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  The tiniest flicker of surprise. "Yes, Miss Kensington, I remember. You called to inquire about a relative of yours. You seemed to think she was a patient here."

  "My sister, Audrey. And she is a patient here. She called me herself, just after you and I spoke, to ask that I come over and see her. I also checked with my father. Evidently, he'd spoken with Audrey's doctor who now agrees that a visit from me would do her a world of good. So, if you'd kindly direct me to her room?"

  Miss Evans didn't react, nor did she miss a beat. She simply retrieved a computer printout from some discreet hiding place behind her desk and scanned it. "As I told you earlier, Miss Kensington, you're not on the approved list. Nothing's changed since then."

  Victoria's chin came up. "Obviously, my sister's physician didn't have a chance to add my name to your list. He'll do so later, I'm sure. But I'm here now. And I'd like to see my sister right away."

  Miss Evans leaned forward, her body language more openly confrontational. "The Hope Institute values our patients' privacy just as we do their health." One manicured fingernail tapped the computer printout sheet. "I can neither allow you inside nor confirm whether your sister is one of our patients until I see your name on this list."

  "I've just explained—"

  'Those are our rules, Miss Kensington," the receptionist interrupted. She picked up Victoria's business card and tucked it beneath a paperweight on her blotter, an I-wasn't-born-yesterday glint in her eyes. "I have your office number. Should I receive an updated list with your name added, I'll call you immediately."

  Victoria squelched her anger, fully aware it would buy her nothing except an ugly war of words with a woman she couldn't afford to make her enemy. "All right," she agreed, forcing a tight smile to her lips. "I suppose that will have to do." She inclined her head. "May I take some literature with me? I'd like to know more about the clinic that's treating my sister."

  Miss Evans's composure was back in place. "Of course." She reached into her desk and pulled out a paper-thin pamphlet. "That will give you some basic information."

  Very basic, Victoria noted, glancing at the expensively printed brochure that amounted to no more than one regular sheet of 81/2 by 11 paper folded in three. Four color pictures filled up most of the space, all of bedroom suites and immaculate radiology rooms. There was no mention of the type of illnesses the Institute treated, no glowing success stories, no list of affiliated doctors, and no website address.

  Private was sounding more and more like secret.

  "The photos are lovely," she said aloud. "Clearly, your patients are well cared for. I assume they're also happy here, that they're made to feel at home?"

  "See for yourself." Miss Evans waved her arm, indicating the periphery of the room.

  Taking in her surroundings for the first time, Victoria realized the walls were covered with photographs. Moving closer, she saw they were a compelling advertisement—no, actually, a photographic testimonial to the Hope Institute. Spaced just far enough apart to be tasteful rather than overwhelming, the pictures were full-color depictions of happy, smiling patients being catered to in the most elegant style, tended to with the utmost care. They were being served gourmet meals in their bedrooms, helped to walk the halls, settled in overstuffed chairs in what looked to be an inviting living room with a big-screen color TV.

  Victoria kept her back to Miss Evans for a long time, pretending to contemplate the photos. Eventually, she composed herself enough to murmur a terse but polite good-bye. Keeping her head bowed by feigning interest in the brochure she'd been given, she made her way out of the Institute. She knew that if she turned around, her face would give away everything she was feeling—renewed fear coupled with equally renewed conviction.

  Because all the patients in those full-color photos had one thing in common.

  Every one of them was wearing a lemon-yellow hospital gown.

  * * *

  Across the street, in the ground-floor apartment the FBI had temporarily taken over, the camera whirred quietly. From its well-placed window angle, it videotaped Victoria's departure in the same way it had her arrival.

  * * *

  Just outside that building, a nondescript man dressed in a herringbone jacket leaned against the brick wall, casually smoking a cigar. No one spared him a second glance, nor would they, since smokers emerged all day long for their much-needed nicotine fixes. Nor did they notice when he reacted to the emergence of a woman across the street by straightening, stubbing out his cigar, and following in her direction, falling into the purposeful strides of a native New Yorker.

