Kane, Andrea

by Scent of Danger

  "This isn't about being right," Dylan replied, interlacing his fingers on the table. "It's about my saying thank you. I'm very grateful." He met candor with candor. "Look, Sabrina, I'm not the manipulative SOB you suspected I was on the plane." Another lopsided grin when he saw the glimmer of surprise in her eyes. "You're not the only one who's perceptive. I'm a pretty good mind reader myself. Sure I knew what you thought. You were wrong. Yeah, I want you to go through with the transplant—if it becomes necessary. I don't think I made any secret of that. But as for the rest—every word I said about Carson was true. He's one of a kind. I think you saw that today for yourself."

  "I did." Sabrina frowned. "He's fighting so hard to come back. He must know what an uphill battle it is."

  "He knows. But Carson's been a fighter all his life."

  A brief hesitation. "Maybe I can offer him an incentive. And I don't mean my kidney. That's a separate thing entirely."

  "You want to open the door to some kind of relationship."

  She shot him a quizzical look. "Do you think it would make a difference?"

  "A difference?" Dylan gave an ironic laugh. "I think it would give Carson the motivation to jump out of that hospital bed and host a party."

  "That's a little on the optimistic side. I'd settle for him taking a sharp turn for the better."

  "I second that."

  "So you don't think the idea's crazy?"

  "The only thing that would be crazy would be your walking away from a chance to get to know him." Dylan's jaw tightened, as did his tone. "Then again, my perspective is different from yours. You see how much this is going to screw up your life and your family. I see how lucky you are. And frankly, no matter how much you're sacrificing, it's hard for me to feel sorry for you."

  Sabrina should have been put off by the harshness of the comment. Instead, she found herself contemplating its basis. There was too much emotion behind it, too much personalization.

  Mentally, she reviewed what Dylan had told her on the flight to New York. He'd said he owed Carson everything.

  Just how bad was the life Carson had rescued him from?

  "Now you're angry," Dylan surmised, as the silence between them stretched out. "Don't be. I'm not callous to what you're going through. This whole situation came at you out of left field. But compassion only goes so far."

  "I'm not angry. And I didn't expect you to feel sorry for me. Actually, I was thinking."

  "About...?"

  "You. Your commitment to Carson. How strong it is. How far back it goes. On the plane, you mentioned having foster parents."

  "When I wasn't living on the streets, yeah."

  "These foster parents—was it a bad situation?"

  "Which time?"

  She blinked. "How many families did you live with?"

  "Five. Four of which I'd like to forget. The fifth was the couple I was living with when I met Carson. They were decent people. They were older and childless. They really wanted to make a difference; they just weren't sure how. They tried. It wasn't their fault that I was too desensitized to be reached."

  He sounded dispassionate enough. But Sabrina had the feeling she was poised in the eye of the storm. "Am I overstepping?"

  "Nope." Dylan took another gulp of coffee. "I told you, my past is part of another life. It doesn't bother me to talk about it. Ask whatever you want."

  "The other four families—were they cruel to you?"

  "They varied from screwed up to emotionally abusive. Oh, and number four was physically abusive, too. Unfortunately, that's the family I was with the longest, and during my so-called formative years. I left there with lots of scars—some physical, some mental—and lots of anger. I became the classic street kid. I racked up three juvenile arrests and more drunken brawls than I can recall. The only thing I wasn't stupid enough to get into was drugs."

  Sabrina was suddenly and completely sober. "What about your biological parents?"

  "What about them?"

  "Did they die?"

  "My mother did—eventually. At least that's what I've been told. We never got to know each other. And my father? Your guess is as good as mine. I never even met the guy."

  "He took off when he heard your mother was pregnant," Sabrina deduced quietly.

  "Oh, long before that. I was the product of a weekend fling in Newport, Rhode Island. My parents were college kids having some fun. My father—Jamison something-or-other; he didn't give my mother his real last name—was a spoiled rich kid looking for some action. He found it My mother went through with the pregnancy. She even managed to get word to Jamison— one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend deals, where the last in line actually knew Jamison, and his real last name. That plan fell flat. Jamison blew her off in a hurry. So she had me, dumped me on the steps of a New York City church, then spent the next bunch of years in and out of rehab as she drugged and boozed herself to death. End of story."

