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.