  Keeping this particular woman in sight was a snap, he mused. Oh, her clothes were subtle enough—all classic lines and subdued colors. But that glossy black hair, that . elegant walk, and that drop-dead body made her an easy target. It also made working on this disinfection team a helluva lot more enjoyable.

  "An easy target" was putting it mildly. She was so predictable. He'd bet his next two paychecks that she was going back to her office. After that, she'd head home to her apartment, to spend the night alone.

  Now that, he thought as he turned the corner onto Madison Avenue, was a waste. A stupid, pointless waste.

  One he'd be delighted to rectify.

  * * *

  Victoria stopped off to buy a salad. She brought it back to her office to eat, grateful to discover that Paul and Meg were both in court and Paige was on the phone—presumably with Maurice, given her intimate tone and occasional French phrases. It was better this way. Victoria needed time by herself to sort things out.

  She went into her office and shut the door, placing her lunch on the desk. Dropping heavily into her chair, she rubbed her temples as she mentally berated herself for her lack of success.

  What had she really accomplished by barging into the Hope Institute? Despite her convincing lie, she'd seen no one, found out nothing, and the literature Miss Evans had given her was purposefully devoid of information. The only concrete detail she'd uncovered was that the color of the robes the patients at the Hope Institute wore was the same yellow as Audrey's—and that didn't prove anything, since they could argue that many hospitals and clinics used yellow robes. Even if Victoria pointed out that the Hope Institute was the only facility she'd found thus far using that color, they would declare it to be pure coincidence. And she couldn't argue otherwise. After all, she'd only checked with the major hospitals. There were a variety of private clinics throughout Manhattan, not to mention New York's four other boroughs. Any one of them might use yellow robes.

  Worse, she didn't even have anyone to support her claim that Audrey was wearing yellow, or, for that matter, that she'd been fleeing through Central Park at all.

  Goddammit. Victoria's hands balled into fists. She had nothing for the police. She didn't have a shred of evidence against the Hope Institute.

  She knew Audrey was in there. But how could she get back inside to find her, especially with that pit bull patrolling the desk? Even if she bribed One of the delivery men to sneak her in the side entrance, she'd be spotted in an instant. And if that happened, she'd be arrested for breaking and entering, which would greatly curtail her ability to find Audrey.

  Flipping open the plastic foam lid on her lunch, Victoria stabbed at the salad with her fork, playing with it but not eating, not even really seeing it. Interesting how Miss Evans had reacted to her introduction, she mused. Surprised, but not stunned. Insistent, but not rude. Definitely prepped for her chance arrival.

  Prepped by whom?

  Instantly, a possibility presented itself—the most likely and the most unthinkable one.

  Her father.

  Miss Evans hadn't reacted when Victoria mentioned having conversed with him. The receptionist had shot down, everything else Victoria said, but she'd never demanded to know who Miss Kensington's father was, never challenged the implication that he yielded enough power to convince one of the Institute's doctors to bend the rules.

  That could be because she already knew
he did.

  If so, how?

  The obvious answer was that the Institute had firsthand dealings with him—dealings that centered around his admitting Audrey as a patient.

  The ringing of the phone broke into Victoria's thoughts. At first she ignored the sound, assuming Paige would answer. But that likelihood disappeared rapidly, as the ringing and flashing light continued to intrude while, at the same time, the first line remained steadily lit, indicating that Paige was still in heated conversation with Maurice.

  Rolling her eyes, Victoria lifted the receiver. "London, Kensington and Stone."

  "Victoria?"

  Automatically, her heart lifted at the sound of the familiar voice. "Uncle Jim. Hi."

  "Is it a bad time?"

  "No." She shook her head. "In fact, I was planning to call you in a few minutes. Father mentioned that you and Aunt Clarissa were due there for drinks last Saturday night. I wanted to join you, but I had plans with Meg."