  Sabrina wasn't fooled by the unemotional recounting. No one emerged from a life like that without baggage. "So you never found out who your father is."

  "Nor am I interested."

  "I can understand why." She didn't bother pointing out that she'd said those exact same words to Dylan yesterday, when he'd confronted her with Carson's identity. Because she couldn't. The circumstances of her conception were entirely different from Dylan's. In her case, Carson had donated his sperm in an honest, impersonal business transaction. In Dylan's case, this Jamison kid had "donated" his sperm by having reckless, irresponsible sex, then walking away from the consequences without even supplying a last name. Talk about scum.

  "And the name Newport—" Sabrina murmured, "I take it that's not a coincidence?"

  "None at all. I needed a last name, since I didn't know my father's and had no desire to keep my mother's. So I picked one, courtesy of where I was conceived. Pretty clever, huh?"

  "Clever, yes. But a pretty lousy thing to have to choose for yourself." Sabrina couldn't muster up any banter, not on this one. "No wonder you think I'm an ungrateful bitch for being ambivalent over my situation."

  "I don't think you're an ungrateful bitch. You're protecting your family. I understand that. But I'm protecting mine—Carson. Maybe now you can fully understand why."

  "I can." Abruptly, Sabrina found herself wondering if Dylan resented her. How could he not? Here she was, just waltzing into Carson's life when Dylan had been a constant in it for almost twenty years.

  It was a sobering thought.

  "Stop looking so grim," Dylan said with a tight smile. "I turned out fine. Arrogant, I think you called me."

  She relaxed a bit. "I did, didn't I?"

  "Um-hum. You also called me hot."

  "No," she corrected, rising to the challenge. "I said you must be hot. That was supposition, not fact or personal opinion."

  A chuckle. "Are you sure you're not an attorney?"

  "Positive." Sabrina's eyes twinkled. "Attorneys are sharks."

  "Ah, as opposed to management consultants who are newborn kittens."

  "We are. We just insist on keeping our claws—just in case."

  "I'll remember that." Dylan flashed her that sexy, crooked smile. "I wouldn't want to get scratched."

  The waiter appeared at their table, clasping his hands behind his back and gazing expectantly at Dylan. "Will there be anything else tonight, Mr. Newport?"

  Dylan shot a quick glance at his watch, and blinked in surprise. "It's almost eleven-thirty. When did that happen? Thanks, no, just the check."

  "Very good, sir." He hurried off to prepare it.

  "I didn't mean to keep you up this late," Dylan told Sabrina apologetically. "You've had a hell of a day. You need to get some sleep."

  "So do you," she reminded him.

  "I'll get it. First, I'm taking you back to your hotel. Don't waste your breath," he added quickly, cutting Sabrina off as she began protesting, saying she was perfectly capable of hailing a cab and seeing herself back. "I gave my word to Carson. Besides, I want to." H
e paused, clearing his throat. "Anyway, after that I'll swing by Ruisseau. Then I'll head home."

  Sabrina's brows rose. "And I thought I was the workaholic."

  "I just want to pick up some papers to run by Carson tomorrow. He likes to pretend he's happy leaving Stan and me in charge, but don't believe him. He's never happy unless he's in control."

  That sparked a thought.

  "Dylan, that reminds me, why did Carson make that request before we left? Why would he want me there when you two catch up on Ruisseau?"

  "Not a clue." Dylan shrugged. "But Carson's mind works round-the-clock. He must want your input on something. Remember, he knows your professional reputation. Maybe he wants to tap your brain on how to make the transition easier for the staff while he's incapacitated. Maybe he wants to ship the whole management team up to Auburn so you can give them a refresher course. I don't know. But we'll find out tomorrow."

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, September 8th, 10:20 A.M.

