Run for Your Life Page 19

  "We'll arrange our own transportation, Father."

  "Very well," he said, magnanimous now that he'd gotten what he wanted. "I'll see you at eight."

  9:03 am.

  The maintenance attendant wheeled the cart to the door marked Private—his portal to the subterranean world in the Hope Institute's basement.

  Unlocking the door, he flipped on the light switch, revealing a sizable room devoid of furnishings except for a clothing rack and an imposing stainless-steel chamber lined with dials and switches that occupied half the room.

  He pulled the cart inside and shut the door behind him. The automatic lock clicked shut, guaranteeing no interruptions.

  He walked over to the clothing rack and removed the items he needed, donning an aluminized apron, protective gloves, and a face shield. He returned to the cart, glancing at the words imprinted on the long cardboard box it contained: Fragile. Handle with Care. This End Up. A brilliant, if ironic, choice of words. But they did the trick, concealing the nature of the box's contents from curious staff members.

  He wheeled the cart over to the stainless-steel chamber and threw the switch labeled Open. The chamber complied, its solid door gliding upward. He turned, slid his massive hands beneath the box, and pushed it effortlessly onto a cardboard roller and toward the intense heat that beckoned. The box moved respectfully into the chamber. He watched as it was swallowed up. Flicking the switch, he waited until the door had lowered silently. The Ready indicator glowed green. Satisfied, he pressed Start.

  The machine roared to life.

  Efficiently, it began its prescribed task.

  * * *

  17

  5:34 p.m.

  Zach propped his elbow on the bar counter, nursing his drink and glancing over his notes as he waited for Victoria to arrive.

  Nothing new here. Same sketchy data the FBI had managed to put together after a fair amount of digging.

  Basic stats. The Hope Institute: Opened its doors in the fall of 1991 as a private medical clinic. Part of Hopewell Industries. Sold in August 1997 to a Swiss holding company. Capacity to treat up to thirty patients. Employees: fourteen full-time nurses, eleven part-time nurses, and six technicians. Affiliated physicians: ten highly acclaimed medical specialists in the. fields of oncology, neurology, psychiatry, and radiology—all with impeccable records. Groundbreaking treatments offered: advanced cancers, Alzheimer's disease, severe neurological and psychological disorders. Clientele: extraordinarily rich, renowned, privacy-conscious.

  Well, their patients' privacy was certainly ensured. The Hope Institute was so low-profile it was practically invisible.

  By the same token, invisibility would make it easy to transport drugs without being discovered.

  So far, the electronic surveillance hadn't turned up anything suspicious.

  Nor, for that matter, had Zach.

  Today had been another seemingly uneventful day of fact-gathering outside the Institute. Same thin stream of employees coming and going at their usual times. One new patient arrived by limo and was admitted through the underground garage. One truck rumbled up to the building with a fuel oil delivery. Three more vehicles: two vans—one delivering linen, the other food—and a Hopewell Industries truck that unloaded several large pieces of medical equipment.

  Nothing unusual for a hospital facility.

  That didn't mean a thing. He'd only been compiling data for a week. And his instincts told him there were discrepancies just waiting to be found. All he needed was a little more time, a more comprehensive analysis, and one small inconsistency. After that, he'd be all over those bastards. He'd close in on them in a heartbeat. The FBI would have their syndicate and he'd have his retribution.

  Zach scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. His muscles were so tight, they throbbed.

  Not a surprise. He'd been on edge all day.

  It wasn't hard to figure out why.

  Talk about everything hitting at once. This particular investigation. Victoria landing smack in the middle of it. Seeing her again. Being unable to keep his hands off her. Mr. Cigar and how he factored into things. Walter Kensington and how he factored into things. How much danger Audrey might be in. How much danger extended to Victoria.

  Shit.

  Zach flexed his shoulders, trying to work out some of the strain, and the effects of a sleepless night.

  All the raw, unresolved issues in his life were converging together and snowballing at once, and the resulting emotions were debilitating.

