“Isn’t this a surprise,” she said, and, although not the tittering type, found herself nonetheless tittering. She sounded like a schoolgirl. But Andrew, she knew, wouldn’t object. He found silly women reassuring. “It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?”

He smiled politely, pretending not to notice the broken glass and splashes of brandy on the peach-colored carpet. “Too long.”

She cleared her throat. She knew she was talking too loudly and trying too hard to sound cheerful. A man as perceptive as Andrew Balaton surely would notice. She tried to calm herself. “Well, Andrew.” She paused, and took a sharp breath. “What brings you to New York?”

He watched her with his handsome deep brown eyes. “I think you know, Lillian.”

“Ahh.” She smiled her best ingénue smile. “Crockett Industries plans to make a bid for the network.”

“You never were good at being coy.” His words cut her off, and were all the more biting because they were delivered so quietly. That was Andrew’s style. He could cut someone to ribbons without ever changing his tone of voice. Crockett was all bluster and noise, but not Andrew. No, never Andrew. “It doesn’t suit you,” he went on. “You have always been Eastern cool—very reserved, very polished, very direct. We are alike in this regard, are we not?”

“I never thought we were alike in any regard, Andrew.” She took a huge gulp of brandy and held her glass precariously between two fingers. “Tell me why you’re here. Obviously you have a reason.”

“Of course—and one you know, Lillian. Of all people, you know why I’m here.”

“Suppose you tell me.”

He gave just the barest hint of a smile and inclined his head, evoking his arrogant, aristocratic ancestors. “Ashley Wakefield.”

Lillian smiled, swinging her glass. “Mystery heiress and dolphin rescuer. What about her?”

“You tell me.”

“Me? I don’t even know her.”

He stretched out his trim legs. “You met with her this morning in her office in Boston.”

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“What did you see her about?”

“That’s none of your business.” She leaped to her feet, brandy splashing over her gown, and pointed toward the door. “Get out of here. Now, Andrew. Before I call someone and have you thrown out.”

He didn’t move; his expression didn’t change. “Lillian, Lillian. You know I don’t want to upset you. But you also must know how concerned I am. I don’t want you to suffer, Lillian. I don’t want Crockett Industries to suffer.” He raised his shoulders slightly. “Perhaps I’m overcautious. Please sit down.”

She sat in an antique Chippendale chair she’d inherited from her starchy, proper grandmother. It had a sobering effect. Her hair was lank, her hands shaking, and her caftan was wet, splattered with brandy. She felt disheveled and undesirable, but she’d never cared what Andrew Balaton thought of her. He’d been Judith’s. He was untouchable.

She could feel the sobs rocking inside her, but she held them in until her stomach hurt. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She hadn’t thirty years ago, when she thought they all would die in the swamp on the Austro-Hungarian border. And she hadn’t a year later, at the funeral of her best friend. She had no intention of crying now.