  Mt. Sinai Hospital

  It was a local anesthetic Radison administered. But Carson had had a restless night—first, fighting the ET tube they'd reinserted to help him breathe, then thrashing around from the discomfort of the abdominal and chest tubes. So they'd given him something to relax. As a result, he found himself fading in and out during the twenty or thirty minutes that the minor surgery was taking place.

  The problem was that every time he slept, he relived the shooting.

  Same scenario. He, standing at the window, wondering whether or not he had a kid, waiting for Dylan to come back so they could finish work and talk about whatever was bugging his friend. Something was definitely bugging him. He'd been on edge the whole afternoon.

  He never heard a sound, not even a footstep. Nothing before the pop. Then, the pain, the colors, and that sweet smell. Oh, and the carpet cleaner. He'd smelled that, too. Almost as sickening and powerful an odor as the blood. The voices of the paramedics. Losing sensation in his limbs. The cobwebs in his brain. And the pop... over and over. The smell... it wouldn't leave his nostrils. Damn, he wished he could wipe it away. But it wasn't going anywhere. And the more he slept, the more it plagued him.

  Vaguely, he heard a ping, and he frowned, wondering if that was a sound he'd forgotten. Like something solid hitting tin. It rattled around. He turned his head, trying to clear away the haze.

  "That was the bullet, Mr. Brooks." Dr. Radison's voice was calm. "Just relax. I'm stitching you up."

  "Smell... blood..." He was rasping again, his throat irritated by the ET tube they'd, thankfully, removed this morning.

  "Sorry, not this time. Not enough to bother even your nose. The incision's too narrow to cause much bleeding. This time we got lucky. The bullet cooperated by being close to the skin. Whatever you smell, it's not blood."

  "Heard the pop... felt the sting... smelled... smelled..."

  "You're just reliving the shooting. It's over now. You're on the mend." Radison paused, addressing someone else in the room. "Detective Whitman's outside the door. Call her in. I initialed the base of the bullet for ID purposes. She can bag it and take it with her." With that, he turned back to Carson. "Okay now," he said, continuing in his original soothing voice. "Another few minutes and I'll be finished here."

  "What... time?"

  "It's ten-thirty. I know you want to speak with Mr. Newport and Ms. Radcliffe. I called them both, told them you were off the respirator and would be up for visitors around noon. Until then, I want you to rest."

  "... Too much rest already." Carson blinked, cracking open his eyes in time to see a nurse leaning into the hall and gesturing to someone outside ICU. An instant later, Detective Whitman stepped into the room.

  "Hey, Detective..." he called out, his voice slurred and gravelly. "Get your asses in gear... on my case, will you?" He swallowed, a comer of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "... I'd hate to spread the word... that some amateur... outsmarted New York's finest...."

  Whitman shot him a look. "I appreciate the kick in the pants, Mr. Brooks. So will my partner. My precinct, too, for that matter. Shame alone will get us moving."

  "Yeah, well, it should.... And move in the right direction... and to the right people."

  Her expression didn't change. But Carson knew she'd gotten the message. "How about leaving the crime-solving to us, Mr. Brooks. You just worry about getting well. Cooperate with poor Dr. Radison. Let him do his job. And let us do ours. That's what professionals are for."

  "Sometimes." Carson wasn't nodding off without getting the last word. "Other times they need help...."

  "This isn't one of those times."

  "Glad to hear it... Now, let's see some proof...." A challenging spark lit his eyes before they slid shut. "Find the bastard."

  11:15 A.M.

  Sabrina stepped out of the elevator and headed for ICU.

  She knew she was early. Dr. Radison had said noon. But she'd been awake since six, her emotional overdrive having won out over her exhaustion. And, after two hours of paperwork, a long hot shower, and two essential phone calls—one business, one personal—she'd virtually run out of things to do to keep her mind occupied.

  The first call had been to Melissa to tell her that she'd be in New York a few days longer than expected, and that she'd check in later today.

