To Sabrina's astonishment, she felt tears burn behind her eyes. She made no move to disguise them, distinctly aware that she was breaking one of her own cardinal rules, one she'd learned early on in her career: Never let your vulnerability show; never reveal a glimpse of your soft underbelly. Adhering to that rule now seemed, somehow, trite and unworthy—both to Carson and to Dylan.
She swallowed, her voice a little choked as she replied. "You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that." She gave Dylan the candor he deserved. "Especially now, when I'm scared to death about what lies ahead. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. And don't be scared." Dylan watched the play of emotions on her face, and his gaze darkened. Sabrina knew in her gut that he was wrestling with the desire to cross over and pull her into his arms. She also knew that if he did, she'd have to fight like hell not to give in. She'd want to. She already wanted to. But if she did, all the complications they'd alluded to would come crashing in on them without ever having been assessed.
In the end, he stayed where he was, although the sparks flying between them were electric. "Take dinner in your stride," he advised quietly. "As for tomorrow..." He raised his empty goblet in a toast. "There's no doubt about the way your Ruisseau debut will play out. You're going to knock 'em dead."
9:30 P.M.
Middle Village, Queens
As he trudged home to his tiny apartment, Russ asked himself for the hundredth time what his best course of action was. Going to the cops was out. Mr. Brooks was very loyal. He'd want to handle this himself first. Besides, Russ didn't have the proof in his hands. Taking it would have been too risky. As it was, he'd stayed two hours later than usual. He'd dug through the accounting files as fast as he could. What he'd really wanted was to access the computer, where he'd probably find a whole lot more, but he didn't know the department's password and he didn't have time to fiddle around guessing.
It didn't matter. He'd seen enough. Too much. He knew that being a good investigative reporter meant having thick skin, but that wouldn't work. Not this time. It just felt too personal.
He turned down a side street, head bent as he wrestled with his choices. Mr. Brooks was still really bad off in the hospital. He wanted to go to him directly, but he couldn't. The next logical choice was Mr. Newport. He could go to him first thing tomorrow, tell him everything. Then, it would up to Mr. Newport to make the decision. That approach sucked, too, because Mr. Newport had enough to deal with. He and Mr. Brooks went way back. And he was really messed up about Mr. Brooks getting shot. Still, he, of all people, would know what to do. And he'd want to know.
But, boy, was this a mess. And once it was out—well, the shit was really going to hit the fan.
Russ never saw the figure huddled in the alley near his apartment.
There was the slightest rustle as it stepped out of the shadows and came up behind him. There was no forewarning, only a stark sense of realization and a blind, searing pain as the blade plunged into his back.
He crumpled and fell to the pavement.
The assailant rifled his pockets, took the money clip and the Seiko watch, even though neither were worth the trouble. But it had to look like a burglary.
Leaving Russ in a growing pool of blood, the figure vanished into the night.
CHAPTER 16
9:35 P.M.
Plaza Athenée
Sabrina hurried through the lobby. Shrugging out of her jacket, she paused to tell the concierge she'd be checking out of the hotel this evening and to make the necessary arrangements. She then went straight to the lounge, mentally rehearsing what she would—and wouldn't—share with her mother tonight.
The "wouldn't" was Dylan. It was too soon, there were too many if s, and she was too confused.
For now, she'd stick to the facts. There was more than enough drama in those.
She reached the bar, and stopped in her tracks.
There, sitting at a small cocktail table, was her mother, Detective Whitman, and Detective Barton.
Both detectives rose when Sabrina walked over.
"Hello, Ms. Radcliffe," Detective Barton greeted her. "It's good to see you."
"You two are my mother's appointment?" Sabrina asked curtly, glancing at her mother for corroboration. Gloria looked composed, her usual elegant self. But that did nothing to put Sabrina's mind at ease. God only knew what these two had accused her of.
