Scent of Danger

by Andrea Kane

  "Professionally vulnerable," Whitman repeated. "In other words, his job was on the line." Her gaze hardened. "You said you were asked to have a talk with Phelps and issue a warning. Who asked you to do that?"

  Roland swallowed. "Carson Brooks."

  A swift exchange of glances between detectives. "We'd like to have a look at those written complaints," Barton informed him.

  "I anticipated you might." Slowly, Roland opened his drawer and removed the sheets of paper he'd placed there earlier, sliding them across the desk. "Here. I made copies for you. But I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Claude's all bluster. He wouldn't shoot anyone."

  "Everyone's capable of violence, given the right circumstances," Barton refuted, picking up the pages. "And we're barking up every tree, not just this one. We plan to find out who did this."

  "I understand."

  Whitman was still watching him. "I'd like access to all the personnel files. And there's no need for you to make photocopies. We'll copy what we need."

  Roland's gut knotted. He didn't like Detective Whitman's tone, or the vibes he was picking up from her. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn't good. "All right," he agreed, trying to seem as cooperative as possible. He reached for his phone. "I'll arrange for you to have immediate access."

  "Fine. We're heading back to the hospital now. We'll check back with you later today." Whitman paused. "By the way, where were you on Monday evening, between the hours of five and six?"

  His forefinger paused on the keypad. "At my home on Long Island. Throwing some franks on the grill for our annual barbecue. I was there all evening."

  "I assume someone can verify that?"

  "My wife." He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Why? Am I a suspect?"

  "This is an attempted murder, Mr. Ferguson. Everyone's a suspect."

  "Until our alibis are confirmed," Roland amended.

  "Until we find the assailant." Whitman wasn't giving, not an inch. "Which we will, Mr. Ferguson. You can bet the bank on it."

  1:35 P.M.

  Mt. Sinai Hospital

  Pop.

  The sound echoed inside his head. White-hot pain. It lanced through him, a bolt of lightning in his back. Colors. A kaleidoscope rushing up at him. And that sticky-sweet smell. Blood. His blood. Oozing from his body... Trickling down his back... draining away his life.

  Dying. He was dying. And it was too soon... too soon...

  He heard his own groan at the same time that a firm hand shook his shoulder. "Carson? Carson, it's me."

  He jerked awake, fighting the cobwebs that clung to his mind as a result of the drugged sleep. A nightmare. He'd been having a nightmare—or rather reliving one that had actually occurred. But it was over. He was alive. The wetness trickling down his spine was sweat, not blood. And the concerned face swimming into view over the sea of tubes and monitoring equipment was Dylan's.

  "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  Carson forced a half-grin. "I've been better.... But I'll live... I think." A raspy breath. "You ordered me to... if I remember right."

  Dylan's features relaxed. "You remember right."

  "Where the hell have you been?... It's been... a day... maybe more...."

  "You gave me some orders, too." Dylan pulled up a chair, sank down beside the bed. "I've been busting my tail to carry them out. No easy feat, I might add."

  Carson's brows drew together. "What're you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the person you asked me to locate." Seeing Carson glance around, Dylan added, "Don't worry. We're alone."

  Physical discomfort became secondary, as Carson studied Dylan's expression. "Well?" he demanded.

  "I'd pass you a cigar, but there's no smoking in ICU."

  That was the answer he'd been looking for. "I have a kid," he realized in awe. "Damn... A kid."

  A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "She's far from a kid. Actually, she's a knockout. She looks a lot like you, only better. More feminine and minus the scars. She's smart, too, and successful. Even you'll be impressed."

  "She," Carson repeated. "I have... a daughter." It was the strangest feeling, one he couldn't quite describe. "Tell me... about her."

  "I'll do one better. I'll introduce the two of you."

  Carson stared. "Now?"

  "Can you think of a better time?"

  The way Dylan phrased that... Suspicion clouded the picture, and Carson's gaze flickered to the various contraptions he was hooked up to. "You tell me… Am I out of time?... Is that it?... Am I losing this fight?..."

