“Sylvie von Mansfeld's your ex-wife, then.”
“Yes.” He knew what they were thinking; he could tell by the smiles forming on their faces. Sylvie's early films had been well publicized, and her nubile young body was as familiar to the world as it had been to him. “We've been divorced for several years,” he politely added.
“Just a prank, hey?” La Dolce Vita after thirty years in the press was an accepted reality. How many thousands of photos and sensational stories had been published throughout the world depicting the amoral and bizarre amusements of the leisured money class? While most people worked their way toward retirement one predictable day at a time, the beautiful people looked for ways to amuse themselves.
“I'm afraid so. Look, if I could make amends for your inconvenience…” He turned on his most charming smile. “Say a contribution to some police fund? It's the least I could do for all your hassle.”
And after a few more moments' discussion they traded business cards, Carey apologized one more time, and said his business manager would send a check. “Thank you very much for responding so promptly to my daughter's call for help.” Carey and the two girls waved good-bye from the building entrance.
Theresa and the office staff were introduced to the two security men who would be, Carey said, “keeping an eye out for photographers.”
Then Carey and the girls returned to the apartment, where he called Allen first, then talked to Molly, apologizing for leaving so abruptly. He explained that he'd recognized someone in the crowd. Yes, everything was fine, and he'd see her in ten minutes when Allen brought her home. The birthday girl, he reminded her, was waiting for the party to begin.
While Allen and Molly were driving over, he helped the girls prepare for Carrie's party, and then went into Molly's drafting room to make some calls. Although Kiray was probably halfway to Rome, Carey couldn't be sure another attempt might be tried. And if it wasn't Carrie's birthday today, he would have immediately removed her from any possible danger. The split second after he knew Pooh was safe, he had decided to take Molly and his daughter away to safety. Although his decision was firm, he realized diplomacy would be required when he told Molly.
Tomorrow morning he intended to bring Molly and Carrie north to his father's estate. Bernadotte had a sophisticated security arrangement to protect his home, thanks to all his old contacts in MI6. An intelligence officer attached to the British army in the last years of WWII, he'd never lost his love of gadgetry.
The most difficult task was going to be convincing Molly to leave her business for a time. Perhaps he could coax her with the idea of a family vacation in which he and Carrie could become better acquainted. He could already hear Allen screaming about overruns. “Fuck it,” he muttered and called his father.
Their conversation was simple, but Bernadotte understood his son's purpose once Egon's name was mentioned. “By all means,” he said, “stop by and see me.”
Carey hadn't mentioned Carrie or Molly in the event the phone was tapped. He respected Rifat's intelligence. But Bernadotte knew from experience that Carey never called ahead to discuss his impending visits. Apparently something was in the air. When he replaced the receiver, he smiled and went to find his housekeeper. They were going to have houseguests. And if he interpreted his son's tone of voice properly, one was going to be a female houseguest. An unprecedented event for Carey.
In the few short moments since the police had departed, the entrance to the Merchandise Mart was awash with reporters who'd trailed Carey from the press conference. His abrupt departure hinted prominently at another story, and a crowd of reporters were milling about on the sidewalk. The two security men were hopelessly outnumbered.
When Allen's car pulled up, reporters surged over to it like a wave of curiosity. Allen and Molly alighted from the sleek black car, and the security men did their best to clear a path through the jostling throng.
“Did ya have a lovers' quarrel?”
“Hey, Allen, are you the lady's new escort?”
“Where's the little girl?”
“Is Carey here?”
“Has Carey skipped town?” He was not known for his faithfulness. The nasty barb was punctuated by the whirring click of camera shutters.
“Leave the lady alone, guys,” Allen said as he shoved his way through, one arm protectively around Molly's shoulder. “You heard all the news at the press conference.”
“You gonna be able to keep him, lady, in your love nest?”
