"That's an ugly term. Especially in this case, where it's not even accurate. You've never used any of the information I shared with you against Etienne."
"Big deal. That's not because I'm a great guy; it's because it never suited my purposes. You know why I needed those briefings, and what I used them for. I had to stay on top. I had to be the best COO in the business." A bitter pause. "I had to live up to Carson's expectations." Stan paused, rubbed the back of his neck. "I feel lousy that Russ is dead. But if he really did have something on me, it's a damned good thing he didn't get to Carson with it. Because if Carson had the slightest idea what I've been doing, he'd kick my ass out of Ruisseau so fast I'd have whiplash."
"He's never going to find out."
"I'm glad you're so sure of that. Because I'm not. The detectives are sniffing around me like bloodhounds, Ferguson's seen us together and is about to crack like an egg—bonus payoff or not—Russ Clark's murder smacks of a company tie-in, and now Sabrina Radcliffe is starting to get suspicious."
Karen went still. "Sabrina Radcliffe? You're saying she knows about us?"
"No, but she knows something. I'm just not sure what. And she's sleeping with Dylan Newport, so God knows what she's shared with him, and vice versa. This whole thing is spinning out of control. I've got to nip it in the bud."
"How are you going to do that?"
"By handling the situation myself. I've already set things in motion. If everything goes according to plan, we might luck out. You just deal with those detectives tomorrow. Stick to the same story I gave them, about how we barely know each other."
"What about my alibi for the night Carson was shot?"
"Say you were at the movies—alone. Find out what was playing that night, in case they ask. Just stay cool. They have no reason to suspect you. Not unless you give them one."
"Don't worry," Karen assured him. "I won't."
"Good." Stan walked over to the window, stared out into the night sky. "If we can get past this one, maybe we can still save our asses."
CHAPTER 26
11:55 P.M.
341 West 76thStreet
The flames in the fireplace burned steadily, casting a warm, orange glow through the downstairs sitting room. The intimate light and occasional crackle set a romantic atmosphere for the room's two occupants, who were draped across the shag rug, enjoying their dinner as they stretched out, naked, beneath two oversize blankets.
"M-m-m." With an appreciative sigh, Sabrina swallowed another bite of linguini in white clam sauce. "Carson was wrong. This is definitely Zagat's material."
Dylan chuckled, lifting the glass of sauvignon blanc to Sabrina's lips and holding it while she took a sip. "It's the wine. It heightens the taste buds."
"Uh-uh." She gave an emphatic shake of her head. "If anything heightened my senses tonight, it was you. An amazing lawyer, lover, and cook. I'm beyond impressed." Her eyes twinkled. "Do you plan to cook all our meals naked?"
"That depends. Do you plan to eat them all naked? If so, count me in."
Sabrina's lips curved. "And here Carson said you could do better than having me camp out on the rug. I'll have to tell him he was wrong."
"We used the sofa, too," Dylan reminded her. "And later, I have plans for the bed, and the Jacuzzi, and that great recliner I was telling you about. What can I say? I'm a creative guy."
"You're an energetic guy," Sabrina said, with a half-groan. "I'm not sure I have your strength."
"I'll renew you." His fingers traced her spine, caressing lightly.
Sabrina's eyes slid shut. "Dylan, we have to get some sleep. Tomorrow's a workday—my first as president of Ruisseau. How do you think the troops will react to my napping at my desk? I doubt it'll win them over."
"They're already won over." His lips brushed her shoulder. "You knocked their socks off today."
That reminded Sabrina of something she'd better share with Dylan, although she wasn't sure how he was going to take it. "Speaking of the troops, I think you ought to know that, super-discreet or not, you and I are a known item. Apparently, everyone in the office knows we're involved. Stan as much as told me so."
"Of course they do." Dylan gave an offhanded shrug. "I'm sure they figured it out the first time they noticed me undressing you with my eyes. They're a shrewd bunch. They're also a caring bunch. My guess is, they're cheering us on." He tipped up her chin, rubbed his lips lightly against hers. "So am I."
