Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  “Oh, Mom!” The swoon in her voice was reflected in her expression. “Thanks, thanks, thanks. It's exactly the exact one I've always wanted. Exactly!” And Molly realized how little control “parenting” had on the power of the gene pool. Her daughter viewed the world with unrepressed enthusiasm, which she as a mother had neither bequeathed nor imbued in her. Turning to Carey with a smile, she said, “She's like you.”

  Smiling back, he seemed to understand. “I know,” he said.

  And when their daughter saw the documents tied with pink ribbons making her the owner of her own two-year-old Arabian horse, the birthday proceedings came to an instant standstill, only to explode a moment later.

  “My own horse, my absolute own horse! Where is she? When can I see her? Who's going to teach me to ride? Mom! Look! Look!”

  “A horse. How wonderful,” Molly said to her daughter, who was waving the papers in front of her face. When Carrie raced away to show them to Allen and Jess, Molly turned to Carey and said, “A horse?” in an altogether different tone of voice. “Here, in the city?”

  “No, darling, it's up at my father's farm.”

  “Do you still race?” She had forgotten about his love of horses.

  “Occasionally,” said the only man in twenty-seven years to win the triple crown in steeplechase.

  “Your dad can teach you to ride,” Jess said, “and Leon can help out.”

  “Leon's my dad's trainer, Pooh,” Carey explained. “He's the best teacher in the world. And as soon as you can, we'll go up north and see your horse.”

  “Mom… did you hear? When can we go?”

  Allen and Carey exchanged glances.

  “Whenever your Mom says the word,” Carey replied, “we'll head north.”

  “Can Lucy come? It's summer vacation. Lucy, your mom will let you, won't she?” and in a quick succession of rapid fire dialogue between the young girls, it was agreed Lucy's mother might be amenable.

  Molly merely smiled and said, “We'll see about going, darling.”

  The rest of Carrie's presents turned out to be riding gear: boots, a jacket, jodhpurs, a silk shirt, and a small velvet hat.

  Carey thanked his lucky stars he'd selected a horse for one of Carrie's gifts; it gave him an excuse for suggesting a trip north and means for taking them to safety without alarming Molly. And his daughter was proving to be a great help in his plan.

  She gathered up all her riding equipment and announced, “Lucy and I are going to try all this on now, and then we're going to learn how to ride. Right, Dad?” And in her inimitable fashion, assuming the world would recognize her onward motion as its own, she added before she and Lucy ran from the room, “I can hardly wait!”

  Allen looked at Carey.

  Jess looked at Carey.

  Molly looked at Carey.

  “It was a real nice party, wasn't it?” he said with a smile.

  CHAPTER 29

  W hile Ceci and his team were inside their plane, reassessing their options in a mission gone bad, Sylvie von Mansfeld's private jet touched down on a nearby runway at Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. The man she'd sent ahead to locate Carey met her as she descended from the plane.

  “Come along,” she said, and walked briskly toward the Mercedes limousine parked conveniently near. “You can give the address to the driver,” she added, stepping through the chauffeur-opened doorway into the car. After listening to Egon's recital of Rifat's handiwork, she had ordered a bullet-proof car, though she had little faith in such precautions. Sylvie was not only a bold woman, but a fatalist, as well. Men like Rifat didn't strike terror in her soul as they did in Egon's. She'd always been able to manipulate men, and even Shakin Rifat was a man under his formidable reputation.

  When the investigator she'd hired attempted to join her in the backseat, she indicated with the merest nod that he should sit up front with the driver. When one's family owned the second-largest munitions works in the world, one learned the rudiments of authority in the nursery. And Sylvie had been born to command. “I'm in a hurry,” she said to her driver. “This man will tell you where to go.” And, leaning back into the plush seat, she crossed one leather-clad leg over the other, closed her eyes, and mentally rehearsed her dialogue with Carey.

  Egon had received a phone call two days ago-a call from one of Rifat's minions, warning Egon not to leave the villa. Since then Egon had fallen off the wagon and started taking heroin again. Devious by necessity, he'd obtained the drugs without leaving the premises. Now Sylvie was here to try to talk Carey into coming back to help him. No one else could reach Egon when he was on drugs, and she knew a phone call to Carey would have been unsuccessful. He'd been adamant last time that it was his last time.