  "We didn't stay long," her uncle replied in that low, comforting tone that soothed even his most distraught psychiatric patients. "We had dinner plans with some friends up in Greenwich. So we drove up, grabbed a quick drink with your parents, and then went on our way. We wouldn't have been able to spend much time with you. That's why I'm calling. I just hung up with Clarissa. As luck would have it, we're both finishing unusually early tonight. We'd love for you to come over for dinner—if you're free."

  Victoria almost smiled at his tactful qualification. They both knew she'd been "free" every time he and Clarissa had invited her over—other than the occasional business dinner she'd been required to attend—for the past four years.

  "Yes, I'm free," she responded, more grateful for the invitation than she expressed. "In fact, I-need to bounce some things off you, if you don't mind."

  "You know I don't." Uncle Jim didn't ask for details. It wasn't unusual for Victoria to go to him for psychological advice about her emotionally abused or distressed matrimonial clients. "How would seven.o'clock be?"

  "Perfect." Her mind was already racing, trying to determine how much she should say. It wasn't a question of trust; she trusted her aunt and uncle completely. But since her suspicions about the Hope Institute involved her father, she'd have to tread carefully. Very carefully. "Seven o'clock it is. What can I bring?"

  "Yourself—and your appetite. Clarissa's been worried since the last time we saw you. She thinks you've lost a few pounds."

  Victoria grinned. "Then I'll gain them back tonight. Promise. I'll see you later. And Uncle 5im—thanks. To you both. I could really use some company tonight, especially yours and Aunt Clarissa's."

  * * *

  Zach had no idea what prompted him to drop in at FBI headquarters that evening.

  It was rush hour. The streets were packed, and it looked like it was going to rain again. But he'd just reached a convenient breaking point in his analysis, and his earlier restlessness hadn't faded. So he ignored rush hour and grabbed a cab down to the field office to check in with Meyer and see if there were any new developments.

  Meyer was alone in his office, and he waved Zach in as soon as he spotted him.

  "You saved me the trouble of getting this to you," he said in greeting, angling a remote control at the TV set across the room and rewinding a tape as he spoke. "Come in and close the door." He pressed the stop button and pointed. "This video just came in. It's interesting. Take a look."

  "Different from the others?" Zach perched his hip against Meyer's desk, fixing his gaze on the screen.

  "Let's say today's tape yielded a new face. A gorgeous one. See for yourself." Meyer pressed the play button and watched intently as the unfamiliar woman walked up the steps of the Hope Institute, paused to throw back her shoulders, then marched in. He fast-forwarded through the intervening time, then hit play again as she exited the facility. "She's never been there before. I have no idea who she is— yet. But I've already got men checking into—"

  "Stop the tape and run through it again," Zach interrupted to command. "Then freeze it when she walks out and zoom in on her."

  Meyer's head jerked around in surprise, his gaze shifting from the TV to Zach. Hamilton was one of the most inscrutable men he'd ever met. He was always cool, his thoughts and emotions always in check.

  He didn't look inscrutable now. He looked stunned, his dark stare glued to the screen, a muscle working at his jaw.

  If it were anybody else, Meyer would tease him about being turned on by the beautiful woman visiting the Hope Institute. But it wasn't anybody else, and the fierce expression on Hamilton's face obliterated any notion Meyer had of goading him. Wordlessly, he rewound the tape and played it again, pressing the pause button when the woman emerged, then zooming in for a close-up. "There you go."

  Zach exhaled sharply. "Shit."

  "You know her?" Meyer inquired, brows raised.

  "Yes. I know her." Zach pushed away from the desk. When he turned toward Meyer, his composure was restored, his mask back in place. "She's no criminal. She's a lawyer—an honest one. I don't know why she went to the Hope Institute, but it wasn't for anything illegal." Another quick glance at the TV screen. "Can you make me a copy of that tape while I wait? I want to take it with me."

  Meyer nodded slowly. "Sure. You also want to be the one to talk to her, I take it."