Molly's face flushed pink at the crude question and her temper began a slow simmer. Now instead of some duchess being chased from a hotel or a starlet photographed nude on a secluded Adriatic beach, she was the newest object of their attention. The situation was without precedent in her extremely normal life and it annoyed her. Because of Carey's reputation, she became an occupant of a love nest. Personally, she viewed her old factory turned Merchandise Mart as an energetic business employing forty some people, catering to wholesalers in the approximate neighborhood of a quarter million customers a year. Hardly the accepted connotation of “love nest.”
Once inside the gate, Allen withdrew his arm. “Sorry, Molly. They must have followed Carey here.”
“There're more photographers than ever. Is this normal for him?” She straightened the belt on her dress, which had been grabbed as she pressed through the crowd.
“He's newsworthy, I guess.”
“His love life's newsworthy, you mean.”
Allen wasn't about to touch that with a ten-foot pole. “The entertainment business attracts attention-unfortunately.” He fell back on the platitudes.
“Carey Fersten's tastes attract attention even more.” There was a distinct snappishness in the softly spoken words.
Allen gauged the distance to the door and straightened his baseball cap in a nervous gesture. Normally he ran interference with Carey's irate females, but Molly Darian didn't fall into the usual category of transient playmate. He was treading on very delicate ground. “Try and ignore the reporters, Molly. They just like to sensationalize everything.”
“And with six nude starlets and Carey on a secluded Greek isle a year ago, sensationalizing is hardly required.” He'd been smiling, damn him, his hair still wet from the sea, she remembered, looking athletic and capable, as if one girl or several were no trouble at all.
Allen opened the door to Molly's stairway entrance with relief. Clearly, she wasn't in the mood to be pacified, and in any event, that week in April would be impossible to unsensationalize, anyway. No one had slept for more than a few hours the entire week. Although, come to think of it, Carey had spent time occasionally brooding alone on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea. But then he'd never been one to appreciate female company for an extended period of time. Including his wife's. In fact, Sylvie's major complaint had been Carey's long, incommunicative periods when he'd refused to come out of his study. Who the hell would have, though, when Sylvie was in one of her moods? With her acid tongue, she could incite a saint to murder.
Enlisting in the marines and marrying Sylvie-Carey had always said they were the two major blunders in his life. “Which I survived,” he'd say, “thanks to the grace of God and chemicals.”
“Carey asked me to bring the birthday presents in,” Allen said, opting for the coward's way out. The numerous presents could have been carried in by the driver, but leaving Molly now avoided discussion of Carey's lovelife. Christ, what was he supposed to say? “Tell Carey I'll be right up,” Allen hastily said and escaped.
Carey was pacing before the windows facing the downtown skyline, his jacket and tie discarded, his shirt open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. His energy always startled her; there was raw vitality in every fluid movement of his muscular body, as though leashed lightning lay just beneath the surface. When he saw her enter the room, his smile flashed in welcome.
“Darling, forgive me for rushing off. Everything's fine. Carrie's fine. Sorry about the press. How are you feeling?” He crossed the width of the r
oom. Reaching out, he took her hands in his and looked at her with a quiet scrutiny, as though he hadn't seen her for years instead of merely minutes. Carrie's safe, you're safe, he thought, comforted by the warmth of her touch-and her presence. He relaxed completely for the first time since spotting Kiray at the back of the conference room.
“I'm feeling tense-and why shouldn't Carrie be fine? The press is obnoxious as usual, and I'm in a frame of mind that would prefer a soothing answer rather than the literal truth.”
He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I'll have the press cleared away soon, I'm sorry you're tense, and Carrie and Lucy are primping in their best eight-year-old fashion for the birthday party. I hope you don't mind-I invited Lucy to stay the night. She's Pooh's ‘most absolute favorite best friend,' to quote a phrase.” And he grinned with fatherly amusement when he recalled Carrie's excitement in adding Lucy to her family party. “Come, sit, relax, if that's possible after that press melee, and I'll soothe your temples or massage your toes or pour you a wicked belt of bourbon-whatever would do the most good for your strung-out nerves.”