  Should she plead, demand, reason? How best to approach Carey? she mused. A few years ago she would have been more certain, but he wasn't the same Carey Fersten any longer. He was serious, noticeably serious, a quality that hampered her familiar overtures. Thank God he cared for Egon. If all else failed, she'd resort to tears. Rasinsky had praised her dramatic weeping scene in the small Balzac film they'd done years ago. Now what were those lines… As she recalled first one phrase, and then another, the sentences began falling into place.

  “He needs you, Carey, now more than ever. He's alone, desperately alone and in despair. If you don't care, I'm afraid this time he's going to slip away.” The words began tumbling through her mind, with the pauses for effect, the exact moment the first tears welled up into her eyes, the gulping swallow to stanch the flood of weeping.

  Her eyes opened, and she smiled.

  Why hadn't she remembered the Balzac play sooner?

  CHAPTER 30

  A llen and Jess had excused themselves and left, promising to send a car sent round at six the next morning. Although Molly hadn't been persuaded yet, Carey was hoping she'd understand the need for precautions. The girls were in Carrie's room, listening to the new disc player, while Carey and Molly sat at the dining room table, smiling at each other over the shambles of the birthday cake and discarded wrapping, feeling like serenely contented parents.

  “I always knew,” Molly whispered.

  “No you didn't.” A lush smile accompanied the disclaimer.

  “Well, I wished for it.”

  “Not as much as I.”

  “She even smiles like you.”

  “Like us.”

  “It's us, isn't it?” Molly wiggled her hand under his to feel the warm connection.

  “Till the rocks melt with the sun.” His large hand engulfed hers.

  “You always liked Burns.”

  “I liked you a million times more.”

  “Only a million?”

  He grinned. “Greedybear.”

  “For you.”

  “Good.”

  “Good, kiss me.” And as their lips touched in a lingering silkiness, the pealing of the doorbell broke into the confines of the dining room.

  “Don't answer,” Carey whispered, his breath warm on her mouth.

  “I always answer.” And she tipped her head away.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Politeness, I guess.”

  “Not a good reason.”

  “This is Minnesota.”

  “An explanation, but not a reason.”

  “You're too blasй for me, darling.” But after Molly went downstairs to answer the insistent ringing, she wished she hadn't.

  A dazzling woman stood in her doorway. From the shouts of the paparazzi, there was no question that this was Sylvie von Mansfeld, Carey's ex-wife. And when Molly's eyes swept back from the jostling photographers to the luscious young woman, she was appalled and amazed. The young woman, was, if possible, more opulent in person than in any of the provocatively posed ads for her movies. Above medium height, very slender, wearing tight leather pants with a matching electric-blue silk shirt, she displayed a resplendent voluptuousness that would stop men in their tracks. Gazing at her, Molly was filled with horrified admiration.

 
; “Carey,” Sylvie demanded in only slightly accented English, abruptly curtailing Molly's astonishment, “I wish to see him.” And before Molly could reply, Sylvie had swept past her and was running lightly up the stairs.

  Molly lagged behind, since she had to shut the door against the flashing cameras. She was in time, however, to see Sylvie run to Carey, throw her arms around him, and burst into tears.

  Standing awkwardly stiff, Carey's eyes met Molly's over the gamin curls of his ex-wife. “Excuse us for a minute,” he said, and walked her out on the terrace.

  Molly heard his low, murmuring voice. Almost immediately Sylvie's strident, rapid tone broke in, this time in German. After that, Molly lost track of even the bits of audible conversation because Carey also shifted into German. Seconds later, a harsh “No!” from Carey was decipherable. Undeterred by the powerful refusal, Sylvie forged on in a curt rush of words. And then there was more weeping.

  Feeling as if she were intruding, Molly walked into the living room. But even a room away, the sound of their voices drifted in, lowering occasionally so she only heard the murmuring inflection, rising as suddenly so each word was audible although the meaning was lost to her in German.

  Carey was refusing.

