Peter’s shoulders dropped. “She’s right.” His admission came out gruffly. “We need to try to do better. At least for her sake.”
It was hardly a warm invitation, but it was probably the best he was going to get.
Peter lifted his head and pinned Victor with his green-eyed gaze. “Just don’t stuff it up.”
A not-so-subtle reminder that somehow he always did.
CHAPTER FOUR
Victor didn’t know what Meredith’s plan was, but he doubted most of Wyndham had been flown to New York for a swanky cocktail party.
The fourteenth-floor office of Langham & Co. overlooked the glittering lights of the Big Apple. Victor had stayed away from the US the last few years. But it could be worse. At least they weren’t in LA.
He’d chatted to a few colleagues, introduced himself to a few of the Americans. Nobody was hostile, but no one went out of their way to be friendly either. Not that he could blame them. The staff of the two companies wanted to be merged together about as much as South Korea wanted to be merged with her northern neighbor.
Grabbing his crystal tumbler of ginger beer, he took a stroll around the office, trying to stifle a yawn but not succeeding. It was after two in the morning in London, and he had the bedtime habits of an old man these days.
Most of the offices were dark, but one had a light on.
Lacey O’Connor – Publicity Director read the nameplate next to the door. His memory connected the name with a photo of an aloof-looking blonde from the dossier Sean had assembled of Langham staffers. Victor guessed she was around his age, but this was New York—where some women shaved ten years off their faces as often as they shaved their legs—so she could well be older. But there had been something about the set in her jaw and the steel in her eyes that pinged his competitive radar. She also had a huge advantage over him—according to the website, she had been with Langham for over ten years.
He pushed open the ajar door. The room was lined with books and large posters of international bestsellers, including an autographed cover of the first book of a new dystopian series touted as the next Harry Potter.
He looked over his shoulder at the empty corridor then stepped into the office. Lacey O’Connor was no doubt busy doing what he should be doing. Working the room, sizing up the competition, and, if she was smart, playing the blonde card with his colleagues to make herself appear less of a threat.
He approached the framed poster-sized cover and read the salutation scrawled across it. Lacey, best publicist in the business. Bar none. Bring on the next one! Hugo.
A shelf running below the poster was cluttered with framed pictures of the blonde with people he assumed to be clients. Actresses. A former First Lady. A couple of sports stars. All smiling. Some holding framed copies of what looked like a bestseller list.
How was he supposed to compete with that kind of resume? Victor sunk down onto the small love seat in the office and did a quick scan of his inbox. The only new email was a reminder from HR that his annual ergonomic workstation assessment was overdue. A quick swipe, and it was gone.
He leaned his head against the back of the couch, closing his gritty eyes against the glare of the ceiling light.
What’s your secret plan, Meredith? Addicts needed routine. That had been drilled into him in rehab, where every day had been the same. Except Sunday. Visiting day. Even Sundays had followed their own rigid pattern. Routine allowed your brain to anticipate and to plan. Routine had helped keep him on the wagon for the last three years. A wagon he needed to stay on if he was to have any chance of helping his mother.
He should find a meeting. He hadn’t been to one in four days. Or go back to his hotel. He’d left instructions to clear out the minibar. Hopefully, they’d done it.
Voices burst down the hallway, followed by a round of laughter. Laughter that was tainted just enough to reveal that its bearers had all had a glass too many.
It was an all-too-familiar sensation. The warmth of the whisky sliding down his throat. The buzz of feeling smarter, wittier, better looking than he actually was. His arm around an attractive woman, her leaning into him, face tilted up in invitation.
An invitation he would always regret accepting.
Lacey’s fingers tapped across her phone’s screen as her feet walked the familiar path to her office. If she had to be here, she had might as well close out some business on the West Coast.
From further up the hallway came the sound of forced laugher and conversation. Good luck to them. She was going to wage this war on results, not on pouring herself into a cocktail dress and drinking with the interlopers.
Her office door was wide open. Huh. She’d have sworn she hadn’t left it that way. If some nosey Brit had—Lacey blinked. Then blinked again. There was a man slumped on her couch. And not just any man.
It couldn’t be. She had to be hallucinating. There was no way that Victor Carlisle could be on her couch, in her office.
Except he was. Because while there were plenty of blond, tall, muscular men in the world, there was only one with that particular jagged scar lancing his cheek.
She’d only done one cursory round at the cocktail party. But she knew one thing. Victor Carlisle had not been in that room.
Victor’s breath rose and fell evenly, his phone pressed against his chest. Her fingers curled around her own phone, its edges digging into her palm.
Of course, she’d known it was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again. Short of a huge familial falling-out, he would be at Peter and Emelia’s wedding. But that was still a month away.
She studied him from across the small space, unwilling to go any closer. Victor Carlisle was the kind of man who sucked you into his orbit if you got too close. There was a trail of destruction behind him to prove it. One that had already ended up with one person dead, and had almost derailed her cousin’s chance at happiness.
She leaned forward, sniffing the air for booze. Emelia had reported he’d completed rehab years ago, but Lacey’s experience was that the only thing most people graduated rehab with was a whole new bag of tricks on how to hide their addiction.
Her phone buzzed in her hands as laughter echoed down the hallway. Victor’s eyes fluttered as if about to open. If she was going to keep her advantage, it had to be now.
“Do you often go creeping around other peoples’ offices, Mr. Carlisle?” Her question cracked the room like a whip, and his blue eyes flew open.
After she’d gotten home from Colorado, she’d spent the rest of the night researching Wyndham House. There wasn’t so much as a mention of him on their website, which had to mean he was a junior staffer. Unlike her, whose web page bio, complete with testimonials, generated substantial new business for Langham in an ever-tightening market. So, all things being equal, he was no competition.
She huffed out a breath as he lurched to his feet. Except he was. Because he was a man. A very attractive man. A very attractive man who had been an elite athlete. A very attractive man who had been an elite athlete and would one day inherit a place in the British aristocracy. It was like one of those children’s stack-a-block games. Except the grown-up version ended up with Victor on the top of the pyramid of privilege.
“Sorry about that.”
Lacey held her place in the doorway as Victor stood and tugged the bottom of his jacket.