Scent of Danger

by Andrea Kane

  "I know it's late," Sabrina replied, evading the question. "You probably just got in from the airport. But I have to talk to you."

  No, it definitely was not her imagination.

  Gloria's grip on the receiver tightened. "Of course. What is it?"

  A long sigh. "Would it be all right if I drove out there?"

  "Tonight?"

  "Yes. I realize you're probably on your way to bed, but it's important."

  This was totally unlike Sabrina. She wasn't the dramatic type. Yet her voice sounded unnaturally high and out of sorts. "Sabrina, are you ill?"

  "No, nothing like that. I just got hit with some news that threw me. It affects both of us. I really need to discuss it with you, right away. Apparently, time is of the essence."

  There was no point in playing guessing games. The sooner Sabrina got here, the better. "Fine. Are you leaving now?"

  "Yes. I'll be there before eleven."

  10:48 P.M.

  Sabrina turned onto the cobblestone driveway, the headlights of her Lexus RX300 illuminating her mother's front lawn. She threw the gear shift into park and turned off the ignition, resting her forehead against the steering wheel for one weary moment.

  The long drive hadn't helped. She was still just as unsettled as she'd been when Dylan Newport left her, maybe more so, since analyzing the situation had forced her to confront the numerous painful consequences that might arise.

  Consequences that would vastly impact her mother, send ripples through every facet of her life, both personal and professional.

  She could just see the headlines now: High-profile CEO Carson Brooks revealed to be biological father of Sabrina Radcliffe, youngest member of the rich, socialite Radcliffe family.

  And once the tabloids got hold of it, they'd exploit the juicy tidbit to death. The result would be a media extravaganza with the Radcliffes smack in the middle of it. So much for Gloria's privacy, her carefully sculpted way of life. As for Sabrina's grandparents—what a nightmare that would be. The whole topic of how she'd been conceived was considered taboo in their book. Not only wasn't it discussed, it was deemed as having never happened. After their unsuccessful attempts to dissuade Gloria from going through with the donor insemination, they'd dealt with it through denial, never touching on the subject of Sabrina's father, wordlessly designating the subject as taboo among their friends and colleagues. And given how much influence Abigail and Charles Radcliffe wielded in the Boston country club set, they had no trouble getting anyone who was anyone to take the hint.

  So, Sabrina came into the world, a welcome, beloved daughter and granddaughter. Gloria had taken the wise course, privately telling Sabrina that a father didn't factor into her life and then, as soon as Sabrina was old enough to understand the birds and the bees, explaining the donor insemination process—and her grandparents' unwillingness to acknowledge it. Sabrina heard her mother's message loud and clear. And the truth remained buried in the silent woodwork.

  Until now.

  Sabrina loved her grandparents dearly. But she also understood what they were about. They'd been elitist and rigid in their youth. Now, vital as ever but well into their eighties, they were positively implacable. Their reaction to this bombshell would be predictably severe. Not to mention the fallout Gloria would experience from them as a result.

  And that was just from being told that this forbidden secret had been dug up, and that Sabrina knew her father's identity. If things progressed beyond that point and Sabrina went ahead with the tissue-typing, then all hell would break loose. There'd be no chance of keeping her relationship to Carson Brooks under wraps, the tabloids would burst onto the scene, and her grandparents would totally freak out. And, no matter how you sliced it, she'd be responsible for their angst—angst that would only escalate if it turned out she was a compatible donor and decided to go through with the transplant. She meant everything to her grandparents—and to her mother. Putting her health at risk might just push them over the edge.

  With a huge sigh, Sabrina climbed out of her car, wishing she knew how to bypass the land mines and arrive at a decision that was right for everyone. Any way she viewed this, it was a lose-lose situation.

  Except maybe for Carson Brooks. He might stand to win. If that were the case... well, when one weighed physical survival against emotional well-being, the scales tipped heavily in favor of survival.

  Sabrina was halfway up the front walk when Gloria pulled opened the door and stepped outside, rubbing the sleeves of her robe against some internal chill that defied Indian summer.