"Me, too." Sabrina gave another contented sigh. "I must say, this was a wonderful end to a turbulent day."
"The day's not over," Dylan corrected.
"U-m-m, I forgot. The Jacuzzi, the recliner, the bed.. ,"
"Well, yeah, there's that." Dylan gave her that bone-melting grin of his. "But we also have plans to make. Like, when am I meeting your mother? When are we breaking our news to Carson? And, most important of all, when am I slipping a wedding band on that beautiful ring finger?"
"Wedding band?" Sabrina arched a brow. "Now wait just a minute, buster. You're not getting out of an engagement ring. Now that I've shocked myself by falling in love and wanting to get married, I'm not skipping any of the steps along the way."
"There's not a chance I'd let that happen. I've been a renegade all my life. Not this time. This time I want to enjoy every traditional, sentimental ritual there is" Dylan's fingers threaded through her hair. "Need I remind you that Ruisseau is practically across the street from Tiffany's? I planned—with your permission, of course— to take you there tomorrow at lunchtime. We'll pick out an engagement ring and a set of matching wedding bands together. Then, I'll get down on one knee right in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and ask for your hand. How's that?"
Sabrina's lips twitched. "The part about the rings is perfect. As for the proposal, I suggest we move it to Central Park, or at least to the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue. New York motorists aren't the romantic types. They'll mow you down like a blade of grass."
"Good point. Okay then, either the sidewalk or the park, depending on how patient I'm feeling."
"You're never patient."
"Untrue. It's been—" He glanced at the wall clock. "—fifty-two minutes since I made love to you. I think that shows commendable restraint on my part."
"I stand corrected." Smiling, Sabrina nuzzled closer to Dylan, as eager as he to resume where they'd left off before their growling stomachs had compelled them to eat. "I tell you what. We'll just finish making plans. The dishes can wait."
"Good. Because I can't. So talk fast." He was already exploring the contours of her body, his palm cupping her breast, his thumb teasing the hardening nipple.
"You're the one who insisted we make plans," Sabrina reminded him breathlessly, wriggling closer and reveling in his touch.
"That was when I could still think. Now I can't. My libido eclipsed my brain. So, like I said, talk fast." He was already tearing open a foil packet, dealing effectively with the condom.
A soft laugh. "Yes, sir. You asked about meeting my mother. She's dying to meet you. I can hear it in her voice every time she doesn't mention your name but wants to. So we can arrange that ASAP. Carson we can tell tomorrow. He'll probably host an engagement party on Eleven West the minute they move him there. Did I talk fast enough for you?"
"Sounds good. And no. Now, come here." Dylan gripped her waist and pulled her over him. Nudging her thighs apart, he set her astride him, lowering her slowly onto his erection.
"Dylan?" Sabrina splayed her hands across his chest, needing one more serious, sane moment before she lost herself in their lovemaking.
He heard the solemn note in her voice and paused, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
"You asked about the timing of the wedding. I wish it could be right away. But it can't. We have to be realistic. If Carson needs a transplant, it'll be a while before he's himself again. A few months at least. And until he is, I want to wait. I know you do, too."
"Absolutely." Dylan's response was emphatic, his gaze intense as it held hers. "You're also
forgetting something else. Carson's not the only one who'd be involved in this transplant. You'd be the donor. Both of you would need recuperation time."
"I guess you're right. I didn't think of that."
"Well, I did. I want you to be a hundred percent when we walk down that aisle." Dylan's hands slid to her hips, his thumbs making lazy circles on her skin. "So you see? I'm way ahead of you in the planning department. We're getting married. Soon. We'll know in a month if the transplant's happening. If it is, we'll wait—for however long it's necessary. And after that, we'll have the rest of our lives together. That's enough planning for tonight. Okay?"
Sabrina nodded. "Very okay."
