by Andrea Kane
"Just a precaution," Dylan assured him immediately. "The doctor was afraid you'd take a swing at me and make my concussion worse."
"You have a concussion? How bad is it?" Carson barked.
"It's mild. Please, calm down." Sabrina glanced at the three nurses, who were mopping their brows, totally spent and at their wits' end. "Thanks so much," she croaked with a grateful smile. "Please. Go take a break. Put your feet up and have a cup of coffee."
"Spike the coffee," Dylan advised. "You won't be the first to do that after going a few rounds with this guy."
"Sounds good," one of them muttered. "Our shift's over in ten minutes. A seven A.M. cocktail might be a first, but till Eleven West gets him, I doubt it'll be a last." She assessed Sabrina and Dylan, her demeanor softening. "We heard the news. Are you both all right?"
"Good as new," Sabrina assured her. "Now go home and get some rest. We'll take it from here."
The RNs didn't need a second invitation. They blew out the door like three fleeing bandits.
Carson didn't even seem to notice. He was eyeballing, first Sabrina, then Dylan, and back again. "You scared the shit out of me," he accused, clearly shaken. "What happened? Who did this? What did the cops find out?"
Sabrina pushed the wheelchair over to his bedside, then walked over and took his hand. "Carson, listen to me. We'll answer all your questions and stay as long as you like. Just please, settle down. Dr. Radison stopped us on the way in, and warned us that this kind of excitement could raise your blood pressure and cause a setback. So take a few deep breaths and lie back. Dylan and I are both fine, thanks to his quick thinking and amazing reflexes. He saved our lives."
Carson squeezed her fingers, then gave Dylan a look filled with profound emotion and pride. "Doesn't surprise me. He's one in a million—always has been." Swallowing hard, Carson brought himself under control. "On the news they said something about an explosion and a fire. They're speculating it was a Molotov cocktail. Was it?"
"Two Molotov cocktails, actually," Dylan amended. "I heard both bottles break. Whoever threw them must have assumed we were upstairs and wouldn't have a chance of getting to the front door in time. Fortunately, we were down in the sitting room. We made a break for it before the fire got out of hand."
"How'd you get the concussion? How much smoke did Sabrina inhale that she can barely talk? And what other injuries don't I know about?"
"My throat's scratchy," Sabrina replied. "My eyes are still burning. Mostly, my nose is irritated. Not a surprise, given how sensitive it is. Other than that, I've got a couple of burns and some cuts and bruises—nothing worse than you'd get from falling off a bike. Dylan, on the other hand, had to outdo me—as usual. He came away with a big gash across his chest, more impressive burns than mine, and a concussion." Her light tone vanished. "Of course, that could also be because he used his body to protect me when we ran through the fire and when we hit the concrete." She dissolved into a coughing spasm.
"Sabrina," Dylan interjected. "Rest your voice."
She waved away his protest. "He wrapped blankets around us and made a mad dash for the front door. By the time we got outside, the blankets were on fire. He shoved us to the pavement—slamming his head in the process— and rolled us around until the flames were out. Then he passed out. Talk about being scared to death. I crawled over to make sure he was breathing. I could barely find a pulse. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was beyond frantic."
Dylan angled his head toward her, a surprised expression on his face. "I didn't know that."
"How could you? You were unconscious."
"Beyond frantic, huh? Did you call me your hero and beg me to live?"
Sabrina shot him a look. "Very funny. No, as I remember it, I threatened to kill you if you died."
"Wow. That's even worse than firing me." He turned to Carson. "She threatened to do that, too, earlier tonight. It was a different set of circumstances, of course. But she was frantic then, too. I tell you, Carson, she's one demanding president. I'm lucky I'm still employed."
Hot color flooded Sabrina's cheeks. "Can we stick to the subject?"
Carson's lips had begun to twitch. "I'm beginning to think there's more than one of those."
"There are," Dylan assured him.
"Dylan..." Sabrina's voice might have been raspy, but there was no mistaking the warning note there. "Cut it out."
