by Andrea Kane
The office was very Dylan: unpretentious, uncluttered, and unstuffy. The furniture was teak, all simple lines and clean surfaces from the desk to the sideboard. One entire wall was filled with open bookshelves stacked with official-looking legal volumes. The room's only adornments were a few pieces of modern pottery on the side tables in the conference area. No expensive knick-knacks, no pretentious artwork on the walls, no intimidating LLD diplomas. Yup, this was Dylan Newport, all the way.
Sabrina took a few steps into the office, dropped her briefcase and turned to face him. "Something's wrong," she stated the minute he'd shut the door. "What is it? Is it Carson?"
"No." Dylan rubbed the back of his neck, his features taut with strain. "It's Russ Clark, one of our interns. He was stabbed to death outside his apartment last night."
"Oh my God." Sabrina pressed a palm to her mouth. "What were the circumstances?"
"There weren't any. No fight, no witnesses, nothing. His watch and money clip were missing."
"So it was a robbery?"
Dylan gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Right. I'd be surprised if Russ had more than twenty dollars on him. And his watch—if I remember correctly it was about five years old and worth nothing great when it was new. The kid was twenty-one. He lived in a working class area of Queens. He was busting his ass to get through college. Carson was helping him with scholarship money. Russ worked like a beaver and never complained—long hours, weekends, he did whatever was asked of him. He was one of Carson's favorites. He had spunk. And he worshiped the ground Carson walked on. Now suddenly he's killed three days after Carson was shot." Dylan's expression was angry and pained. "Does that sound like a coincidence to you?"
"No, it doesn't." Sabrina's mind was racing. "So let's say the two incidents are related. Do you think Russ knew something?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I think." An exasperated wave of his arm. "Of course I have no proof. But in my gut, I believe it. And I have a feeling Whitman and Barton do, too."
"So they know about Russ's murder?"
"They've been on it since late last night. They were notified because of Russ's employment at Ruisseau, and the possible link to Carson's shooting. They contacted Stan right away, since Russ had no family. Stan called me and Susan."
"Susan?" Sabrina asked, puzzled.
"Russ was one of her YouthOp kids. According to Stan, she fell apart when he told her. And she's still a mess today. When Stan called me with an update—which was about ten minutes ago from the car—he said that Susan was at Carson's bedside when he got there to break the news. She held it together, barely. Before Stan left the hospital, he got Dr. Radison to give her a sedative. She's not going to do Carson any good if she falls apart. By the way, that's where Stan's coming from now, which is why he wasn't here to welcome you."
Sabrina didn't give a damn about the missing welcome. But the reason behind it didn't sit well with her. "Dylan, maybe Stan should have waited a while to drop this news on Carson. If he liked this kid as much as you say, he's going to take it hard. And if he's got Susan's emotional meltdown to deal with, too, it might cause a setback...."
"It won't. Carson won't let it. If anything, it'll make him fight harder, because he'll be hell-bent on finding out who did this. I don't have to tell you how protective of his staff he is. Pumping a bullet into him is one thing; killing one of his people is another. Believe me, Stan made the right decision. Carson would be more pissed if we kept this news from him. Besides, if we'd waited, he would have ended up hearing about it from the cops or someone else. It's better that he heard it from Stan."
"So he's okay?"
"He's furious. And he's upset, probably more so than he's letting on, at least in front of Susan. I'll get over to the hospital later and check on him myself." Dylan looked at Sabrina and, for the first time this morning, seemed to actually see her. "You're welcome to come with me."
"Thanks. That would make me feel a lot better."
He gave her a quick once-over, then a longer, more leisurely perusal, and the tension in his jaw eased a bit.
"Well?" Sabrina asked lightly. "What's the verdict?"
"Can I be honest? Or will you bring me up on harassment charges?"
"I think I can restrain myself. Go for it."
"Okay then. You look incredible. Beauty and power combined. A drop-dead gorgeous corporate dynamo. Even I'm intimidated."