  "Not a chance."

  "Then why did she agree to come?... How did you find her?... Who...?" Winded, he broke off, suddenly and painfully aware how much he was taxing himself.

  "Try to be quiet and listen for a minute. I know it's against your nature, but try," Dylan advised wryly. "That way you can save your strength for your daughter. Stan helped me dig up the information I needed. Once I got the basic specs—her name, her address—the rest was easy. She lives in Auburn, just outside Manchester, New Hampshire. I flew up there last night and told her about you. She wants to meet you. She's waiting outside. I'm sure she can answer the rest of your questions better than I can. Okay?"

  "Did she already know... about me?"

  "Not who you were, no. But that her father was a sperm donor, yes."

  "She took... the news okay?"

  As always, Dylan was straight with him—no sugar-coating, no bullshit. "She was shocked. She came around. It's a sticky situation. She's strong and gutsy, but she's also very tight with her family. Her mother's in a high-profile industry, and her grandparents epitomize Boston high society. A scandal wouldn't be welcome."

  Carson frowned. "I remember... the woman was from Beacon Hill... that's all I ever knew.... Who is she?..."

  "Her name's Gloria Radcliffe. She's an upscale fashion designer. Fairly well known, too. She must be— Susan's already bought half her fall line. She's in the lounge right now chewing your daughter's ear off about how much she loves Gloria's designs."

  That didn't sit well with Carson. "You told Susan about...?"

  "Nope," Dylan assured him quickly. "I gave her the same story I gave the press—that Ms. Radcliffe is a management consultant assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."

  "Nice story." Carson eyed his friend. "Management consultant?... Can she pull it off?"

  "No problem there. She can pull it off fine, since that's just what she is. A pretty sought-after one, too. You should see her list of clients."

  It was ludicrous and unjustified, this surge of pride that rushed through him. He'd contributed nothing to this young woman, except his genes. He hadn't raised her, had never even met her. But still... hell, she was his daughter.

  "So, are you ready for your introduction?" Dylan asked.

  A slow nod. "Yeah."

  Dylan rose. "I'll be right back."

  Carson shut his eyes, deliberately conserving his strength for what lay ahead. It was bound to be a difficult meeting. He didn't delude himself. He never had, never would. No matter what Dylan said, this young woman must be completely thrown by what she'd learned. As for meeting him, she'd be curious, yeah, but she'd also be uncomfortable as hell. Why not? She didn't know him from Adam, yet he was being introduced as her father.

  Christ, this was bizarre.

  He opened his eyes as two sets of footsteps entered the room.

  "Carson," Dylan said, stepping aside so the woman accompanying him could approach the bed. "This is Sabrina Radcliffe." He kept the introduction simple, avoiding any use of the word father. "Sabrina, Carson Brooks."

  Sabrina. So that was his daughter's name. It suited her, too, he thought, studying her intently. Beautiful and classy.

  Dylan was right. There was a resemblance. Her coloring

  was the same as his, and there was a certain look about her—her chin, maybe, or the way she held her head—that she'd gotten from him. Dylan was also right that she was a knockout. She had a fineness and poise about h
er that screamed breeding, traits she'd obviously inherited from her mother.

  He couldn't believe how choked up he was.

  "Hello, Mr. Brooks." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled as she extended it to him. "I'm glad you're up to seeing me."

  He met her handshake solemnly, proud as hell that she had the guts to put up such a brave front. "I've wanted... to find out about you... to meet you... for a long time.... Thanks for coming."

  She extricated her grip. "The doctor says you're holding your own."

  "I'm too... tough to die... without a fight...." He gestured toward the chair. "Sit." He waited until she'd complied. "Dylan says... you're a management consultant...."

  She nodded. "I own and run a company called the Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership. Companies send their management teams there for training."

  Carson's brows lifted. "CCTL is you?... I just read up on it.... Top-notch reputation... Considered sending my team there... for brush-up. I'm... impressed."