"You're the one who asked him to settle down," Dylan reminded her. "I think we can do one better. I think we can get him to grin like a Cheshire cat." He gave Sabrina a quick, conspiratorial wink. "Don't worry. What I'm planning won't make you blush. I just say we go with the good news first. After that, we can get into the messy details of tonight's break-in, and the conversation we had with Whitman and Barton. What do you say?"
Sabrina got his drift, and she had to agree that it made sense. "I say there's no time like the present."
"What good news?" Carson demanded.
Dylan arched a quizzical brow at Sabrina. "Who gets the honor—you or me?"
"You've known him longer." She smiled, then coughed again. "I'll save my voice and watch like a fascinated spectator."
"What good news?" Carson blasted.
"Okay, okay." Dylan gave him that lopsided grin. "I'll make it short and sweet. I'm wildly in love with your daughter. Fortunately, she feels the same way about me. I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Now how's that for an incentive to get well? We need you to walk her down the aisle."
Disregarding the quiet demanded in ICU, as well as the twinges of pain he caused his injuries, Carson let out a whoop and punched the air triumphantly. "Yes! I knew it! Gloria knew it, too. We were both right. Damn, I can't wait to start spoiling my grandchildren."
The grandchildren bit didn't even register. Sabrina was too fixed on the part before that. "What do you mean, 'Gloria knew it, too'?"
An offhanded shrug. "I think that's pretty self-explanatory."
"No, it's not. Dylan and I knew you were playing matchmaker. You weren't exactly subtle. But where does my mother fit into this equation? She's never even met Dylan."
Carson rolled his eyes. "You forget how smart Gloria is, and how well she reads you. She guessed where this was headed right after I told her you couldn't keep your hands off each other. She's probably starting a line of designer booties as we speak."
Twin spots of red stained Sabrina's cheeks. "You told her we couldn't keep our hands off each other?"
"Not in so many words. I was a little less crude. I think I said something about sparks flying between you. But she got my drift. Hey, don't sell your mother short. According to my nurses, two surgeons tried to hit on her the day she visited me. Believe me, she's no stranger to sex. And you and Dylan are about as transparent as the couples in the C'est Moi ads. You undress each other with your eyes whenever you're in the same room. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried that you'd never make it out of El Faro, at least not fully clothed."
"Oh, God," Sabrina groaned, covering her hot face with her hands.
"What'd I say?" Carson asked Dylan, totally baffled.
"Go easy," Dylan suggested, amused by Carson's utter lack of comprehension when it came to this particular difference between himself and his daughter. This was one time when upbringing and experience—or lack thereof—superseded heredity. And while Dylan understood both perspectives, and was personally unbothered by Carson's pointed innuendos, Sabrina most definitely was not. "You're embarrassing Sabrina," he explained to his friend. "She's not used to your, uh, uninhibited approach."
"What do you mean uninhibited? I'm just stating facts. Why would Sabrina be embarrassed? She's as forthright as I am."
"Not about this, I'm not." Sabrina's head came up. "We're talking about something personal, something intimate. Besides," she added with an incredulous stare. "Aren't fathers supposed to freak out when they discover their daughters are sleeping with someone?"
"I don't know. I never read the father handbook." He shot her an impish g
rin. "Besides, even if I had, I'd toss it. Dylan is the finest human being I know. You two are so well suited, it's staggering. If he was using you, I'd break him in half. But I've seen the expression on his face when he looks at you, and on yours when you look at him. This is a hell of a lot more than lust. So, why would I freak out? I'm thrilled."
A tiny smile played at Sabrina's lips. "To tell you the truth, so am I."
"Good. Now that we've got that straight, tell me what date you've set and I'll be out of here in time to buy my tux."
Sabrina sobered. "We haven't set a date yet. Nor are we going to, not for a month. After we know where things stand with the transplant, then we'll make plans."
Carson scowled, opening his mouth to give her a hard time.
"Don't even bother." Sabrina cut him off. "Dylan and I are in total agreement on this one. We both want the bride and her father whole, healed, and ready to dance the night away before we finalize the where and when. Period. End of subject." She softened the statement with a more welcome add-on. "But we're officially engaged as of last night. Dylan's taking me to Tiffany's..." She broke off, wrinkling her nose in disappointment. "We were going to go today, but it'll have to wait until Dylan's concussion's better."