  So while Victoria might feel she was off balance, so was he.

  The hours he'd spent on that damned sofa had been hell.

  Sleeping in her apartment, knowing how close she was, had driven him nearly insane. And not only because he wanted her to the point of obsession, but because he needed her, needed to reach out to her at a time when he felt so damned vulnerable.

  The vulnerability had been with him all week, since he'd arrived in New York and reviewed the details of the investigation. It dredged up the worst memories of his life—memories he'd shared with no one but Victoria.

  He wasn't a man who opened up easily. And with a loss as profound as this one, he didn't open up at all. But with Victoria, it had been a natural step, partly because of the way he felt about her and partly because of the circumstances.

  She'd been in his hotel suite that first night the FBI called to request his help. Those amazing hazel eyes of hers had been filled with questions, but she hadn't asked them. At least not when he hung up. But a few hours later, when he'd jolted from sleep in a drenched sweat, shouting out his father's name, that's when the questions had come.

  So had the answers.

  She'd listened. She hadn't said a word. But she'd eased his pain simply by being there.

  The truth was, he needed her to be there now,

  Zach's scowl deepened. Last night had been rough, worse than he'd expected. He'd slept only in snatches. And those snatches had been plagued by the nightmares.

  It had been some time since they'd resurfaced. When they first started, fifteen years ago, they'd been relentless, hammering at his brain night after night. Then time had done its job, and the frequency and severity eased, provoked only on those occasions when the government sought his help and the case struck too close to home.

  Still, it had taken years for the painful void to begin healing. And the bitterness, the sense of flagrant injustice were still fiercely alive.

  His father had been a longshoreman, the most honest, decent human being Zach had ever known. He'd been so proud of his son's sharp mind, his bright future. Zach was a junior at MIT—a year away from his degree in electrical engineering, geared up for graduate school in law and business. Nothing was going to stop Dave Hamilton from making sure his son had every advantage he'd missed out on.

  The overtime had helped pay whatever Zach's scholarships and part-time jobs didn't cover. That's why his father had been at the docks that night. Just an innocent, hardworking man in the wrong place at the wrong time. A man who'd inadvertently walked onto the scene of a DEA stakeout, who'd gotten in the way of some filthy drug runner's bullet.

  The government had personally delivered the news— along with its deep regrets—to Zach and his mother.

  Their regrets hadn't helped. Neither had the token sum of money the union had provided.

  Rose Hamilton, a frail woman by nature, had never been the same after her husband's murder. She'd lasted a year. Then she died quietly in her sleep, with the same dignity she'd displayed in life.

  Zach had gone on to do exactly what his father would have wanted: he'd finished his education, started his own business, used his mind and resources to their fullest. That gave him a small semblance of peace—knowing that, somewhere up above, his father was proud.

  Still, peace in itself wasn't enough. Zach needed a chance to do something, to actively stop scum like the one who'd killed his father and keep them from harming anyone else.

  That chance had come four years ago. br />
  It wasn't his personal history that brought the FBI to him. It was his expertise in competitive intelligence. But it was his personal history that made him agree to do their bidding.

  That first case—involving a syndicate trafficking in drugs and illegal weapons—had borne a strong resemblance to the one that had taken his father's life. But this case was the one he'd burned for. This case involved the same organi-zation the feds had been busting their tails for over a decade to expose—the one that resulted in the stakeout that night at the docks. The syndicate had escaped detection by vanishing in its current form only to morph itself and reappear elsewhere in a slightly different form, like a dormant and mutating virus. A virus he meant to wipe out.

  Talk about the ultimate retribution.

  So Victoria wasn't the only one with a personal stake in this investigation.

  He had one as well.

  Zach finished off his drink, stared broodingly into the empty glass. He was hell-bent on blowing the Hope Institute wide open. But he knew better than to let his personal urgency interfere with his work. He'd been scrutinizing the place with his usual patient, comprehensive thoroughness. He'd successfully managed to keep his emotions on the back burner where they belonged.