“A mild explanation of your abrupt departure would do, for starters,” Molly quietly said, “and then if possible,” she added with a smile, “a denial of all the past women in your life would go a long way toward invalidating the last question I was asked before the garden gate closed downstairs. ‘You gonna be able to keep him, lady, in your love nest?' Feel free to lie.” Pulling her hands away, she walked the few feet to her favorite overstuffed chair and collapsed into it, feeling as though she'd plowed the back forty in ninety degree heat with a single mule and a dull plowblade.
Oh shit, Carey thought. The reporters were just as diplomatic as usual. “You're the only woman in my life,” he said, standing tanned and blond and handsome in the middle of her living room. “You've always been the only woman in my life. And, with the exception of a temporary case of insanity overcoming me during my brief marriage to Sylvie, I swear, I've never looked at another woman.”
“Thank you,” Molly said, her blue-eyed gaze veiled through half-lowered lashes. His powerful body was enhanced somehow by the stark simplicity of his white shirt and navy slacks. Larger than life, striking, he resembled some modern-day pagan god.
“Your servant, ma'am,” Carey replied, the gentleness of his tone a contrast to the breadth of his shoulders, the primitive strength of his body. “I left the conference room,” he went on, his dark eyes trained on Molly, “because I caught sight of a man I'd met once at Cannes. He shouldn't have been in Minneapolis.” He hadn't moved, his stance as controlled as his quiet voice. “It's beyond his normal venue, so I panicked and came to check on Carrie.”
Molly sighed. “I don't want to know this, do I?” Too much had happened in the last few days, too much public attention and rude questioning, too much upheaval in her life. Carey had brought his world with him when he'd reentered her life, and the turmoil and adjustments were peaking today.
“Nothing happened.” His voice was reassuring, but he still hadn't moved and his posture betrayed his uneasiness.
“Was the man French? From Cannes?” A morbid curiosity overcame her fatigue and weariness. “Was he a reporter?”
“No.”
“No? That's it?”
“Allen's going to be here any minute, along with Carrie and Lucy. Could we discuss this-” he paused and half smiled “tonight?” He'd need time to explain all the intricacies of his relationship to Egon. Time to decide what to reveal and what to omit. And most of all, time to determine whether he should explain the threat to Carrie. When she didn't protest, he walked over and touched her hand where it rested, small and pale, on the chair arm. “I love you, Honeybear,” he murmured, squatting beside her chair so he could look into her eyes. “More than anything… and today's our baby's birthday. Give me a smile now, and I promise to zap all those reporters before evening for my Honeybear.”
She smiled then, despite herself. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” And he meant it. He'd given orders to his security chief: No matter how many men it took, he wanted the entire block cleared by evening. When Molly looked out the window, any window, she was not to see a single reporter.
His security chief Matt Black had said, “You know they can file assault charges if we come on too strong.”
“Let them,” Carey replied, “we'll be gone early in the morning. All I need from you is one quiet night. Do what you have to do.”
But before Molly could inquire further, Carrie and Lucy came running into the room, both dressed in party dresses.
“Mom, Mom,” Carrie excitedly exclaimed, the jonquil ribbon in her hair bobbing as she bounced from one foot to the other, “you'll never guess what happened. Some men tried to get into the apartment, but we wouldn't let them in because you've always said, ‘Never let strangers in.' And Mom, when we saw them through the peephole they were gruesome, I mean, all funny-looking like this.” She pressed her cheeks back and stretched her mouth into a grimace. “So we ran away down the backstairs and rang the burglar alarms and fire alarms. And then the police came, and then Carey came. And we never saw the bad men again, even though they came down the basement looking for us.”
Molly's fingers had tightened perceptibly over the chair arms as her daughter's recital unfolded.
“Carey told the police,” Carrie went on, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “he's got a brother-in-law-”
“Ex-brother-in-law,” Carey swiftly interjected.
Carrie took a much needed breath. “Ex-brother-in-law who likes to play jokes.”