"Bullshit," Dylan refuted. "Our plans stand. I'm getting myself released the minute we leave Carson's room. I'll go home, take a hot shower, then get dressed and head into work. You, on the other hand, will spend the morning resting. After that, we'll go to Tiffany's...."
"No way." Sabrina overruled that decision. "It's my first day as president of Ruisseau. I'm going into the office, even if I sound like a croaking frog. I don't want to rest. Oh, and one more thing. You won't be going home for that shower. From what I heard in the ambulance, your first floor is a disaster, and your entire apartment is smoke-filled. You'll have to make other living arrangements for a while."
"Gee," Carson piped up. "You can stay at my place on Central Park West. Or..." He snapped his fingers. "I know. You can stay at Sabrina's apartment. It's so convenient. It's only a few blocks away from yours. You can pick up your clothes on the way from the hospital and move right in."
"Now there's a spontaneous idea. Thanks, Carson." Sabrina shook her head in disbelief, marveling at his sheer audacity. "You took the words right out of my mouth. Dylan is more than welcome at my place."
"I accept." That didn't take Dylan more than three seconds. "Now, back to the issue of Tiffany's. We're going as planned. I promised you a proposal today, either on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue or in Central Park. You're getting it. I'm not dumb enough to wait for you to change your mind."
"No chance of that," Sabrina assured him. "Once my mind's made up, it doesn't get changed." Abruptly, a thought pertaining to another aspect of their plans struck her, and she frowned. "It just occurred to me, we were going to call my mother later and tell her about our engagement. We'd better not wait. She's probably waking up about now. If she sees the news, she'll lose it."
"Go ahead and use my phone," Carson urged, pointing to his night table. "Call her right away. Oh, and you can tell her I said 'I told you so.'"
"I will."
Dylan waited until Sabrina had gotten through to her mother and was happily, if hoarsely, chatting.
"Carson," he said, lowering his voice. "We have a problem. It can't wait anymore. We've got to talk about it now."
Carson didn't flinch. "Is this about Stan?"
A nod.
"Does Sabrina know?"
"Not yet."
"Then let's wait for her to hang up. She's got to be told the whole situation, especially if it's coming to a head. She's got a right to know. She's president of the company. She's also family."
"I agree. But I needed to get your permission first."
"You have it. When she's finished assuring Gloria that she's okay and telling her your incredible news, we'll talk." Carson inspected Dylan closely. "You're sure you're all right?"
"Yeah. But it's pretty obvious that whoever did this was gunning for Sabrina. Whatever's prompting his actions, he wants her out of the way, too."
"I know. That possibility was eating at me all day. I talked to Whitman and Barton about it, and they're thinking along the same lines. They can't give me round-the-clock protection for Sabrina, so I'm hiring a bodyguard. He'll be glued to her side every minute, until we've caught the wacko who's behind this." Carson's mouth thinned into a tight, grim line. "Tell me what Barton and Whitman said, other than their suspicions about Stan."
Dylan blew out his breath. "They're still centering their investigation on the gang at Ruisseau. Not that I blame them. It certainly seems to be a company-related motive based on the attacks—first you, then Russ, now Sabrina. Even I'm starting to eye staff members up and down, wondering if maybe, maybe... Anyway, you get my drift."
"I don't like it, but I get it."
"I don't like it either, but we've got to be practical here, and leave our emotions at the door. Someone's a murderer. That someone has to be found, whoever and wherever he is. By the way, I told Whitman and Barton that Sabrina knows the C'est Moi formula. That sparked their interest, especially in light of last night's attack. It also reminded them that there are motives outside Ruisseau. They're rechecking those avenues."
"Competitor time again," Carson muttered. "I'm beginning to wish I'd never shared that damned formula with Sabrina. If it turns out that whoever's responsible for these sick attacks found out that I told her, and if all this is about stopping production of C'est Moi, then I'm the one who put Sabrina in danger. Hell, maybe I underestimated the risk of making her company president."