"You're sure now?" he teased. "There's nothing else you want to discuss?" He eased her down a fraction, gliding the tiniest bit farther inside her. "The flowers?" Another fraction downward, teasing her body and his own. "The food?" A little more. "The invitations?" He arched upward, stopping when he was halfway there, making Sabrina twist and cry out in frustration. "The guest list?" he rasped, driving himself as crazy as he was driving her. "The—"
"No," Sabrina gasped. She grabbed his hands, yanking them away so he could no longer hold her immobile. Then, she sank down on him—hard—forcing him all the way inside her. "I don't want to discuss anything." She raised herself upward, then sank down on him again. "I just want this."
A harsh groan escaped Dylan and he dragged her mouth down to his, his hips lifting to keep him as deep inside her as possible. "God, so do I."
"Good," Sabrina managed, as their bodies took over. "Because if I don't get it, you're fired."
Tuesday, September 20th, 3:05 A.M.
It was in the deepest part of night that he made his way to Dylan's apartment building. He stood outside, scouted the area.
He was alone.
They were in there. He knew that much.
He assessed the vertical bars that protected the ground floor windows. Protected. That was a joke. There was more than enough space between bars for what he had in mind. He selected the window closest to the door. That way, their means of escape would be blocked off.
By now they were probably upstairs, fast asleep in the bedroom. Well, guess what, guys, he thought. It's wake-up time. Wake up and die.
He was just about to reach into his knapsack, when he heard the crunch of tires on the street. He whipped around. Shit. Some cops patrolling the area.
He sauntered off, keeping his steps slow and even, just a kid with a knapsack trotting along West 76th. Then, he ducked down an alley and held his breath.
The patrol car passed by, neither cop even glancing in his direction.
Gotcha suckers, he thought smugly.
Then, he turned back to go do his job.
3:08 A.M.
Dylan jerked awake.
He wasn't sure exactly what had roused him, but his street instincts were kicking in, warning him that something wasn't right.
He peered around the darkened sitting room where he and Sabrina had fallen asleep. She was curled on her side on the rug, her breathing deep and even. The apartment was silent. Everything seemed fine.
So why did it feel like it wasn't?
He got up, moved restlessly around the apartment, checking doors and windows, then verified that the burglar alarm was on.
It was. Everything was in order.
He went back to the sitting room, lay down beside Sabrina and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close. She murmured something unintelligible and snuggled against him, obviously not sharing his sense of unease.
Fine, so it was his imagination working overtime.
He shut his eyes, finally drifting into a light doze.
3:50 A.M.
This time no one was around.
No cops cruising the area, no late-night pedestrians. Nothing. He stood there for ten fucking minutes to make sure. But the street was deserted. And with the cops having just driven by, it'd be a while before they did a repeat performance.
He had enough time to do his thing'.
But he sure as hell wasn't wasting any of it.
He pulled the two whiskey bottles out of his knapsack, unscrewed the caps, and retrieved the two rags he'd brought. He doused the rags in the gasoline he'd filled the bottles with, then stuffed them into the mouth of the bottles.
Okay, he thought. Here goes.
One more quick scrutiny of the area. All cool. Action time.
Reaching into his knapsack, he groped around, pulling out a lighter and a piece of steel pipe. He had only one chance to get this right. And he wasn't going to blow it. The stakes were too high.
In one unbroken motion, he lit the rags, then smashed the pipe against the window pane, shattering the glass. He flung the bottles into the apartment, one after the other, aiming for the short wall by the door to get the greatest possible impact.
He heard the glass splinter, saw the fire engulf the wall.
By the time the blaze spread, flames licking at the carpet and climbing up the drapes, he was gone.
Dylan jolted upright the instant the window shattered and the burglar alarm screamed to life. He vaulted to his feet in time to hear the crashes—one, two—and the boom of an explosion.
He grabbed his pants as the smoke detector began a shrill screech.
He smelled the gasoline, saw the eerie glow flickering from the hallway. And he knew damned well what it was.
"Sabrina!" He shouted her name, even though she was already struggling to a sitting position, looking tousled and disoriented.
"Dylan?" She blinked, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "What's going on?"
"The apartment's on fire." He grabbed his shirt and tossed it at her, as he zipped up his pants. "Put that on. Hurry. We're getting out of here."
