“Wouldn't miss it,” Ant replied, grasping Carey's hand in a street-smart high sign.
“Carol likes weddings,” Luger said, “so we'll come.” And his hand gripped Carey's in a firm, hard clasp.
They turned then, and melted into the shadows.
CHAPTER 42
H e returned to Sylvie and helped her to her feet. She looked pale and disheveled, but wasn't hysterical.
“Did you get them all?” she asked, glancing at the dead woman lying on the cement. Her voice was more shaken than he'd ever heard.
“I think so… and with Rifat dead-” He shrugged, not able to give her an iron-clad guarantee. “This should be the last attempt.” He looked at the pistol he still held in his hand, then slipped it into his sports jacket pocket.
“You saved my life.” Sylvie's eyes misted with tears, and her pouty mouth quivered.
With Sylvie, one never knew if she was playing a role or was sincere, but neither possibility interested him, so Carey smiled and said, “With a great deal of help from Ant and Luger. About which-” He glanced around, concerned with discovery before he had time to rehearse Sylvie's story. “Listen, darling,” he coaxed, “we've got to get out of here. Ant and Luger don't want to be involved.” Taking her hand, he began pulling her toward the service stairs, hoping no one would drive in or step out of the elevators in the next thirty seconds.
“Why ever not?” she asked, trying to keep up with his rapid stride.
“Mostly because all their weapons are illegal, and the police would take issue with their possession of them. Both Ant and Luger occasionally tread the perimeters of the law.” Opening the stairwell door, he ushered her in.
“But they helped save my life. I'm sure the police would understand.”
“Uh, darling…” He indicated they were going up. “Some police might understand, and then some may not. Neither Ant nor Luger care to take that gamble. Understand?”
Sylvie glanced over at Carey as they ascended the stairs side-by-side. “Well, certainly I do. Why didn't you say your friends were criminals? Sweetheart, my lips are sealed, absolutely.”
Rather than argue with Sylvie's interpretation, Carey quickly agreed. Subtlety escaped Sylvie's comprehension.
“How will you explain the bullet holes in the car, though?”
“I'd just as soon not explain anything.” And he'd prefer to plead ignorance to the entire episode in the parking garage. But he knew Sylvie was seen leaving with the cleaning woman who now lay dead with a bullet between her eyes, and he wasn't going to be able to carry off the denial.
“Carey, dear, I absolutely insist you get the credit for saving my life. You were terribly heroic, and you deserve the kudos.”
“No publicity… I don't want it.”
“Nonsense.” The old Sylvie was back now that she was removed from the scene of bloodshed. “You shot that awful woman and saved me from kidnapping. I owe you my life.” Her voice trembled in a dramatic inflection sure to carry to the last balcony.
“Cut it out, Sylvie. This whole thing has to be played way the hell down.”
“Fine. Protect your friends, if you wish. Say whatever you want about the car. I'll cooperate with your story, but I will not be silent on your extraordinary act of bravery.”
Sylvie and publicity were a natural combination like heart and lung function; one didn't exist long without the other. The question was how to keep her under some semblance of control so Ant and Luger would be protected and his part in the episode limited.
He talked very rapidly on the last flight of stairs. They would deny all knowledge of the men in the car. Carey would admit to shooting the cleaning woman when she threatened Sylvie's life. Perhaps the two dead men in the car were part of some drug dealing vendetta. With the current daily total of murders in Miami, that suggestion wouldn't be unreasonable. He had fired at the car he would admit, only if ballistics tests implicated him, and in the panic of the moment missed, hitting the tires.
So when the police officer hired to guard the door into the west wing questioned Sylvie about her disappearance, her story was intact.
A tear even slid down her cheek when she breathlessly began: “I was almost kidnapped! If not for my dear ex-husband Count Fersten who fearlessly placed his own life in jeopardy to save mine,” she paused for dramatic effect, “I should be this very moment a captive.”
Within twenty minutes the hospital was aswarm with police, reporters, photographers, and television crews. The police were insistent for details, the reporters clamoring for interviews and a press conference.