"It's all right, Sabrina," Gloria said, responding to the worried look on her daughter's face. "I called the detectives right after I spoke to you. They were kind enough to meet me here. I cleared up a few things for them." Her lips curved. "Like where I was between five and six o'clock Monday evening and with whom."
"We'll check out your alibi right away, Ms. Radcliffe," Detective Whitman assured her. "I don't expect any problems." A polite smile. "A six-person dinner party gives you more than enough witnesses to verify your whereabouts. Thank you for being so forthcoming. It helps to have someone make our investigation easier rather than harder."
Whitman turned to Sabrina "How's Mr. Brooks tonight?"
"That answer varies from minute to minute," Sabrina replied tightly. "He vacillates from stronger and more lucid to weak, exhausted, and out of it. Some of that is because of the painkillers the hospital's giving him. Let's just say he's hanging on and fighting like hell. My fingers are crossed."
"He's lucky to have so many people pulling for him. I'm sure that will make a difference." Whitman exchanged a quick look with her partner. "We'll leave you ladies alone now. I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on."
"Thank you, Detectives." Gloria extended her hand and, with a lovely smile, shook each of theirs in turn. "Again, I appreciate your coming here."
"How long were they with you?" Sabrina demanded, the minute she and her mother were alone.
"An hour or so." Gloria rose. "Why don't we go into the dining room? Our table's ready. We can talk while we eat."
Inside the dining room, they ordered their meals, waited for their sparkling water to be poured, and then plunged into the multitude of topics they needed to discuss.
"Tell me about Whitman and Barton," Sabrina began.
Gloria shrugged. "Right now, they're either very relieved or very disappointed. I think they really believed I shot the man. The fact that I have an alibi—one they can confirm five times over—makes me a dead end."
"They believe everyone shot Carson. They come off like attack dogs. I'm sorry they put you through this."
"It wasn't so bad. At first they were accusatory and suspicious. But after I gave them the facts from my perspective, they relaxed. By the end, we were just fine. I even gave Detective Whitman a few good hints on the best Manhattan night spots."
Sabrina began to laugh. "Mother, you're amazing. You could charm a cobra into giving up its prey. When you put that cunning diplomacy of yours to work, no one's immune. It never ceases to amaze me. I'm so bad at wrapping people around my finger. I'm queen of shoot-from-the-hip. Who I take after is beyond..." Her voice trailed off as she realized where her words were leading.
"I think we both know the answer to that," Gloria replied gently.
"I guess we do." Sabrina massaged her temples. "I feel as if a lifetime's passed since Monday. I always thought I could cope with anything. I was wrong."
"You're coping beautifully. These are hardly normal circumstances."
Sabrina searched her face. "Before we go on, I have to know. How did Grandmother and Grandfather react?"
A sigh. "Pretty much the way you'd expect. The only good news is, their worry over your health softened the intensity of their anger and chagrin over the potential scandal. Let's give it some time. Hopefully, they'll mellow. Speaking of time, when will the tissue-typing results be in?"
"In about a week. If it turns out I'm the best donor match, I've got a battery of tests to go through, a nephrologist to see...." Sabrina sucked in her breath. "We don't need to go through all the details now. If and when it becomes necessary, I'll tell yo
u everything. God knows, I'll need your support. But, Mother, I won't change my mind. Like I said on the telephone, if I'm the best match, I'm going through with the transplant."
Gloria's smile was sad, but tinged with pride. "I know you are."
"There's more," Sabrina added bluntly. "No, nothing health related," she hurriedly clarified, seeing the worried look on her mother's face. "Actually, it involves my career. And, from a professional standpoint, it's huge." She fiddled with her napkin. "Carson and I have this kind of mental connection. It's hard to explain. I hardly know the man, yet I do. And I like and respect him. What he's done with his company is incredible and impressive. The problem is he's concerned about how Ruisseau will hold up while he's in the hospital. He wants profits and morale to continue to thrive. He needs someone to help keep things on track."