Her lips twitched. "Liar. Nothing intimidates you. But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
Dylan released a sharp breath. "Sabrina, I'm sorry if I came at you like a Mack truck when you first walked in. I'm just infuriated and frustrated. Russ was just a kid. I want to find whoever did this to him and choke the bastard to death."
"Don't apologize. It's a horrible tragedy. I feel sick and I never even met Russ." She pursed her lips. "The only thing I'm hoping is that if the two crimes are connected—and I agree with you that they are—that it leaves twice as much room for error. Whoever did this isn't a pro. Somewhere, somehow, the tiniest shred of evidence exists. And Whitman and Barton will find it."
"If they don't, I will," Dylan muttered. "I can't take much more of this sit tight and be patient crap. I'm not the passive type."
"No kidding." Sabrina frowned. "Don't do anything stupid, Dylan. We're talking about a murderer, not a street brawler."
"I realize that." He raked a hand through his hair, clearly trying to get himself together. "Let's change the subject." A quick glance at his watch. "We have about a half hour before the meeting. I can answer any preliminary questions you came up with after reading through that mound of material Stan gave you. If any of the questions is out of my league, we can pull Stan aside before going into the conference room."
Sabrina's shoulders lifted in a composed shrug. "That won't be necessary. The material Stan gave me was comprehensive. Any specifics I need I'll get from each department head. And whatever additional questions crop up as we go along, I'll jump right in and ask for clarification."
"Good." Dylan gestured toward the sideboard, where a steaming carafe sat. "Want some coffee? I'm warning you ahead of time, it's leaded. There's decaf in the coffee room for the less intrepid. We can take a walk down there now, if you'd like."
"Nope." An adamant shake of her head. "I'm in desperate need of the leaded kind. I didn't get much sleep last night."
Dylan shot her a quizzical look as he went over, poured two mugs of coffee. "Did you move into your new place?"
"Um-hum. All done. I soaked in my first hot bath reading Ruisseau's fourth quarter projections. And I snuggled in my new bed analyzing Ruisseau's financial statements and marketing campaign. Quite a first night in my new home. It was as close to heaven as it gets."
Laughter rumbled in Dylan's chest. "It sounds great. No wonder you need this." He handed her a mug, motioning for her to have a seat in his conference area.
"No complaints," she assured him, nodding her thanks as she sank down in a cozy tufted chair. "All-nighters go with the territory. Besides, in all seriousness, the apartment really is beautiful—not to mention much roomier and more comfortable than a hotel room." She sipped at her coffee. "You mentioned that you live three blocks away."
"Sure do. 341 West 76th Street."
"Is your place similar to mine?"
"In a lot of ways, yeah." Dylan dropped into the opposite chair. "It's a brownstone, too, although the layout's a little different. I'm also a little further west than you are, so I'm close to Riverside Drive and Riverside Park, which is great for when I want to clear my head with a morning run."
"That's right. The park. I'll have to remember that." Sabrina sighed. "I've been skipping my early morning yoga routine. Probably because Melissa's not here to play Jiminy Cricket. Although I'm not even sure that having a relentless conscience like Melissa would help. I need to be able to clear my mind to get the benefits of yoga. And these days—I can't."
"No surprise there." Dylan leaned forward, eyeing her speculatively. "Was last night's dinner with yo
ur mother very difficult?"
"Actually, no." Sabrina was touched by the genuine concern in Dylan's tone. Was this the same man who'd said he had trouble mustering sympathy for her? "Other than the fact that Detectives Whitman and Barton were with her when I arrived. That was awkward."
"You're kidding. They actually came to her hotel to interrogate her the minute she checked in?"
"No, nothing that tacky. It was my mother who called them. She knew they had questions for her. She had a chunk of time to kill before I met her for dinner. So she used that time to meet with them."
"And?"
"And they got their answers, including an alibi. After that, they left us to enjoy our dinner."
"Good. So how did she react to your latest news?"
"She was very supportive, even more so than I expected. She encouraged me to get to know Carson, and she was excited about my taking on the presidency of Ruisseau." A troubled frown. "Of course, my grandparents are another story. I still have their reaction to contend with."