“No press conference,” Carey snapped.
“Darling,” Sylvie cooed, playing for the audience, “don't be so modest!” And she launched again into her now thoroughly rehearsed version of her heroic salvation from kidnapping.
Carey kept his distance from the press and tried unsuccessfully to pry Sylvie loose, once the police were nominally satisfied with the fabricated story. “Sylvie, that's enough,” he muttered, his jaw clenched tight in restrained anger.
“Just one more question, darling,” she replied with a smile, blowing him a kiss. “Isn't he a darling?” she purred to the crowd of reporters in the hallway. “A modest hero.”
Those words segued into the TV evening news. “Isn't he a darling?”
Then Sylvie came on the screen looking flushed and beautiful, only recently saved from abduction by her ex-husband. She blew him a sultry kiss as only Sylvie von Mansfeld could. Every man in America watching the six o'clock news wished he were the recipient of that kiss from the most sensual, pouty lips in the world.
Molly was grateful Bernadotte and the girls were still out riding; she was saved from having to hide her humiliation from all of them. She had been sitting in the cool, dim study, sunk in one of the soft leather armchairs, feeling sorry for herself even before the news item flashed across the screen.
With Carey gone, so many of the differences in their lives had taken on more forbidding proportions, starting with Sylvie. With time on her hands, Molly had escalated them into enormous differences. The past still haunted her, with all the old residual insecurities intact. She hardly knew Carey. Just how much of a life together could be based on an overwhelming passion, she wondered, when both of them were strangers to each other beneath the all-consuming desire?
Then she would remind herself, her feelings alone weren't at stake. Carrie mattered tremendously, too, and she adored her father. She mustn't be hasty or rash, Molly cautioned herself, swept away by some terrible jealousy over an ex-wife and in so doing harm her daughter. But in the next heartbeat, Sylvie's picture reappeared in her mind, Sylvie with invitation blatant, Sylvie who was more important at the moment than she.
Immature, immature, she chastised herself. Good God, he had to stay… the woman's life was in danger. But the admonition didn't stand up for a minute against her demon of jealousy. Dammit, he was every woman's goddamned hero. He was her daughter's hero. Age was not a consideration in female adoration. Every female who came within ten feet of Carey Fersten adored him. Without exception.
When Carey called, although she tried to behave in a civilized way, Molly's resentment was obvious.
“You made the six o'clock news,” she said. “Congratulations.” But her voice wasn't congratulatory, and she wanted to blurt out more. Is she still hot for you? How does it feel to hold the world's sexiest woman? Do you think of me when she's purring in your ear?
Instead, she said, “Carrie's missing her two weeks of camp we'd scheduled last winter,” she said. “If the danger is over, I'd like to go back home.”
“Leon can drive you. I'll fly into the Cities tomorrow. The police are being,” he paused, not wishing to go into any detail of the abduction attempt, “well… police.”
“I might still be at Kichigoomi tomorrow, dropping off Carrie,” Molly rebuffed.
“I'll wait at your place,” Carey replied.
“I may be very late.”
“I'll keep the lig
ht burning in the window.”
She needed some time to herself, Molly decided, to sort out all the Fersten charm against Darian reality, to deal with Carey's terrorist connections impinging on her daughter's normal childhood, to come to terms with the glitz and glamour surrounding an international film director in contrast to her perhaps idealized notions of a peaceful life in an old factory turned home and business.
Seeing Carey's childhood home had reinforced her impressions of aristocratic wealth and privilege. Although Bernadotte was a natural, unaffected man, he accepted all the prerogatives of affluence casually as though living in a mansion surrounded by servants, having one's own stable and airstrip were normal. While she admired his lack of pretention, she perceived a patrician noblesse he didn't even realize he exuded.