"So, he's offered you a job," Gloria guessed. "You're taking on a consulting project for him."
Sabrina licked her lips. She hadn't realized quite how hard this would be. "Yes, and no. That's partly true. It's also the story we're telling the staff, at least for now. But it's more than that. Much more." She met her mother's gaze, stated the bottom line without mincing words. "Carson's asked me to be president of Ruisseau."
Gloria's glass struck the table. "What?"
"It's not instead of CCTL," Sabrina hurried on to explain. "I'll be dividing my time." She went on, laying out the scenario she and Carson had discussed. "He's being flexible, which is good, since I'm not sure of the exact division of time and workload until I tackle both companies simultaneously."
"I take it you accepted the position?"
Studying her mother's face to determine her reaction, Sabrina nodded. "Yes. I did. I had to. Not only for Carson. For me." She waited, holding her breath.
She didn't have long to wait.
"Congratulations." Gloria reached across the table, covered Sabrina's hand with her own. "I think it's wonderful. And not only from one vantage point, from two. You'll have the opportunity to get to know your father, and you'll also have the professional chance of a lifetime. I'm so proud of you."
"You're not upset?"
"No." Thoughtfully, Gloria shook her head. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I've had two days to think about the idea of you having a father in your life. As I told you, I figured out years ago that Carson Brooks was the man I selected for the donor insemination. I truly believed I was doing the right thing keeping that information from you. I was wrong. I wish I'd had the benefit of knowing he planned to initiate a search to find you. That would have changed everything, including my decision to keep you in the dark. But it didn't happen that way. So, to answer your question, no, I'm not upset. I wish the poor man had never been shot. But I'm glad fate intervened where you two are concerned."
Relief surged through Sabrina. But there was another, more difficult audience to win over. "What about Grandmother and Grandfather? How do you think they'll react when I tell them about my becoming president of Ruisseau?"
Gloria turned up her palms in a who-knows gesture. "They could explode. Or they could see the prestigious aspect of things, scandal or not. The presidency of a thriving company—very posh, indeed." Her lips twitched.
Sabrina smiled back. "I see your point. And, if anyone can influence the way they view this, you can."
"Would you prefer I broke the news to them?"
"No. That's my responsibility. And if there's hell to pay, I'll pay it. However, I might need you to help do damage control—if it's needed." Sabrina's brow furrowed. "I think I'll wait until I can give them the whole story, after I'm sure about the way the medical situation is going to play out."
"I agree. They're expecting to hear from you when the blood test results come in. You can tell them everything then."
A sigh. "Selfishly, I'm relieved. The one-week reprieve will take some of the strain off me. I've got a few major hurdles to surmount between now and then. Starting with tomorrow. It's my first day on the job—as a management consultant, of course. My position as an officer of the company will stay under wraps until I'm ready to announce I'm Carson's daughter. And that won't happen without my first alerting Grandmother and Grandfather. Carson understands that completely. He's being very patient with me, letting me call the shots. He wants me to feel comfortable with my new role. Most of all, he just wants me to be happy."
"That's not a surprise." Gloria's eyes glittered with emotion. "Carson Brooks just found out what it means to be a father. A real father—not just in fact, but in essence."
11:30 P.M.
Greenwich Village
Jeannie had just fallen asleep when her phone rang. She fumbled for the lamp on her night table, then gave up and just groped around until her hand knocked over the telephone receiver.
She grabbed it and stuffed it under her ear. "Yeah?"
"Hey," Frank greeted her. "Wake up. We've got to get over to Queens."
"Are you nuts? I just shut my eyes for the first time since five this morning. Besides, that's not our district."
"I know. But there's been a homicide. A twenty-one-year-old kid. Russ Clark. He was stabbed to death in front of his apartment. In case you didn't memorize our list by now, he was an intern at Ruisseau."
By now, Jeannie was wide awake. She threw off her blanket and got out of bed. "What's the address?"