Dylan's forehead creased, more in puzzlement than in censure. "If status means so much to them, wouldn't your becoming president of a successful, high-profile company like Ruisseau make them happy?"
"If that's all that was involved, yes, they'd be thrilled. The problem is that that part of the equation is the result, not the entirety. First, the media would have to sink their teeth into the guts of the story—the donor insemination, the whole who-found-out-what-and-when, the how-do-you-feel-about-this angle. There'll be mikes shoved in my grandparents' faces, tabloid reporters hanging around their house, embarrassing them in front of their friends." Abruptly, Sabrina realized how inane this explanation must sound to Dylan, and she paused, studying his expression.
He was watching her intently. But whether he was assimilating or appalled, she wasn't sure.
"Before you judge my grandparents, hear me out, and try to keep an open mind," she requested. "Yes, they're snobs. I won't argue that. They're also well into their eighties. If donor insemination sounded extreme to them twenty-eight years ago, you can imagine how they feel about it now. As for the scandal, they're not as strong as they used to be. Being hounded by reporters, having their lives disrupted, it's going to be hard on them. My only prayer is that their health isn't affected. And speaking of health, that's the biggest factor here— me. I'm my grandparents' soft spot. It's been that way since I was born. They love me deeply. The prospect of my facing surgery, giving up one of my organs... they'll be frantic, prisoners to their worst fears. All they'll be able to focus on are the possible complications, the what-if's. And, yes, I feel guilty for putting them through that."
Dylan took a swallow of coffee, and Sabrina could see that his wheels were turning.
"I never thought about it from that perspective," he said at last. "I'm not exactly experienced with various levels of family commitment. I understand loyalty and caring. But the rest—sensitivity to fears and weaknesses—that's all new to me."
"Probably because Carson doesn't have any."
"None that he lets anyone see," Dylan corrected. "At least until now. He's changed this past week. Partly because of his close brush with death, and partly because you came into bis life."
"That goes both ways. I've changed, too. So, for that matter, have you. Your open-mindedness about my grandparents just now proves it." Sabrina weighed her next words carefully. "You undersell yourself. You're a lot more sensitive than you think."
"Sensitive?" Dylan looked amused. "Somehow that's not a trait I'd ascribe to myself."
"Let's say you're learning. Who knows? There might be hope for you yet."
He flashed her that lopsided smile. "Is that a professional evaluation?"
"Yup."
"You're going to be hard-pressed getting the rest of the world to believe you." His own quip caused a kind of pained resentment to tighten his features, and he finished his thought aloud, more to himself than to her. "Especially our detective friends. They think I'm a prime suspect for cold-blooded murder."
If Dylan expected her to be shocked by his revelation, he was about to find out otherwise.
"Maybe they used to think that," Sabrina informed him. "Not anymore. Not if I got through to them. Which I think I did. I didn't mince words. I was pretty damned persuasive. Between that, and the fact that I'd have no reason to lie, I think they'll change their tune. Or at least they'll give credence to my opinion."
"What are you talking about?" Dylan demanded, with a baffled stare. "Got through to them about what?"
Sabrina took another sip of coffee, offhandedly replying, "When they questioned me the other day, they dropped a few pointed comments implying they had then-eye on you. I forced the details out of them by reminding them I was Carson Brooks's daughter and had every right to know the status of the investigation. When I got my answer, I blasted them."
Dylan did a double take. "You stood up for me?"
"In no uncertain terms. I told them they were blind if they didn't see how much you cared about Carson, and that no size inheritance would motivate you to harm him. I told it like it is. Then again, I usually do." She saw the astonishment on Dylan's face and smiled faintly. "You're surprised."
"Not about your telling it like it is. About your defending me? You bet I am. At the time, you didn't even like me. And you sure as hell didn't trust me."
"I didn't trust you not to manipulate me into helping Carson," she corrected. "I never doubted your feelings for him. As for liking you..." She shot him a teasing look. "You kind of grew on me."