  "I tried your cell phone three times," she said in greeting, eyeing Sabrina anxiously as she crossed the threshold. "I wanted to make sure you were calm enough to drive. You didn't answer. After the way you sounded on the phone, I was really starting to get frightened."

  "I'm sorry. I guess I forgot to turn on my phone," Sabrina replied, slipping off her lightweight jacket and hanging it up.

  "That's a first. You're never unreachable, especially since you started CCTL." Gloria's features were tight with concern. "You're really upset. What's this about?"

  Sabrina studied her mother, noting that she looked tired—not a surprise given a week-long business trip. She also looked out-of-sorts, thanks to Sabrina's cryptic phone call and mystery visit. Well, things were about to get a lot worse. Her announcement was about to blow the lid off Pandora's box.

  "Sabrina, whatever's bothering you is serious." Gloria was watching the play of emotions on Sabrina's face, her concern tangibly mounting. "I've never seen you like this. You're sheet-white." She drew her daughter over to the living room sofa. "Sit. I'll pour you a glass of merlot."

  "Pour one for yourself, too," Sabrina advised. A wary look. "All right."

  Once she'd dispensed with that task, Gloria settled herself on the sofa next to Sabrina and handed her daughter one of the two wine goblets. "Now tell me what's happened."

  With a fortifying sip of merlot, Sabrina turned toward her mother. From her peripheral vision, she spied the matching pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage clustered just inside the master bedroom and was reminded again how late it was, how intrusive her barging in this late must be. "I'm sorry, Mother. You haven't even had a chance to unpack."

  "I'll do that later." Gloria waved away the notion. "You're stalling. That's not like you either."

  "You're right. It's not. But the subject I'm about to get into was a closed chapter in our lives. Unfortunately, it's been pried open with a crowbar."

  "What subject?"

  "My conception."

  That was obviously the last thing Gloria had expected. "Your conception? Why on earth would that come up? And why would it cause you a problem?" An angry spark lit her eyes. "Don't tell me we have another con artist on our hands."

  Sabrina shook her head. "Unfortunately not. That would be old hat, certainly not enough to freak me out like this. No, Mother, no con artist. This time we have the real thing. And he comes with a built-in crisis we have to deal with."

  Gloria had gone very still. "You'd better explain."

  "That's why I'm here." Sabrina steeled herself. "Mother, I know who the sperm donor was. I have more than enough proof. We'll get to that part later. First things first. You'll recognize his name. He's an extremely visible man. Visible enough so I doubt my biological ties to him can be kept under wraps for long. It's Carson Brooks, head of Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation."

  Slowly, Gloria blew out her breath. For a long moment she said nothing. When she spoke, her voice was filled with quiet resignation. "Yes, I know. I don't need proof." She cleared her throat. "Now, how do you know, and what's this crisis you're referring to?"

  Sabrina's jaw had nearly struck the coffee table. "You know?"

  Another pause, as Gloria forced herself to address an issue she'd clearly wanted to avoid. "Not through any concrete proof. But, yes. I figured it out a long time ago."

  "How long ago?"

  "Maybe ten years."

  Okay, Sabrina was about to lo
se it. This night was turning into The Twilight Zone. "How could you figure it out? Based on what? I thought the donor was anonymous."

  "He was—at least by definition."

  "What does that mean?"

  Gloria swirled the remaining merlot around in her goblet. "It means I was never told his name. But I had lots of other information at my disposal. I had an entire personal profile. Most particularly, I had his photo—a very clear photo of a man who, even at twenty-two, had a face that was too striking, too charismatic to forget. Of course, at the time, he was a nobody. He couldn't have had any idea how high-profile he'd become. So he had no way of predicting that I'd wind up with an unexpected means of identification. His physical appearance hasn't changed much over the years. Same compelling features, piercing blue eyes, and an interesting scar on his right cheek. That was the giveaway. It's on the arch of his cheekbone, a curved, jagged slash, like he was cut by a bottle cap. It's very distinctive. So when I saw it again on the business news, on the face of a man who's an older version of a photo I once memorized feature for feature, I recognized it. That's how I knew."