"Cut it out," Dylan returned flatly. "That's pure speculation. It's also garbage, given your feelings for Sabrina. And let's not forget that Sabrina has some say in this. She can't wait to get to her desk. She's bursting with energy and enthusiasm over her new position at Ruisseau. This presidency's tailor-made for her. You know it. She knows it. She wouldn't change her mind under any circumstances, danger included. Look. Between me and your bodyguard, we'll keep Sabrina safe. Put that worry out of your head. And remember something else. Sabrina's not the only victim here. You're a victim, too. So was poor Russ, who paid with his life."
"Don't remind me." Carson's jaw tightened. "Which competitors are Whitman and Barton talking to?"
"They're going for the obvious. They're heading over to Pruet's this morning to question his New York staff."
"Shit." Carson's fist made an imprint on the bed. "Talk about a best-case, worst-case scenario. Determining that this scumbag shooter works anywhere but Ruisseau— that would take the weight of the world off my shoulders. But Pruet's, of all places... that opens up a whole new can of worms. Does Stan know that's where Whitman and Barton are going?"
"My guess is, yes. Whitman and Barton showed up at Ruisseau about an hour ahead of time yesterday, and spent a chunk of that time with Stan. I'm sure they talked to him about his take on Pruet's staff, hoping to gain some insight into different personalities and their professional agendas. And if that's the way their chat went down, Stan's smart enough to cover his bases."
"Christ, what a mess."
At that moment, Sabrina hung up, and turned to face them.
"How's Gloria?" Carson asked.
"Relieved that we're okay. Worried about who did this and whether he'll try again. Elated that Dylan and I are getting married. Heartened that she has something positive to share with my grandparents. And hoping to fly down later this week to meet her prospective son-in-law. Oh, she sent a return message to you. She said to stop gloating. She said to remind you that she's the one who pointed out where the relationship was headed, and how fast it was headed there." Sabrina folded her arms across her breasts, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Honestly, the two of you are like obnoxious teenagers, fighting over who did a better job of playing Cupid."
Carson's lips curved. "I'd say it was a dead heat."
"Okay, now let's get to what you two were talking about," Sabrina continued hoar
sely, but without missing a beat. "I heard the recap Dylan gave you. I also heard him bring up Stan. Evidently, you've decided to clue me in on whatever's going on with him. That would be helpful, since I can't get a handle on it without having all the facts. It obviously ties into Whitman and Barton's visit to Pruet's. I'm all ears. And, for the record, I don't need a bodyguard. I can take care of myself. Lastly, if I ever again hear you blame yourself for getting me on board at Ruisseau, I'll put a dead skunk in your desk drawer. That'll mess your nose up for weeks."
A chuckle rumbled in Carson's chest. "I thought it was just your olfactory sense that was heightened. Obviously, your hearing's right up there, too. You managed to catch every detail of two separate, simultaneous conversations. Not bad."
"That doesn't take acute hearing. It takes the training of a management consultant combined with the brains and multitasking abilities of a woman."
"Right." With a look of pure sympathy, Carson gazed at Dylan. "Want some advice? Expect to stay on your toes for life. And when the two of you fight? Don't bother trying to win. Just concede up front, and skip to the making up part."
"Gotcha." Dylan seemed more pleased than intimidated. "That sounds like a damned fine strategy."
"Yoo-hoo," Sabrina interrupted. "We were talking about Stan."
"Right. Stan." All humor vanished, and a worried pucker formed between Carson's brows. "The demands of his job have been a major source of stress for him from the beginning. He wanted to be the best COO imaginable. We've already gone over the reasons why."
"His need to keep up with you, and to please you. Yes, that much I get."
"What you don't get is how far he'd go to make that happen." Carson glanced back at Dylan. "I know it's his own damned fault, but I can't help thinking I pushed him into it."
"How? By being brilliant?" Dylan returned dryly. "Carson, in life we make choices. We also accept our own strengths and our own limitations, along with the fact that others might be smarter or better than we are. Stan can't accept any of that. As for his choices, they suck."