  A flash of irony glinted in Zach's eyes. "What I want isn't the issue. I've got to be the one to talk to her. It's the only chance we have of finding out anything, especially if she's there representing a client. She'll protect that person like a lioness guarding its cub. Trust me, she won't budge an inch."

  "Loyal or stubborn?"

  "Both."

  "But she'll talk to you?"

  "I'm not sure. I hope so."

  Meyer pursed his lips. "Not to pry, Hamilton, but I'm going to need a few more details. Like this woman's name."

  "Victoria." A reluctant pause. "Victoria Kensington."

  The agent blanched. "As in Walter Kensington's daughter?"

  Zach scowled. "She's not involved, Meyer."

  "Not involved?" Meyer leaned forward, his elbows striking the desk with a thud. "Do I have to remind you who Kensington represents? How far back he and Benjamin Hopewell go? What the possibilities are ... ?"

  "No, you don't." Zach's palms flattened on the desk. "But that doesn't mean Victoria's involved. Give me a day. One day. Let me talk to her. If I get nowhere, you can take over. Deal?"

  Meyer studied Zach speculatively. "Yeah. Deal."

  * * *

  8

  Victoria and her uncle Jim had always had a strong rapport, even before he'd married Clarissa eight years ago. Nine years her father's junior, Jim was a fine man and a brilliant psychiatrist—and one of the few people Victoria had been able to turn to over the years for advice and emotional support.

  That entire scenario was yet another bitter thorn in her father's side—not because he needed her affection, but because he hated coming in second at anything, especially to Jim. It wasn't enough that he was older, richer, and more powerful than his younger brother. Walter Kensington had to be superior at everything.

  In her father's mind, Victoria's affinity with her uncle meant blatant disrespect toward him. And certain key events had done nothing but feed that belief.

  It was Uncle Jim who'd backed her decision to go to Columbia University, then on to Columbia Law. Her father had been incensed, his heart set on her attending his own alma mater, Harvard. Between her brains and his connections, her admission to Harvard was a shoo-in.

  Victoria had explained time and again that she loved New York, that she wanted to live there, that the quality of education at Columbia was exemplary. Her explanations had fallen on deaf ears. Walter Kensington was hell-bent on building a legacy—and that legacy included his elder daughter.

  Uncle Jim had done the unthinkable: he'd taken her side. He'd actively supported the Columbia option—not to spite his brother, but because he astutely figured out the real motive behind
Victoria's decision: to be close to home so she could act as a buffer between her father and the rest of the family, to give her mother and sister the emotional protection they needed.

  Her father had figured it out, as well.

  And he'd seethed.

  His punishment had come as one of his typical displays of control. He'd allowed her to attend Columbia, but insisted she remain under his roof—not close by, not in the city, but right there at home. If she was so devoted to her life here, so be it. She could live in Greenwich and commute to Manhattan. After the bad judgment she'd shown by throwing away a Harvard education, he meant to keep an eye on her, so she'd make the right career choice.

  And the "right choice" meant taking her place at Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder.

  Victoria hadn't argued—not then. Wisely, she'd remained silent, knowing she had years to fight that particular battle. Besides, living at home gave her more time to study and a better opportunity to keep an eye on Audrey and her mother, both of whom were becoming more fragile.

  Her father's anger toward her had just begun to simmer down when the next brouhaha struck.

  Three years ago she graduated from Columbia Law, with honors, and sought the independence she'd deferred until then. Jim and Clarissa had responded by helping her buy the most wonderful graduation present she could ever have imagined: the cozy Upper East Side apartment she now called home. Her father had been livid, insisting that the only way he'd permit her to have her own place was if she came to work for him and, even then, it would be an apartment of his choosing.

  Jim and Clarissa had argued that she was an adult, and entitled to make her own decisions. The apartment was safe, in an ideal neighborhood, and perfect for Victoria's needs. She'd chosen it herself and paid for a portion of it with the trust fund her grandparents left her. The rest she'd stubbornly refused to accept as anything but a loan. That meant signing a mortgage with her aunt and uncle, and making monthly payments.