  "I don't believe this." Sabrina was still reeling. "You put all this together ten years ago—and you never said anything to me?"

  This time her mother's chin came up. "What would you have liked me to say? 'Guess what, Sabrina, I figured out who helped make you'? He was a sperm donor, not a father. He had no obligation to me, and I had no more right to invade his privacy than he had to invade mine. More important, I didn't want to throw your life into chaos. I know you. If I'd told you, you'd have become personally vested, even if you somehow restrained yourself from going to him, which I'm not sure you'd manage to do. You'd have pored over articles on Carson Brooks, read everything about Ruisseau that you could get your hands on. It would have done more harm than good. I'm your mother. My job is to protect you. That's why I said nothing." Gloria finished with an air of finality. "We can debate my decision later. For now, I'd like some answers. How did you find out about Carson Brooks? What crisis forced him into your life? And why is time of the essence?"

  Sabrina had given up trying to digest anything. As for the explanation her mother was demanding, there was no way to ease into it. Nor did she have the wherewithal to try. So she just went for it.

  By the time she finished, Gloria had turned pale. "Are you suggesting that they want you to donate a kidney?"

  "If I'm a compatible donor, yes. That's pretty much the size of it." Sabrina's lips gave a wry twist. "Ironic, isn't it? He was my donor, now I can be his."

  "Sabrina." Gloria was visibly struggling for control. "Am I to assume you're actually considering this?"

  Wearily, Sabrina massaged her temples. "A man's life is at stake. A man I'm biologically tied to and whose recovery might depend on me. How can I not consider it?"

  "Because there are risks involved.... Because you don't even know this man.... Because after all I've done to make sure—" Gloria broke off. "How bad are his injuries?"

  "It sounds like it's touch and go."

  "Then he might not make it. So why are the doctors focusing on a kidney? They should be focusing on saving his life."

  "They are. But it takes time to find a compatible kidney donor, even in instances where the victim does have living relatives. In this case, there's only me. And if I don't fill the bill..." Sabrina fell silent for a moment, then placed her wineglass on the coffee table and turned to face her mother. "But you know what, Mother? You were right. Now that I know the truth I can't ignore it. He might not be my father, but he did father me. Now he might die. I've got to at least meet him. I might not have another chance. As for the rest, we'll play it by ear. I don't know if I'll agree to be tissue-typed. Maybe I won't have to make that decision. Maybe the doctors will already have found another donor. Or maybe I won't be a compatible match."

  "Maybe." Gloria sounded dubious, her lips thinning into a tight, apprehensive line. "I take it news of the shooting hasn't hit the media yet."

  "Not until tomorrow. Dylan Newport was keeping things quiet until he could reach me. The financial networks will get hold of it first thing tomorrow. As for my existence, my relationship to Carson Brooks, that he'll try to keep a lid on as long as he can."

  "Right. Which will be about twelve minutes, knowing the media." Gloria polished off her wine and rose, nervously tightening the belt of her robe. "This is going to snowball like crazy."

  "Not if I do nothing but meet the man."

  Her mother shot her a who-do-you-think-you're-kidding look. "True. But that's not the way it'll play out. If you can help him, you will."

  Sabrina didn't deny her mother's words. She wasn't sure she could—not in good conscience. The truth was, Gloria was probably right.

  Walking over, she touched her mother's arm. "I realize what I'll be exposing you to. It's not fair to you, or to Grandmother and Grandfather. I don't know what to say except I'm sorry. Do you think they're up for this?"

  A short, humorless laugh. "Your grandparents? They're tough as nails, and twice as strong as we are. They'll be fine." Her wry humor vanished, and she swallowed, her voice trembling a bit as she added, "Unless something should happen to you. That would kill them— and me."

  "Mother..."

  Gloria waved away Sabrina's assurances. "Don't. Not yet. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She paused to collect herself. "In any case, your grandparents will prevail. What they'll do to us, now that's another story." An overwhelmed shake of her head. "This is all so unbelievable. Carson Brooks—shot. Do the police know who did it?"