"Oh my God." She was instantly wide awake. Even without looking, she knew Dylan was right. She could smell the flames. Flames and gasoline. And the heat was getting stronger, closer.
She yanked on the shirt.
"Wrap this blanket around you," Dylan instructed, already helping her do that, then flinging the second blanket around himself. "The backyard's fenced in and the key to the back door's hidden in a drawer. We've got to get out of here—now. Our chances are better heading straight for the front door. I'll go first. Follow right behind me. And stay low to the ground. If the smoke gets bad, we'll crawl."
Sabrina's eyes were already stinging, and her nose was burning terribly. But she nodded, doing as Dylan said, staying low and following him into the hallway.
The full length of the hall was in flames, and the front door frame was a rectangular inferno.
Dylan knew they were in trouble.
He also knew it would only get worse. They had to get out of here—now.
He turned to Sabrina, beckoned her forward. "Come here." He unwrapped the blanket from around him and pulled her inside, blanket and all, anchoring her against him. Then, he wrapped his blanket around them both, enveloping her in as tight a cocoon as he could, and muttered, "Hang on. We're making a break for the door."
Gritting his teeth, Dylan urged them forward, and they bolted through the hallway like a pair of sprinters. He could feel the heat of the flames, and the smoke that was choking him, making his eyes water, but he refused to give in. Next to him, Sabrina was seized by a horrible coughing fit, but he ignored that, too. Gripping the blanket so it enveloped his arm and hand, he reached through the flames, and flipped open the front door lock. Even through the protective layer of acrylic, the metal was unbearably hot, but he didn't give a damn. He braced himself, then grabbed hold of the doorknob, twisted, and pulled.
The cool night air slapped at his face, but it didn't compare to the burning heat all around him. He heard Sabrina's whimper, knew the blanket was in flames, but he also knew it was the only protection they had for what needed to be done. He anchored Sabrina against him and made a dive for the pavement, cushioning Sabrina's fall with his body. He landed hard, a sharp pain shooting through his skull as it struck the conc
rete. He fought the pain, holding Sabrina tightly, and rolled the two of them back and forth across the pavement until the flames subsided and his strength ran out.
He collapsed, waves of dizziness blending with throbbing pain.
From far away, a fire truck siren blared.
The last thing Dylan remembered before blacking out was hearing Sabrina dissolve into a violent spasm of coughing.
It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.
CHAPTER 27
5:45A.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
"I'm fine," Dylan insisted hoarsely as he followed the pinpoint of light the emergency room doctor was moving back and forth in a horizontal line in front of his eyes. "I just have a lousy headache."
"That lousy headache is a mild concussion," the doctor corrected. "You hit your head pretty hard."
Dylan forced a smile. "Yeah, but I stopped the blanket from burning, didn't I?"
"That you did." The doctor put away his medical instruments and checked the bandage that covered an ample section of Dylan's chest. "Good. The bleeding's stopped." He stepped away, planting his feet in that doctor-about-to-issue-a-lecture stance. "Look. You're a lucky guy. Besides the concussion, you've got that whopping gash on your chest, cuts and scrapes on your arms, a few impressive lacerations on your face and neck, and minor burns, plus a scratchy voice from those few minutes of smoke inhalation. Considering what could have happened..."
"Yeah, I know." Dylan moved his head and winced a bit.
"The painkiller should start working soon."
"Good. Fine. Thanks. Can I see Sabrina now?" Dylan demanded. "You said she was all right. So let me go to her."
"She is all right," the doctor returned sternly. "She was treated and released. And you don't need to go to her. Last I saw her, she was pacing outside your door, where I asked her to wait until I finished examining you. She takes orders about as well as you do." Seeing the profound concern on Dylan's face, the doctor's demeanor softened. "She really is fine—thanks to you. You took the brunt of the fall. Her cuts and scrapes are minor, and she's got minimal burns. The toughest part for her was the smoke inhalation. It affected her more than it did you. Not so much her lungs, which are pretty clear, but her nose and throat. They were badly irritated. But she'll be herself in a couple of days."
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