  Sabrina's lips curved slightly. It was a tight smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Given the source, I'm flattered. I've read about you, too. I'm familiar with Ruisseau's successes. Not only are you a corporate genius but you're personally involved in every facet of your company, a policy I think more CEOs should adopt. It's fitting that Ruisseau is named after you—albeit in French."

  "Yeah, well, 'Ruisseau' has... an exotic, romantic... ring to it.... No one wants to buy... a perfume called 'brook.' Sounds like a drinking hole for trout..."

  A flicker of amusement lurked behind the guarded veneer in her sharp blue eyes—his eyes. She had a definite sense of humor. But she wasn't ready to let down her defenses. Instead, she opted for another tight smile. "I see your point."

  Enough about him. He didn't want to talk about his accomplishments. He wanted to hear about her. "Tell me... about your life... your mother.... She wanted to make... an exceptional child.... Obviously, she succeeded." He began to cough.

  "Are you all right?" Sabrina half rose.

  He waved away her concern. "Fine... But listening hurts less... than talking."

  "Okay." She got the message and sat back down, considering what she wanted to say. "I don't know how much Dylan's told you."

  "Not much," Dylan supplied. "Just your name and profession."

  "He also said you... were a knockout...." Carson added. "He's right."

  Sabrina shot Dylan a look that Carson couldn't quite make out. Wariness or discomfort, maybe, mixed with something else.

  Whatever it was, Dylan picked up on it. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

  "Not on my account," she replied. "Unless Mr. Brooks feels otherwise?" A quizzical glance at Carson.

  He shook his head, waving Dylan toward a chair. "I have no secrets... from Dylan...." He wet his lips. "Sabrina... I know this situation's awkward... But call me Carson.... Mr. Brooks seems pretty ridiculous... under the circumstances...."

  "I suppose so," she agreed. "All right, I'll try." She cleared her throat. "You asked about my mother. Her name's Gloria Radcliffe. She's a fashion designer with her own label. She has clients everywhere—including New York. In fact, she just got back from showing her latest designs here."

  "Back? She... lives in New Hampshire?"

  "No, in Rockport, Massachusetts."

  "A... good place... for an artist... to call home." Carson couldn't miss the warmth with which Sabrina spoke of her mother. "You're very... proud of her."

  "Yes, I am."

  "Did you... tell her... you were coming... to see me?"

  "She knows." A troubled expression flickered across Sabrina's face. "She wishes you well."

  "But she'd... preferred if you'd... stayed away."

  A sharp intake of breath. "It's not as black and white as that, Mr. Broo— Carson. It's complicated."

  "Most things are...." He paused. "Twenty-eight years ago... she was determined to... go it alone...." He saw the glint of surprise flash in Sabrina's eyes. "No, I never... spoke to her... firsthand," he clarified. "But I was given... some background... by the medical personnel. Your mother's... criteria were pretty stringent.... She was blunt about the fact... that no man... would fill the bill... as a mate.... So she wanted one who could fill the bill as an ideal sperm donor... to make an extraordinary child...."

  "I see." Clearly, she'd known only pieces of the puzzle. It gave Carson some pleasure to know he was able to fill in more.

  "She stuck to her guns... and never married?" he asked.

  Sabrina nodded.

  "Not... surprised..." He angled his head, glanced at Sabrina's left hand. "You're not wearing a ring.... Are you a die-hard soloist... too?"

  "A die-hard soloist?" This time her smile came naturally. "That sounds like I'm in flight school."

  He chuckled, wincing a little at the resulting pain in his chest—a pain he stubbornly ignored. "Okay, then... what's the female equivalent... of a bachelor—a bachelorette?"

  "I get the picture." She feathered her fingers through her long, dark hair. "And, no, I'm not militant about staying single. But I strongly suspect that's the way things will play out."

  "Because you work... all the time." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Something like that, yes."

  "And you're different... out of sync with others... A loner and a maverick...."

  The practiced look was back in place. "Are we describing me or you?"

  It was a good business ploy, one Carson recognized well. She was reclaiming a position of power, turning a defense into an offense. Good for her. She was sharp and self-protective. Regardless, he was right.