  "No. They're investigating."

  "I assume that that attorney—Dylan Newport—told the police about you?"

  "He had to, yes. The police know. Carson Brooks's doctors know. But that's it."

  "For now." Gloria angled her head, her eyes widening as a different thought occurred to her. "How did this Dylan Newport find out about you—from Carson Brooks? Does Carson Brooks know he's your... your..."

  "Not yet." Sabrina spared her mother the discomfort of using the word "father" to describe Carson Brooks. "Evidently, he was toying with the idea of finding out if his sperm donation had resulted in a child. But he didn't have time to follow through. He asked Dylan Newport to do that for him. I've seen the investigation results. They're real."

  "Getting them was also illegal, no matter how Mr. Newport managed it."

  "I know. But does it really matter at this point?"

  Sighing, Gloria replied, "No. If we initiated legal action, it would only magnify the scandal that's already going to swallow us whole." She stared off into space for a moment before looking back at Sabrina, her eyes filled with tears. "Dylan Newport is waiting for your answer?"

  Sabrina nodded. "I told him he couldn't have it till tomorrow. He's staying at the Center."

  "And you're staying here." Gloria crossed over to the hall, opening the linen closet and tugging down a blanket and pillow. "I'll make up your old bedroom. It's after midnight. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally. I was worried enough when you drove here an hour ago. Now you're in even worse shape. Get some sleep. You'll drive home after breakfast. That'll give you plenty of time to give Dylan Newport his answer..." She turned back to her daughter. "...and to catch a late afternoon flight to LaGuardia. Which I presume you'll be doing."

  It was a statement, not a question. Sabrina answered it anyway. "I think so, yes."

  "Fine. I'll go with you."

  Sabrina was touched but not surprised by her mother's selfless generosity. And she was all prepared with her answer.

  "No you won't," she refused gently. "You just got back yourself. You're worn out and probably a week behind on your sketches. You need to get past this and get back to work."

  "That's not likely to happen."

  "You'll make it happen. You love your work. In the meantime, you're going to have your hands full. Breaking this news to Grandmother and Grandfather will be an ordeal unto itself. If I know you, you'll want to drive
down to Boston and tell them right away, so they're not caught off guard."

  Gloria couldn't deny that one. She gave a frustrated sigh, torn between familial obligation and maternal support.

  Sabrina helped ease the impasse. "Mother, let's be practical. We have a better chance of keeping my hospital visit hush-hush if I go alone. You're well known on the Manhattan fashion scene. I'm not." Sabrina cut off Gloria's protest, giving her arm a warm squeeze. "I appreciate your offer. But it's better this way. I'll make the initial appearance on my own. You, in the meantime, deal with Grandmother and Grandfather. Then—assuming I take this any further—we'll talk about emotional support, all ways around."

  Reluctantly, Gloria nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. After all, who knows how this will play out?"

  "Exactly," Sabrina agreed, too tired to analyze the past or contemplate the future. "Who knows?"

  CHAPTER 6

  Wednesday, September 7th, 8:15 A.M.

  Mt. Sinai Hospital

  Detectives Eugenia Whitman and Frank Barton had been partners for ten years. Around the Midtown North Precinct, they were known as "Stick" and "Stone"; Eugenia for her beanstalk figure and stinging interrogation style, and Frank for his solid build and blunt delivery. Eugenia was subtle in approach and patient in timing— until she closed in for the kill—at which point, look out. Frank was the ultimate Type A, a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy to whom temperance was an ordeal. He readily admitted that he lacked Eugenia's patience and people skills, but was the first to add that what he lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in good, old-fashioned gut instinct.

  Outside work, their lives were as different as their personalities. Frank was a homebody. Happily married to the same woman for fifteen years, he liked tinkering in his workroom, cheering at his kids' soccer games, and investing in the stock market to ensure his family's future. He was battling middle age—and its accompanying spare tire around his middle—with a vengeance, dieting and going to the gym, and hating every minute of it.