How many differences of attitude would surface day after day, month after month, between herself and Carey? Would he think her bourgeois-a Cinderella with cinders on her feet. Would she find him condescending? She embraced the melting pot ethic enough to question why a duke or duchess, a prince or princess was fawned on by society, splashed across the pages of W or Town and Country or People, when in fact, many were, at base, ignorant and boorish. With a reverse snobbery of her own, it annoyed her when wealthy ladies proudly said the millions they spent on couturier clothes were helping the economy and all the charity functions they attended were a noblesse oblige impulse to aid the needy. She found such hypocrisy offensive when children were living through blizzards with their parents in cars, cold and hungry and bewildered. And she was afraid her anger would appear incomprehensible to someone who didn't know the price of anything.
She liked to bargain shop. It was one of her favorite rushes… to buy something for fifty percent off.
The prosaic daily cycle of living might prove disastrous; she thought of the daily aggrievements that had slowly decimated the fabric of her marriage to Bart. A marriage she'd entered into with positive hopes for success. Maybe the strongest love diminished to dust in the battlefield of misunderstandings. And if there were easy answers to the question of love, all marriages would be eternal smiles of bliss. Since so many weren't… it further shook her already shaky convictions.
She wanted some time, she decided, alone at home to ponder the riddles of the universe and the lesser earthly dilemmas relating to herself and Carey Fersten. And relating to Sylvie. And Egon. And to enormous wealth which shouldn't be a problem but was. And to every other topsy-turvy emotion concerning cabbages and kings. Damn. Where was her Cinderella happy ending?
CHAPTER 43
C arey spent the evening with Egon, talking about Rifat, the abduction, and all that had transpired to disrupt their lives. As he rose to leave, he said, “Eat and do your exercises. I'll be back in a few days with some doctors who'll take out that bullet in your spine. Allen's checking the current research for me. You'll be walking again in no time.”
Egon smiled, strangely content even with his paralysis. Mariel was seated beside his bed, her hand clasped in his, her smile and presence the cause of his content. “The world sure looks good,” he teased, “when you consider the alternative. And even if”-he put up a hand to stop Carey's protest-“even if things don't work out,” he quietly said, a new maturity in his tone, “I'll consider myself extremely fortunate. Now stop worrying about me and go back home to Molly.”
“And the film,” Carey said. “Allen says Tangen is raising the roof about production delays. So I'll see you in a few days, probably over the weekend,” he added, moving toward the door. “Keep an eye on Sylvie.” She was like a loose cannon, totally unpredictable.
“And then?” Egon retorted with a grin, knowing as well as Carey she was ungovernable.
“At least warn me if she's heading my way,” Carey replied, grinning back, “and I can plan a defense.”
“I'll keep her here as my ministering angel, unless of course, she becomes bored with the role.”
“A good possibility with Sylvie. She has the attention span of a puppy.” Carey was standing by the door, pleased at the sight of Egon and Mariel so obviously happy despite the daunting circumstances of Egon's injury. “Well… take care,” he said, and with a casual wave he was gone.
Carey slept on the flight home. Assuming Molly wouldn't be back from her trip to camp till midmorning at the earliest, he made arrangements to meet Allen at the airport so they could discuss both Egon and the state of their film.
Sitting across from him in the comfortable lounge of Carey's plane, Allen told him a team of doctors had been assembled and would depart for Miami in two days.
“Thanks,” Carey said, stirring two extra spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee to help keep him awake. “I appreciate all your work.”
“No problem. With all the new data bases available, we came up with a list of names immediately. Checking them out took a little longer. No bullet holes in you?” Allen was drinking Red Zinger tea from a Styrofoam cup he'd brought on board. His baseball cap sat backward on his head, a sign he was tired.
“Nope. I can run faster. Egon played the hero.”
“The papers say you did, too.”
“That's all Sylvie's hype. Ant and Luger were with me-and that's security, let me tell you. Look,” he said, uncomfortable with Sylvie's publicity, turning the discussion from heroics, “my apologies for bringing you down here this early, but I'm going to spend a couple of days with Molly, and I wanted to get the business taken care of first.”