  "Both of us," he answered frankly. "But for now, you... I assume there's no one special... in your life....?"

  She looked like she wanted to slug him for butting in where he didn't belong.

  "Cut me... some slack," he urged. "I just... found out... I'm a father...."

  Her brows rose. "Fine. I'll placate you—this time. No, there's no one special."

  "Change that."

  "What?"

  "I said... change that."

  "I don't believe this." Sabrina was at the edge of her seat again, looking like she was about to bolt. "I never met you before today, never even knew who you were. And here you are, analyzing me and handing out romantic advice?"

  "You got it," he confirmed. "Because I'm... an expert on the subject.... I know... what you're cheating... yourself of.... I just found out the full extent of it... when you walked in. I was a damned fool.... Don't be the same...."

  She said nothing for a minute, just stared at him, and the myriad of emotions crossing her face told him he'd struck home.

  "I didn't mean... to upset you...."

  "You didn't," she assured him, her tone deceptively light. "I hear this on a daily basis from my assistant. She lectures me about being a workaholic, insisting that it's the unhealthiest of lifestyles."

  "She's right… You grow old... alone."

  "Is that why you wanted to meet me?" Sabrina asked. "You think you're growing old alone? Because that's certainly not what the media reports."

  "There's alone... and there's alone." He was beginning to fade, but dammit, he had to finish. "I have a full life.... Ruisseau... Susan... And Dylan's like a son. But no continuity... I didn't realize... until recently. Then I started thinking... that you might be out there.... Had to know..."

  Moisture dampened Sabrina's lashes, and she quickly blinked it away. "I think you should rest. Contrary to what you believe, a lot of people care about you. Dylan, for one. And Ms. Lane, who from what I hear hasn't left the hospital since yesterday."

  "Susan's great." Carson was stunned to taste the salt of his own tears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, if ever. "But a relationship... at my stage... is something different.... It's not a family... kids.... I wish I'd realized... sooner. Don't... make that mistake." He didn't wait for her to answer. "I want to... get to know you. I realize... I have no right... but think about it. Discuss
it with your mother... if you need to." His jaw set. "And don't do it... because I might die. Do it because you want to... and so do I."

  "I will. I'll think about it. I—I've got to go." Sabrina rose, her motions jerky and her eyes damp.

  "Don't cry."

  "I'm not." She needed to lie to protect herself. Carson understood. She wasn't ready to bare or share emotions yet. It was too soon. Hell, he hadn't known he possessed these kind of feelings himself until now.

  "I'm not crying," she repeated, seeing the knowing look on his face. "My eyes are just watering. It's the antiseptic smells. Hospitals do that to me."

  "Yeah... to me, too."

  "Sabrina has a heightened olfactory sense," Dylan contributed, joining the conversation for the first time. "I told her it must be hereditary."

  Carson marveled at the wonder of genetics. "I guess it must be." He reached out a hand, touched Sabrina's sleeve as she turned to go. "Will you... be back?"

  She swallowed, gazing at him for a moment before she nodded. "Yes. I'll come by later. I can't promise more than that."

  "I understand." He was relieved he'd gotten this much. And he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. "Then... later..."

  "Fine. Now get some sleep." She headed for the door.

  Dylan leaned over the bed. "I'll be back in a while," he said quietly. "I just want to get Sabrina to her hotel."

  Carson nodded. "Good. Make sure she's okay." His lids drooped. "We'll talk... when you get back."

  CHAPTER 9

  Dr. Radison was waiting outside ICU when Dylan and Sabrina emerged.

  "How did it go?" he asked.

  "Fine. It went fine," Sabrina replied dazedly. She felt exhausted and too off-balance to speak, much less go into detail.

  "He's still so damned weak," Dylan reported. "And his breathing's labored."

  "We need to talk about that. Mr. Brooks's chest is filling up with fluid. He's fighting an infection, and he's losing. The chest tube's going back in this afternoon. The respirator and ET tube will probably follow suit tonight. Tomorrow morning I'm going in and removing the bullet."