation of the Hope Institute? Had he been trying to shake her loose before things got out of hand?
No. Not her Uncle Jim.
"Why would you try to stop my father from going up?" she asked Leonard woodenly, needing the answer, praying not to hear it. "Did Dr. Kensington ask you to?"
Leonard averted his gaze. "My instructions were to allow no one up. Dr. Kensington isn't alone. Please, Miss Kensington, I can't say any more. And I can't let you go up there."
"Don't worry, Leonard. I'm not interested in going up— not right now." Dr. Kensington isn't alone? Who else could possible by up there with him? Mr. Cigar? The lunatic who'd run her off the road? The Institute's audio engineer and computer hacker? All of the above ?
Her emotions were out of control. She had to regain perspective before she could do anything. She had to consider the facts rationally, workout a strategy.
She tried to swallow, and failed. "Thank you, Leonard. I'll take a walk and come back later. Don't even mention I was here."
* * *
Walter struck the penthouse door with his fist. "Open it," he commanded.
The door swung open, and Walter stalked inside.
"I just learned some very disturbing facts," he began. "I sincerely hope you can deny them."
"What facts are those?" Clarissa Kensington belted her silk dressing robe more tightly around her waist, smoothing a hand over her pale hair. "And why are you barging in here at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning? I'm not even dressed."
"Because our careers are at stake," he snapped. "Not to mention our reputations and our freedom. I'm not interested in your attire. I'm interested in your explanation."
Clarissa went to the dining room and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Coming here was stupid, Walter. What if Jim had been home?"
"My brother's in his office. I verified that right after I called Mount Sinai and found out you were here."
Walter followed her into the dining room-, glints of anger flaring in his eyes. The last thing he cared about was Clarissa's annoyance at having been disturbed. He had only one objective—verifying Victoria's accusations. He knew Clarissa better than anyone, even Jim. Not in an intimate way, but in a real one. He knew her mind, her convictions, the lengths she'd go to to realize them. She was single-minded in purpose, an astute, unfaltering businesswoman. The Hope Institute was her baby, and it had been since she'd discovered it was on the selling block, approached him with an offer, and anonymously acquired it from Benjamin Hopewell. Had the subsequent provisions she'd made to achieve her ends pushed the limits of the law? Without a doubt. He knew that better than anyone, having advised her, prepared the documents, and walked that legal tightrope. He knew all the ethical, moral, and yes, legal issues involved. But the criminal offenses Victoria had hurled at him? Those he knew nothing about.
He cut right to the chase. "Is it true the medications you're administering to your Hope Institute patients are really illegal drugs smuggled in by an international syndicate?"
She frowned, taking a sip of coffee. "That's an ugly spin to put on things. I've saved a dozen or more lives and lengthened the life spans of more terminally ill patients than I can count. I've given them hope, relieved unspeakable pain, and afforded them a quality of life they could only dream of. So stop making it sound like I'm a common drug dealer who peddles crack on the streets."
Walter's exhalation of breath smacked of ire and disbelief. "Clarissa, do you understand the significance of what you're doing? Legally, not medically. You're not bending the law, you're breaking it. You're a criminal."
"I'm a doctor," she corrected icily, her normally serene tone sharp with indignation. "I save lives—something the medical community has forgotten about while being paralyzed by red tape and afraid of lawsuits."
"There's more. What about when those lives can't be saved? Deceased patients were supposed to be cremated, and their ashes turned over to their families immediately. We inserted that provision to protect what I believed to be your intellectual property while filing for patents. Now I'm told there are no patents, and the conveyance of the cremated ashes are delayed so the patients' families will con-tinue to make payments under the false assumption their loved ones are alive. Is this true?"
That particular allegation seemed to upset her. Her pale brows drew together, and a pained expression tightened her features. "I really dislike doing that. I resort to it as seldom as possible. But, Walter, the Institute's overhead is high. As it is, I pour thousands of dollars of my personal funds in to help pay -for our research. Then there's our staff. We have brilliant doctors who must be compensated for their services—and I don't mean at the measly rates they're paid by managed health care. I mean real compensation. We also have the finest nurses in Manhattan. They, too, get salaries—generous ones. Not to mention that the medicines we import take a huge chunk of our profits. Running an extraordinary, one-of-a-kind clinic like the Hope Institute costs money. So, yes, occasionally we have to be a little creative to get it. I console myself with the fact that the people we get it from are so rich these payments are like pocket change to them."
"Creative. We're talking about smuggling, prescribing and administering illegal drugs, and perpetrating fraud." Walter's mind was racing, searching for answers, for outs.
Clarissa sidestepped his accusations to incline her head quizzically. "Where did all this information come from? Or do I really need to ask? Victoria. I thought we'd convinced her to back off. I see
I was wrong."
Walter went very still. "We? I spoke to her. What exactly did you do to convince her?"
His menacing tone elicited a genuinely puzzled look. "I told you I'd hired someone to keep an eye on her."
"From a distance. Just to make sure she wasn't planning any more surprise visits to the Institute. Not to harass her. And certainly not to harm her."
"Harm her? Where did that come from? Leaman follows people. He doesn't hurt them."
"Someone ran Victoria off the road last weekend when she left Greenwich. The police think it was a drunk driver. Was it?"
Twin spots of red appeared in Clarissa's cheeks. "Are you suggesting I'd hire someone to kill Victoria?"
"Or just put her out of commission or scare the hell qut of her. Did you?"
Clearly, Clarissa was furious. "No. I don't intimidate, incapacitate, or murder people. I cure them—or at least I try. That's what this entire veil of secrecy around the Institute has been for. Further, on a personal note, I've been more of a parent to Victoria than you have."
"Which brings us to Audrey," he bit out, too unnerved to digest, much less address, that personal dig. His eyes narrowed on Clarissa's face. "What really caused Audrey's heart palpitations to become so severe and her breathing so erratic? One of your illegal drugs? Have you been pumping them into my daughter?"
Clarissa slammed down her coffee cup. "Stop making them sound like narcotics, Walter. They're not. They're medications, just like the ones currently used in our country, only better. These just don't happen to be accepted yet by the tediously slow FDA. As for Audrey, you know what happened. She reacted badly to one type of drug, so we switched her to another. She's doing much better now. For her own protection, we're keeping her mildly sedated—just enough so she won't try running off again. And need I remind you that you were the one who begged me to admit her as a patient? That's the only reason she's in the Institute to begin with. You wanted to keep her illness under wraps, while my clinic got her well."