“Speaking of business,” Allen cautiously advanced, “what do you want me to do about Tangen? He's screaming cost overruns like it was his own money.” Allen's eyebrows rose resignedly. “All those days you were gone…”
“Stall him another few days. I'll talk to you tomorrow or the next day. Right now, I'm going to see Molly, and I don't give a damn about Tangen.”
Allen swallowed and said, “Okay, Carey, whatever you say.” But he had visions of money being blown away in the wind, and his practical soul was gulping hard.
CHAPTER 44
W hen Carey stopped by Molly's shortly before noon, his daughter answered the door. “Dad,” she squealed and launched herself at him like a catapult.
Scooping her up in his arms, he hugged her close, and thought: Now I know I'm truly home and safe. But she squirmed a moment later, and he realized he was holding her too tightly. Setting her back on her feet with a brushing kiss on her cheek, he said, “I thought you were going to camp.”
“Not me, Dad. I can get eaten alive by mosquitoes in the park across the street.”
“Your Mom said you were going to camp.”
“Not me,” she cheerfully repeated. “I hate camp. You have to see me ride, Dad. Grandpa said I'll be as good as you someday-maybe as good as him,” she added with a grin.
And Carey's uncharitable thoughts about the deception of camp were distracted at the word, Grandpa-a pleasant, warm-sounding word, redolent with granddaughterly affection. “You must be hot,” Carey said, ruffling her pale, silky hair, “'cuz Papa still holds some racing records from the thirties.”
“Good gene pool, hey?”
His daughter's maturity always surprised him. “Must be, Pooh,” he agreed with a grin, “because after only a week on a horse, it sure isn't the training.”
“I have to meet Lucy halfway; she's coming over, so I'll see you later,” she declared with childlike obliviousness to the fact he'd risked his life twice in the last few days for her sake. “Mom's downstairs talking to Theresa about everything she missed. She'll be thrrrrrilled to see you,” Carrie teased.
His welcome was considerably less than thrilling, however, when he walked into Molly's office. It was, in fact, cooler than he'd anticipated. He sat for twenty minutes waiting while Molly and Theresa went over the outgoing invoices. And if they hadn't been interrupted by the lunch hour, his wait would have been longer.
“I'd like some time to myself,” Molly blurted out the second the door closed on Theresa. She had to express herself before Carey's charm and
beguiling tongue could change her mind. And she stayed at her desk as if she could barricade herself from his persuasive allure.
“No,” he said, expecting dissent, but not like this. His dark eyes glittered dangerously beneath his black, scowling brows. He was too tired to deal dispassionately with their differences, but he had to take it slow or risk worse disagreements. So he steeled himself to calmness.
“I'm afraid it's not open to discussion.” Molly kept her voice as moderate as possible. She was trying to be sensible about her feelings, not adversarial. She understood that Carey didn't have misgivings-he never did it seemed-and she wondered whether she'd not traveled as far as she thought from the young girl she'd once been. But maybe that was the essential difference underneath all the superficiality of Carey's wealth and glamour. Maybe they had fundamental differences in personality. She was never adamantly certain like Carey. Molly had always been prone to intellectualize and rationalize every emotional crisis. She was probably doing that again, but she'd feel more secure in her final decision if she gave herself time to examine her feelings beyond the overpowering passion she felt for Carey. Was passion enough? Would it sustain the good times and the bad times? Would it even endure? Or was passion, desire, lust, and love all one? Was she killing their relationship by dissecting it to death?
“Everything is open to discussion,” Carey emphatically replied, his scowl unaltered, his voice a low rumble.
“Everything?” Molly retorted, taking issue with the unspoken demand in his tone. “Like Sylvie's clinging presence in Miami? I don't recall discussing the situation.”
“It was an emergency.” His voice was strained.
“So is this-so I don't make another mistake.”
“Don't compare me to Bart,” he snapped. Then his voice changed, and he quietly said, “Let's talk about this.”
“I don't want to now.”
“I'm sorry about Sylvie.”
Hot Streak Page 35
