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hour ago. I find my damn laptop charger. And then I get to work.
Chapter 5
Tori
I wake up to a pounding on the front door of my condo. Not a gentle knocking, but a pounding that shakes the whole door and has me stumbling off the couch even as I tumble into wakefulness.
I grab my phone off the coffee table and crack my eyes just enough to read that it’s seven twenty-seven in the morning. Considering I didn’t fall asleep until close to three A.M. it still feels like the middle of the night to me. Obviously, whoever is on the other side of my door doesn’t feel the same way.
“Who is it?” I call, even as I fumble with the chain.
I don’t unlock the dead bolt, though, at least not until I hear my father answer, “It’s me, Victoria. Let me in.”
“Dad?” I swing the door open as panic races through me. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
He never shows up at my condo unannounced, never shows up at my condo at all, actually. In fact, most months I never even see him unless it’s for some engagement that’s been written on both of our calendars weeks in advance. “Is Mom—”
“Your mother is fine. She’s in France, on a shopping trip.” He says it brusquely, which tells me that “shopping trip” is a euphemism for the fact that she’s on vacation in Paris with her lover. Not that he has any room to be upset—he’s got his own codes for his own leisure time with his lovers. Of which there are legion.
The whole thing is very civilized between them—and something I’ve known about for as long as I can remember. Oh, my parents were—are—very discreet with their side interests, and when they’re together no one who isn’t in the know would ever guess that their marriage isn’t totally, one hundred percent genuine. But the fact is, the two of them gave up caring about each other—really caring about each other—years ago. That they also gave up caring about me around the same time is something we don’t talk about at our mandatory monthly family dinners.
“Oh. All right.” I gaze at him stupidly for several seconds, at least until it registers that he’s looking me over—and looks less than impressed at what he sees. “Do you want to come in?”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have been reduced to pounding your door down when you refused to answer your phone.”
“Sorry about that. I was sleeping.” I move back and he steps inside, six feet of silver-haired, Harvard-educated disapproval. He glances around my apartment, his stony gray gaze raking over every visible surface and every nook and cranny. I start to make a joke about keeping the orgy in my bedroom, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me my humor won’t be appreciated.
Then again, with him it never is. Kind of like everything else about me.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask as I move toward the relative safety of the kitchen. As I do, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror I have hanging on the back wall of the dining area. For the first time since I woke up, I realize what a mess I am. My hair is pressed flat against my head on all sides while last night’s makeup is smeared across my face, pooled under my eyes. Not to mention the fact that I’m still wearing my hot-pink cocktail dress.
No wonder my father is looking at me like I’m a cross between a stripper and a cockroach that he has the unfortunate task of dealing with. Not for the first time I wonder if he thinks it would be easier for everyone all around if he could treat me like that cockroach and just slam his Brooks-Brothers-bedecked foot down on top of me. I’d be squished, but at least he’d be out of his misery. God knows, he’s never made any bones about the fact that being my father is a huge trial to him.
“Let me get a pot brewing while I change and then—”
“Sit down, Victoria.”
I may have just turned twenty-three, but when my father uses that tone, I sit. It’s instinctive.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as silence stretches between us. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m very, very nervous.
“Judging from your…appearance, I’m guessing you haven’t had a chance to go online yet this morning?”
“I haven’t, no.” My stomach tightens as all kinds of terrible possibilities start running through my head. “What happened? Are you sure Mom’s okay?”
“Your mother is fine,” he says for a second time, his tone warning me just how little he likes repeating himself. Not that I need the reminder—it’s been ingrained in me since I was a toddler. “You should be worrying about yourself.”
He’s being deliberately cryptic today, and for a second I think about heading back to the living room and grabbing my phone from where it’s sitting on the coffee table. But the look on his face warns me against doing just that. It warns me against doing anything, really, besides sitting there and listening to him.
I start to ask him why I should be worried about myself, but he’s waiting for that question and frankly I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, it’s obvious now that the only reason he’s here is to give me a proper dressing-down, so I might as well just shut up and take it. The sooner he gets started telling me how worthless I am, the faster he’ll be done and out of my home. It’s a pattern I know well.
For long seconds he doesn’t say anything, though. Instead he just watches me with those cold, hard eyes. I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. Refusing to give an inch. It’s a juvenile thing to do—having a staring contest like I’m some pissed-off little girl—but experience has taught me that giving in now only makes things worse later. My father may not respect me, he may not even like me, but he’d respect and like me a hell of a lot less if I just buckled for him.
In the end, he looks away first. But it’s a shallow victory for me as he follows it up almost immediately with, “How long have you known Alexander Parsons?”
Every inch of my body goes on red alert. It’s no coincidence that he’s bringing Alexander up now, when I just saw the guy last night. “What happened?”
He ignores my question. “Alexander Parsons. How long have you known him?”