  Sylvie was insisting, demanding, and then abruptly pleading and crying at the same time. Her great, gulping sobs carried into the living room. Steeling herself to remain seated, Molly imagined Carey's ex-wife crying in his arms. He'd lived with her for three years, had wakened in the morning with her, had smiled at her over breakfast, had spent three years being a husband to her.

  Did he still have feelings for Sylvie? she wondered. Good God, she was sex goddess to half the men in the world. He had to feel the normal male attraction to her. Suddenly Molly felt like a small, nondescript sparrow next to a bird of paradise. Regardless of what Carey said about their relationship, how could she compete with memories of a glittering woman like Sylvie? And right now, she was competing with more than memories. The little sex kitten of the eighties was wetting his chest with tears, and it would take a solid block of granite to resist those hiccupy whimpers. Molly was even beginning to feel the glimmerings of pity for her. The poor woman was definitely in distress.

  A few moments later, Carey and Sylvie entered the room and brief introductions were made. Molly sympathetically remarked, “I'm so sorry… can I be of any help?”

  “Carey's help will be sufficient. I'm sure we don't need you intruding.”

  “Watch it, Sylvie,” Carey warned, exasperated at both her rudeness and implication. “I only said I'd call him.”

  “But, darling, I know you won't be able to resist the poor boy when you speak with him.” Sylvie slid her arm through Carey's and tenderly explained to Molly, “Carey's always such a dear with our family; I just knew he couldn't refuse.”

  Carefully setting Sylvie a good two feet away, Carey replied, “A phone call doesn't require all this damn melodrama, Sylvie. Play your Balzac role for another audience.”

  “You remembered.” She brightened with a tinsel glitter of feigned sincerity. “But of course, you always prompted me for all my roles.”

  “Jesus, cut the bull, Sylvie, or I'll have to put on my boots… You know damn well your drama coach did all the prompting.”

  But Molly interpreted Carey's responses as a touch too protesting.

  “You always said you adored me in the Balzac play.”

  “What I said, Sylvie,” and he was pronouncing the words with fastidious emphasis, his nostrils flaring slightly with his efforts to control his temper, “was I adored the Balzac play, and I liked your costumes.”

  “Such a sense of humor, darling.” She swung around to Molly in a flash of electric blue silk, gleaming leather, and platinum hair. “He always loved to tease.” Her voice was a catty purr. “Have you known him long enough to notice?” she inquired with malice.

  “Actually,” Molly said, “we spend so much time laughing, I've missed two payrolls and Carey's cut three scenes from his movie.”

  “Ah, American humor,” Sylvie retorted without a smile. “How droll. If nothing else,” she said, insult obvious in her eyes as she surveyed Molly from head to toe, “she can amuse you, I suppose.”

  “That is enough, Sylvie.”

  “Darling, I meant it as a compliment. Dolly seems very pleasant. And so clever to own an entire building this large,” she added, sarcasm dripping from every word. Her own inherited empire was valued at several billion.

  “She at least bought it with money she earned herself.”

  “How industrious. Does she sew, as well?”

  “One more word, Sylvie, and you can handle your brother's problems yourself.”

  “My lips are instantly sealed, darling. Egon needs you so.”

  “I'm sorry,” Carey apologized as though Sylvie didn't exist. “She's a bitch.”

  “No need for an apology,” Molly replied, tense and agitated. This glamorous striking woman, glossy with sheer physical perfection, probably owned more property around the world than the acreage of Texas. She didn't seem one bit insulted at being called a bitch. Wealth must insulate one from insult. And for the very first time in her life, Molly felt intimidated. How ludicrous her scramble for the down payment money seemed in contrast to Sylvie's fortune. She found herself gazing at Sylvie's earrings, the diamonds and sapphires large enough to choke on. Without a doubt, she forlornly decided, they were worth a dozen of her factory buildings. How does one compete against that kind of wealth and glamour? Put another tuna casserole in the oven? Damn, damn, damn, she was out of her league.

  But just then Carey slid his arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “I'll have her out the door in five minutes.” And when she looked up, his smile was that special one she remembered from the summer dock on Fourteen when they'd dangled their toes in the water and argued about who loved each other more. He kissed her on the cheek quickly and, turning back to Sylvie, said, “Sylvie, sit down, don't say a word, and I'll call Egon and see what the hell I can do long distance.”