  The second call had been to her mother. Gloria sounded as tired as Sabrina did, and almost as strung out. She told Sabrina that she was flying to New York later today, both to be there for her daughter and for the more practical purpose of meeting with the detectives to answer their questions. That was the easy part. The hard part was that, on her way to the airport, she was stopping by to see her parents. They had to be told, and now, before the media got hold of the story.

  Sabrina had felt like Cruella De Vil. She couldn't help it. No matter how valid her feelings were or how righteous her intentions, and no matter how much her mother swore otherwise, Sabrina felt so damned responsible for the pain and anguish she was about to cause. She loved her grandparents. She didn't want them upset or strained. And she sure as hell didn't want her mother to take the brunt of it when these old wounds were opened up—especially since the old wounds now came with new, uncertain consequences.

  Her head about to explode, Sabrina had left the hotel, hopped into a cab, and made her way to the hospital.

  She went straight for the coffee machine—buying a cup of the fully leaded variety this time—then veered toward the nurses' station. She'd check on Carson's condition, after which she'd wait in the lounge for Dr. Radison to call her in.

  "Ms. Radcliffe?"

  Sabrina turned to see Susan Lane seated alone in the lounge. She was perched at the edge of a sofa, two empty Styrofoam cups on the end table beside her, one full cup in her hand. She looked wrung out, so peaked and tired that Sabrina's heart went out to her.

  "Hi." Sabrina walked over, and sat down. "You look exhausted. Have you been here long?"

  "Hmm?..." A vague glance at her watch. "About four hours, I think. After a while, I lose track of time. One minute blends into the next."

  The slight quaver in her voice made Sabrina tense. "Is everything all right? There hasn't been a turn for the worse, has there?"

  "No, nothing like that." Susan put down her cup. "I guess the aftermath's just hitting me hard. It feels like months, not days, since Carson was shot. And I still can't seem to absorb it. He's such a vital man. I can't stand the thought of him lying there, fighting, not even knowing if he'll make a full recovery." She waved away her own words. "Anyway, the bullet's out. Whether or not it was the cause of the infection, we'll have to wait and see."

  "From what I hear, Dr. Radison is the best. He'll figure out the source of the infection. Then he'll eliminate it."

  "And then what?" Susan ran a shaky hand through her frosted blond hair. "God knows how much damage was done, how many more complications will crop up. There's also this crisis with his kidneys. I still can't believe..." She broke off, shot Sabrina a rueful look.
"I'm sorry. You didn't come by today to hear me go on and on like that." A puzzled knit of her brows. "Actually, why did you come?"

  Sabrina was half-tempted to just blurt out the truth. After all, the press would soon be all over this, so what was the point of keeping it a secret, especially from someone as close to Carson as Susan was?

  On the other hand, Susan looked too out-of-it to process a story of this magnitude. And Sabrina wasn't really up for launching into a blow-by-blow recounting of her conception.

  So she settled for providing a fragment of the truth. "Carson's having some kind of meeting with Dylan. He didn't supply the details, but he did ask me to participate."

  "Makes sense." Susan's half-smile was tender. "I should have guessed. From what Dylan told me, you're no average management consultant. You're exceptional. And Carson? He's the heart and soul of Ruisseau. He worries about it like a father worries about bis child. Not just the company, the employees, too. They're like his family. He's probably trying to think up ways to keep morale high and productivity at a peak while he's recuperating. You must have tons of experience in that area. I'm sure he's counting on that."

  A father worrying about his child. That reference carved a hollow ache in Sabrina's gut, one she steeled herself against. She didn't want to go there—not now. "You're probably right," she replied instead. "And, yes, I do have experience working with teams who need guidance to stay focused and unified. Losing a team leader—even temporarily—can be disruptive to group morale and, as a result, to group performance. I'm sure Carson's well aware of that, which is why he's concerned."

  "Only Carson would worry about his company when his life's on the line." Pride laced Susan's tone. "He's one of a kind."

  One of a kind. Funny, those were the exact same words Dylan had used to describe Carson. What an amazing man to have such a profound effect on those he was closest to.