  Until Victoria walked back into his life.

  Now he was slipping. He was losing his objectivity, his focus and, considering his feelings for Victoria, a whole lot more.

  Sleeping on her sofa was crazy.

  But crazy or not, he'd better get used to doing it. Because he wasn't leaving her alone in that apartment overnight until he was sure she was safe.

  He realized he couldn't be with her every minute. Nor would she let him be.

  She was so goddamned independent, so unwilling to let down those walls.

  She'd let them down last night when he walked her home. Just thinking about that kiss made his body throb. Christ, everything was called a kiss. The frenzied way they'd come together, the feel and taste of her again ...

  Cut it out, Zach warned himself. This line of thinking wasn't going to help—not with the bottled-up pain and unresolved issues still looming between them. He had no idea where they were headed or if Victoria would allow herself to go there again.

  Right now, her chief worry was Audrey.

  On that thought, Zach set his glass on the counter, flipping shut his notebook and glancing at the clock behind the bartender. Twelve minutes past six. Victoria was late.

  He swiveled about to peer out the window, reminding himself that this was Manhattan, that it was rush hour, and that Victoria was entirely self-sufficient.

  Except that she was poking around in dangerous territory, and there was some professional creep tailing her.

  As if on cue, the door opened, and Victoria stepped inside. She scanned the bar, her breathless state and windblown hair telling Zach she'd been running.

  He waved, and she spotted him, combing her fingers through her hair as she made her way over.

  "Hi," she greeted him as he came to his feet. "Sorry I'm late. I had to be back in court this afternoon and there was a stampede getting uptown."

  "You took a cab, I hope."

  She shot him a look. "No, Zach, I took the subway. If I'd taken a cab, I'd still be stuck in gridlock. Besides, haven't you ever heard the expression 'There's safety in numbers'?"

  He couldn't argue that logic. "You weren't followed?"

  "I don't think so." A tight smile. "Mr. Cigar was either afraid of being trampled to death or put off by the smoking ban in the subway."

  Zach didn't smile back. "Hopefully, your father called him off after your Park Avenue visit this morning." He gripped her arm. "Come on, let's take a booth. I want to hear all about your breakfast." He led her to a corner table away from the general flow of traffic.

  "Did you see anything at the Institute today?" Victoria demanded the minute they were settled and two drinks had been ordered.

  "Nothing that jumped out at me. That doesn't mean anything. I need some more data. Then I'll add up the pieces."

  Her nod was restless but resigned. She knew his work, how much time and patience it required.

  "You look beat," Zach observed gently, noting her drawn face, the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept any better than he. And her day had to have been tough. "How did your talk with Meg and Paul go?"

  An ambivalent shrug, "Pretty well. Paul was psyched about the idea of getting some corporate clients—the kind that pay. That made it easier. Meg was more protective, but she understood."

  "And your breakfast? How was that?"

  "An experience." Victoria fiddled with the top button of her blazer. "That place is the ultimate fossil. It's the only place on earth still filled with dinosaurs."

  A corner of Zach's mouth lifted. "How many of them are gentle brontosauruses, and how many are bloodthirsty Tyrannosaurus rexes?"

  Her smile was strained but genuine. "That remains to be seen. But there were more than enough of the latter at breakfast to keep me from doing any snooping today. I would've been caught."

  "I agree. You'll start next week."

  "No, I'll start Saturday night." She dug around in her purse, extracted an envelope, and handed it to Zach.

  His brows drew together as he took it. "What's this?"

  "An invitation. To a formal gathering at my parents' house."

  Glancing at it, Zach made a disgusted sound. "Your official debut. And you didn't decline?"

  "On the contrary, I accepted. And when I mentioned to my father that you were in town, he suggested you be my escort. According to him, you can use this time to woo a roomful of prominent CEOs, some of whom are your clients, while the remainder should be."