  “Excuse me, darling,” he said to Molly with a small, encouraging smile. Moving toward the small desk under the window, he picked up the phone and swiftly punched in the numbers. He flashed Molly another smile as he waited for the transatlantic connection, and then, in rapid Italian, asked for Egon.

  His spine went rigid, and his next few sentences were crisp, staccato questions. Two deep frown lines appeared between his brows, and Molly interpreted his dismay. Slamming the receiver down, Carey said, “He's bolted.”

  “You have to go after him.” Sylvie's voice revealed the command she'd spent a lifetime cultivating.

  Carey's gaze swung round to her, and he hesitated a brief moment before he said, “No.”

  “You have to,” she cried, rising from her chair in a swift, vehement movement. “They're after him! You know they are! They'll hurt him!”

  He knew as well as Sylvie did that Rifat was behind Egon's hasty flight. He hesitated in a moment of compassion. But he couldn't go-not when Carrie and Molly needed his protection, as well. He told Sylvie as much; He was responsible for a family now.

  But she wouldn't listen to his reasoning. She didn't want to hear about anyone or anything standing in the way of his aiding Egon.

  Even the revelation that he had a daughter failed to evoke her interest. She and Carey had never discussed having children since she'd had no intention of ever having any. And as far as Carey having a few children here and there: surely with his reputation with women, it was inevitable. She really didn't understand his extravagant concern for one child. “If you're worried about your family, hire guards,” she casually suggested.

  “I have.”

  “Well then, you're free to go.”

  “She's my daughter, Sylvie, do you understand? My daughter. And after ten long years, Molly and I are going to be married.”

  “I'm sure they'll be fine until you return,” she retorted, not even glancing at Molly. “My plane is wait
ing.”

  “Read my lips,” he growled, hot-tempered at her callousness. “I'm not going.”

  “He'll die.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They'll torture him.”

  He hesitated again because he knew as well as she did that they would. “Maybe.”

  “I hear Rifat likes to watch when they scream,” she said, turning the screws.

  “Jesus Christ, Sylvie, I'd go if I could. I can't, that's all.” And a great wave of pity washed over him. Poor Egon. In too deep this time. And Shakin didn't care how he got those prototypes.

  “Dammit, you have to!” Sylvie screamed.

  “Have to what?” a lazy male voice inquired from the hallway. When Bart strolled into the room carrying his birthday gift for Carrie, he found himself the cynosure of three pairs of startled eyes. “Have I interrupted something?” he drawled, taking in the splendid but irate Ms. von Mansfeld, the equally irate Mr. Fersten, and a thoroughly horrified ex-wife who had never been party to a conversation in which human torture was discussed as though one were comparing sales prices on mattresses.

  “Bart, you'd better come back later,” Molly said tersely.

  “I would if I could, darling,” he replied with a flash of white teeth, “but Eldora Whitney wouldn't understand if her escort for the symphony reneged.”

  Up to his old tricks, Molly thought. A brief ten minutes for Carrie's birthday, and then off to more important things like escorting Minneapolis's wealthiest patroness of the arts. Eldora kept a stable of handsome young men as escorts, and she was generous with them, as well. Molly almost said, “And what accounts has she promised you?” but caught herself in time. She refused to lower herself to Bart's level. “In that case, why don't you go down to Carrie's room and visit with her there?”

  After dropping the Walgreen's bag he carried on a nearby table, Bart was already halfway to Sylvie. When he spoke his eyes focused directly on her cleavage. “I don't believe we've met before. I'm Bart Cooper, Molly's ex-husband.” His glance rose and he smiled. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Sylvie purred, instantly assessing the usefulness of an ex-husband to irritate Carey. Perhaps if he became incensed or resentful over a past rival, he might forget his very new sense of familial responsibility long enough to be persuaded to go after Egon. “How nice of you to come to your daughter's birthday. Carey was just telling me how fond he is of her. I'm Sylvie von Mansfeld, Carey's ex-wife. Isn't this cozy-a quartet of exes.”