Molly's gaze quickly swung to Carey. “Jokes?” she murmured with a cool skepticism.
“It's Egon,” Carey offered, as if the name alone was explanation.
“Connected with the man from Cannes?” Molly inquired in a tone that was a trifle too soft.
“Sort of.”
“Carey Fersten, is this dangerous?” she asked.
“No,” he quickly replied, his glance sliding sideways toward the girls.
“The policemen shook hands with Carey-er-Daddy,” his daughter amended with a smile, “afterward. They know his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he carefully amended.
“And everyone was friends,” Lucy added.
Molly's eyebrows rose. “How nice.”
“Look-” Carey began to say, only to be interrupted by a crashing sound from the vicinity of the hallway.
Allen stood holding two packages while the remainder of those he'd been carrying were scattered in colorful disarray at his feet.
“For me!” Carrie squealed.
At which point Jess came puffing up the stairs from the garden entrance ladened with more presents.
“Mom, Mom! Look at all my presents!” Carrie danced and hopped in delight, her eyes filled with joy. “Wow, wow, wow, wow!”
It was impossible not to share in her daughter's elation, impossible not to marvel at the pride and doting affection in Carey's expression. After all the years of Bart's blatant indifference as a father, a warm pleasure filled her heart. Maybe the reporters weren't so far wrong when they chose bizarre terms like love nest and love child. Carrie was their love child, conceived in love and adored. And with Carey in her home, busy with the girls and Allen and Jess in picking up the packages, his teasing making the girls giggle and laugh, maybe it was a love nest, indeed.
And a second later he was beside her, reaching for her hands and pulling her up from her chair into the curve of his arm. “I'll never be able to thank you enough for giving me Carrie,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her cheek, “if I live into the fifth millennium.”
“I'm happy you're her father,” Molly said, lacing her arm around his waist.
“Not as much as I,” Carey murmured, feeling complete and whole for the first time in his life.
“Can I open them now?” Carrie screamed, disturbing her parents' idyllic moment. Carey turned with an immediate, “Yes,” while Molly simultaneously answered, “Af
ter you blow out your candles.”
“Yes, after you blow out your candles,” Carey amended with a wide smile. “Now let's get this special nine-year-old's birthday show on the road.” With a quick squeeze he released Molly. “Come on, Mom, our birthday girl's impatient.”
Allen and Jess politely attempted to excuse themselves in the event they were intruding, but were coaxed to stay. The candles were lit on the cake, Happy Birthday was sung with boisterous cheer, and nine candles were blown out with a pinch to grow an inch.
After a consenting nod from her mother, wrappings were feverishly torn off and Carrie squealed, oohed, and aahed as she opened her presents. Carey had been calling orders into New York for days, not to mention the shopping he'd had Allen handle for him here in town. She received enough frilly dresses and play clothes to open a store, red cowboy boots with her initials embossed on the sides, a string of miniature pearls and tiny pearl earrings in an unusual golden shade (to match her hair, her dad smilingly remarked). There was also a baby doll from France with real hair, complete with doll wardrobe in its own matched set of Hermиs luggage.
“Are you too grown up for baby dolls?” Carey inquired with an indulgent smile.
“Nope,” Carrie replied, cradling the lifelike doll against her flushed cheek. “I've always wanted a brother or sister.”
The portable compact disc machine with earphones was greeted with an ecstatic cry of delight, and the carrying case with a dozen discs was quickly perused. “How did you know all the cool bands, Dad?” Carrie asked.
“Even us old folks know one or two hot tunes, sweetheart,” Carey replied, his hand covering Molly's on the lace-covered table, his dark eyes filled with delight. Last week he'd controlled his impulse to bring in a band from L.A. for her birthday, knowing Molly preferred a smaller celebration.
Molly had bought Carrie the canopy bed she'd always wanted, complete with ruffled buttercup-yellow bedcover. She'd slipped a picture of it into a card saying: Delivery tomorrow, Happy Birthday from Mom.
Hot Streak Page 21