  "How thoughtful of him," Zach returned dryly. He gave Victoria a measured look. "I know your father's motives. He's trying to reel you in. What are yours? And don't tell me you plan to rummage through his study during the party. You'll never get away with it."

  "I'm not that reckless. Besides, I've already found everything I'm going to at the house. No, I have something entirely different in mind. All my father's most notable clients will be at that party, including, I'd wager, Benjamin Hopewell." She watched as a glint of anticipation sparked in Zach's eyes. "I thought you'd be pleased. A firsthand opportunity to get a handle on the chairman of Hopewell Industries. Tell me, do I get a referral fee?"

  Zach studied her while the waitress delivered their drinks and a bowl of nuts.

  "You're back to being flippant," he pronounced. "That means one of two things. Either you're really unnerved about Mr. Cigar or you're really unnerved about us. Which is it, Victoria?"

  A weighted pause, during which she lowgred her lashes, played with the ice in her drink. "There is no 'us,' Zach. I'm just tired. It's been a really long day, and an unbearable week."

  "So we're going to pretend it never happened?"

  "No. We're just not going to let it happen again." She laced her fingers together and leaned forward to meet his gaze. Zach had the feeling she was about to deliver a well-rehearsed closing argument—one she didn't want to give but felt compelled to.

  He watched as she steeled herself, masking her emotions behind a wall of facts.

  "Last night you asked me how many men there had been since you left. The answer is none. That shouldn't surprise you. It's no secret I'm not the type for a casual affair, or I wouldn't have been a virgin when we met. Sharing myself—physically and emotionally—came hard enough before. Since you and I split up, it's damned near impossible. I can't and won't endure that kind of pain again. So when I said I can't have an affair with you, I meant it. Can we please leave it at that?"

  Zach knew what he should be feeling. Guilty for pushing her, admiring of her candor, receptive to the plea he knew hovered beneath that stoic veneer. Instead, all he could feel was a jolt of exhilarated relief. There hadn't been anyone else. No one. Not in her bed, and more important, not in her heart. He had no right to feel this rush of possessiveness, this damned chauvinist
ic elation.

  But he did.

  Because it told him far more than Victoria would even admit—not just to him, but to herself.

  "Zach?" she pressed.

  "I appreciate your honesty," he replied, holding her gaze. "I'll give you the same." His fingers brushed hers lightly. Then his hand covered hers, enveloping it with the heavy weight of his palm. "I don't plan to seduce you. Nor would I play on your weakness for me—or mine for you. On the other hand, I can't promise to ignore the unresolved feelings between us. Or the chemistry. So if we end up in bed, it will be because we both want to be there. Fair enough?"

  She swallowed, nodded tersely as the heat of his touch seeped through her. "I suppose it'll have to be." She took a quick gulp of her drink—for fortification rather than to quench her thirst. Zach could see her wheels turning, see her grappling with whatever it was she was about to say. Whatever it was, she didn't want to give in to the words. But they were going to burst free nonetheless.

  "So now that you know how uneventful my life's been since you took off for Europe, it's your turn," she informed him in as casual a tone as she could muster. "You haven't told me a thing about these past four years—other than the fact that you've been swamped with work. Did you settle anywhere in particular? Was there one special place, more so than the others, that left its mark? Are you eager to get back there so—"

  "Victoria." He silenced her quietly, putting an end to her qualms and to the hint of susceptibility they implied—a susceptibility she'd view as intolerable. It felt damned good to know she cared, but he wouldn't do this to her. Not when there was no basis for what she was really asking. "There's no one in my life. Not in any city, any country, or any continent. I've lived practically like a monk." His grip on her hand intensified, along with his gaze. "I was as shattered as you."

  She cleared her throat, struggled for a lighter note. "A monk, huh? I guess that made it easy, when the FBI called, to jump right on a plane for New York."

  "It was easy—for several reasons. My solitary lifestyle was just one of them. As for jumping on a plane for New York, I didn't. I flew into Logan. I visited my parents' graves, then drove down from Boston that night."