His gaze darkened a bit. "Did I?"
"Um-hum."
"That's nice to hear. So's the fact that you defended me. Thanks."
"No problem."
There it was again. That overwhelming sexual magnetism that kept pulling at them. It was almost impossible to ignore.
Sabrina didn't try to ignore it. But she did have to nip it in the bud. It was definitely the wrong time, wrong place.
She accomplished her goal by glancing around the room in a long, exaggerated motion. "It just occurs to me that we're alone. I seem to recall your saying we shouldn't tempt fate that way. Maybe it's time to head down to the conference room." She placed her coffee mug on the table.
"Point taken." Dylan's crooked smile was back again, and he, too, set down his mug. "But before we go to the conference room, why don't I show you your new office. Don't worry," he added, half-teasing, half-serious. "Your office is closer to Carson's than it is to mine. That means there are at least a dozen walls and a long corridor separating us."
He rose, waiting while she followed suit. "As for the walk down there, you're safe on that score, too. It's a quarter to nine. The office will be bustling by now. So there's no fear I'll give in to my libido."
Biting back a grin, Sabrina picked up her briefcase and headed for the door. "I can't tell you how relieved that makes me."
"I thought you'd feel that way." He reached past her to open the door, and they both ignored the sparks their proximity ignited. "Let's get moving," Dylan said without meeting her gaze. "Stan should be here by the time you've given your new office a quick once-over." He paused, then abruptly seized her forearm and brought her wrist to his nose. "By the way," he said huskily. "You don't need it."
CHAPTER 18
9:20 A.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Gloria purposely chose this time to arrive.
She entered the hospital through the rear entrance, wearing dark sunglasses and a hat—just in case any fashion reporters were around. Perfume and fashion were frequently linked, so it wouldn't be too much of a reach to think that someone covering Carson Brooks's shooting might also recognize her. And that was the last thing she wanted, at least until any formal announcements were made.
She took the elevator up to ICU, then made her way down the corridor to the nurses' station. She approached the desk tentatively, wondering if she'd be turned away, hoping this idea hadn't been a huge mistake.
"Yes?" a
stout, efficient-looking RN inquired.
Gloria removed her sunglasses and hat, and smiled. "Good morning. My name is Gloria Radcliffe. I'm here to see Carson Brooks. I know he's weak, so I'll only stay a few minutes."
The nurse looked at her as if she'd announced the world was square. "I'm sorry, but visitation is highly restrictive. Do you have Mr. Brooks's doctor's permission?"
"No, but I'd be happy to get it. It's Dr. Radison, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Is he available? I'll only take a moment of his time."
The nurse was still eyeing her as if she were an escaped lunatic. "He's scheduled for surgery at nine-thirty."
"Perfect." Gloria gave her a bright smile. "Then he can poke his head out for just a minute. Please, this is personal—and very important. All I ask is that you tell Dr. Radison I'm here. If he refuses to see me or to let me visit with Mr. Brooks, I'll leave."
The nurse rubbed her forehead. "What did you say your name was?"
For the first time, Gloria found herself wishing she were dealing with someone who'd heard of her. "Gloria Radcliffe."
"The designer?" An attractive, younger nurse turned around, all glowing and excited—and Gloria wondered if she should have been careful what she wished for. "It is you. I've seen your picture in Vogue. Your new fall line is sensational."
The stout nurse blinked. "Sorry. I'm not really into clothes."
"That's fine." Gloria spoke to nurse #1 and smiled her thanks at nurse #2. "I'd so appreciate seeing Dr. Radison before he goes into surgery...."
"I'll page him." The stout nurse did that, and was rewarded a minute later when her page was answered. "Doctor, it's Mary in ICU. Gloria Radcliffe is here to speak with you. She'd like to see Mr. Brooks." A pause. "Okay. Yes." She hung up. "He's on his way."
"Thank you." Gloria felt a wave of relief—so much so that she spent the next three minutes sharing fashion tips with nurse #2, whose name turned out to be Peggy.