CHAPTER 17
Friday, September 9th, 8:05 A.M.
Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation
The elevator glided its way up to the twelfth floor.
Inside, Sabrina smoothed the blazer of her red silk suit. It was her mother's design—classic lines but with the distinctive Gloria Radcliffe flair, making it sophisticated enough to be corporate and high-styled enough to be contemporary. And the color—Sabrina smiled. She could almost hear her mother saying: Wise choice, Sabrina. Red. The ultimate power color.
She certainly hoped so. That was the look she'd gone for today. Even her hair, which she normally wore down, she'd brushed into a loose chignon, giving her a more vivid, businesslike appearance without being so severe it rendered her unapproachable.
Hey, she might've left the rat race a few years back, but she hadn't forgotten how to run.
A bing and an illuminated number 12 heralded Sabrina's arrival at her destination. She sucked in her breath. Here goes, she thought.
The doors slid open.
She stepped out, making her way through the polished hallway to the sweeping oval reception desk. It was too early for the receptionist to be in, but a security guard, no doubt posted as a result of Carson's assault, stood beside the double doors leading to the interior offices.
"May I help you?" he inquired.
"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe. Mr. Hager is expecting me."
He glanced at his clipboard, and gave a terse nod. "Just a moment." Reaching over, he scooped up the phone, pressed an extension. "Ms. Radcliffe is here." A pause. "Very good." He hung up. "Someone will be right out."
Sabrina nodded. Placing her briefcase on the arm of a chair, she took in her surroundings. The broad expanse of wall space was filled with murals featuring perfume ads, touting all the different Ruisseau brands, together with glowing testimonials to C'est Moi from various television personalities and high-profile sports figures. In the center of the room was a stunning, fully-enclosed glass display case, filled with an array of elegant perfume bottles containing various Ruisseau fragrances. The bottles were positioned just so, artistically arranged at different angles, all on a cashmere tapestry that was draped along the full length of the display.
Very classy.
On top of the glass case sat several perfume samples—including, of course, a bottle of C'est Moi—for visitors to experiment with while they waited.
Shrewd marketing approach.
All in all, this room worked perfectly, setting the stage with the elegance and sensory appeal Ruisseau was known for.
Sabrina picked up the bottle of C'est Moi, studied its sensual lines. A bottle as sexy as its scent. Curious, she
tugged off the cap, and sprayed some perfume on her wrist. She'd seen its components, witnessed the chemical process, even smelled the floral ingredients. But she'd never tested the final product.
She waved her wrist around, then brought it to her nose. Wow. Quite a sensory experience. Musky and mysterious, but ultra-feminine, lightly floral, alluringly spicy. No wonder it was such a turn-on.
The double doors swung open, but rather than Stan or his secretary, it was Dylan who strode out to greet her.
Sabrina set down the bottle and blinked in surprise, not only at Dylan's presence, but at Dylan period.
No casual attire today. Unlike his usual blazer and slacks, today Dylan was wearing an expensive Italian suit and silk tie—and wearing them well. Funny, how she'd first thought of him as strictly a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Dylan Newport was anything and everything he chose to be.
And today what he chose to be—besides more formally dressed—was a stony-faced bulldozer, bearing down on her with ripping intensity.
"Good morning," he said curtly. "I'm glad you're early."
Rather than being offended, Sabrina felt a pang of uneasiness. The combination of Dylan's tone and the tight control he was obviously exerting over himself—he wasn't being rude; he was unnerved. Something was wrong.
"Good morning," she replied, searching his face for answers. "I thought Stan was going to..."
"Let's go to my office." He was already on his way, urging her through the double doors, then leading her down a quiet corridor. He reached a large corner office— his obviously, given that it boasted the brass plate engraved, "Dylan Newport, Corporate Counsel" that he'd described to her—and he paused in the open doorway, gesturing for her to precede him.
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.
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