"I'll leave you to get your professional life in order," he said, reaching for the door. "I'll take care of the travel arrangements. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes."
"Melissa will take care of our travel plans. She knows what hotel to book for me. And I guarantee you, she's more efficient at organizing itineraries than you are."
Another attempt at retaining the upper hand.
Dylan couldn't help himself. When it came to a challenge, he was too used to rising to the bait. "I don't doubt that she is," he acknowledged smoothly. "Shall I stop at her desk on my way out? I can relay our plans and confirm that I slept alone last night." One dark brow rose. "As opposed to with you, I assume?"
A slight flush stained Sabrina's cheeks—her only overt reaction to his provocative remark. "Something like that. If I remember correctly, she said you were hot. She also said you weren't my type. She was right."
"About which?"
"The latter. Which makes me unqualified to answer the former."
Dylan's lips twitched. She was good. Very good. Carson would be proud. "Touché" He opened the door. "We'll continue this battle of wits on the plane. For now, let's call it a draw." He paused, speaking bluntly and without forethought. "You're going to like him, you know. I realize you don't want to. But you will."
CHAPTER 7
10:05 A.M.
Mt. Sinai ICU
Jeannie and Frank were frustrated.
After waiting forever for the go-ahead from Dr. Radison, they'd finally gotten in to see Carson Brooks—for a five-minute session max, given how touch-and-go his condition still was. He was wiped out from the extensive testing he'd undergone, as well as from the possible infection indicated by the increased fluids present in his chest. His voice was raspy and irritated from the endotracheal tube, and his breathing wasn't great on its own. He was weak as a kitten—hardly up for a pointed interrogation session. And whenever they asked about specific Ruisseau employees, he became agitated. Especially if the question happened to involve Dylan Newport.
In short, three of their five minutes were gone and they'd learned absolutely nothing of value.
"Mr. Brooks." Jeannie pulled up a chair at the foot of his bed, trying a softer tactic. "You're exhausted. We don't want to push you. We also understand you view us as the enemy. We're not. We're not out to attack your company, or harass your employees. But someone tried to kill you. Our job is to find that someone. We want to keep you safe. I think you'll agree that, if your assailant happens to work at Ruisseau, he or she doesn't deserve your protection."
Carson turned his head slightly, staring past the tubes in his nose and fixing his probing blue gaze on her. "Nice try, Detective," he wheezed out. "But the bonding technique... won't work with me. I don't need... to feel loved. I need to survive. I'm not protecting anyone.... If I knew who put this bullet in me... I'd hand... the son of a bitch... over to you on a silver platter." He stopped, dragging in a few labored breaths. "But I'm not listening to you... spout crap about Dylan. Or the rest of my team... without good reason. If you want to know... if any of them shot me... ask them."
"We will. We're going over to Ruisseau this morning." Jeannie glanced quickly at her watch. "Let's talk about C'est Moi. Ms. Lane suggested that your attack might be tied to its success."
"Smart girl..." Carson rasped, his expression indicating he'd been thinking along the same lines. "That wouldn't surprise me."
"Is it true you're the only one who knows the formula?"
A nod. "In my head... Not written down anywhere..."
"I don't get it," Frank said. "That formula is a gold mine. Didn't you patent it?"
"Nope." Carson wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Took the risk not to.... Bigger risk if I had... Would have had to put the formula in writing. More chance of the secret leaking." A pained smile. "Besides, didn't you ever hear that mystery... in consumer products... is a great marketing ploy? Worked with the secret Coca-Cola formula... Did the same with C'est Moi."
"True. But getting nothing in writing—those are high stakes you're gambling with," Frank said in amazement.
"I'm... used to it. High-stakes gambling... is the only way to come out on top.... That's how I built... my company."
"So let's say someone was desperate to shut down the production of C'est Moi, so desperate they'd shoot you. Any particular rivals spring to mind who fill that bill?"
"Cut-throat bastards, yeah. Cold-blooded murderers, not off-hand... Primary competition's Etienne Pruet... Based in Paris and New York. Strong, at least on paper... Call Jason Koppel at Merrill Lynch... Great industry analyst... trustworthy, too... I've known him twelve years... Pick his brain. Maybe someone's company's... worse off than I know."
The door opened and Dr. Radison walked in. "That's it for now," he stated flatly, checking Carson's IV fluids and cardiac monitor as he spoke. "Mr. Brooks needs his rest."
"Of course." Jeannie stood, following Frank's lead as he inched away from the bed. "We'll get started with what we have."
"Do... that...."
She halted. "Unless you can think of anything we overlooked?" she added quickly, hoping to jog his memory before Dr. Radison intervened. "Anything you were too fuzzy to remember yesterday? Did you notice anyone in the building? Was there someone in particular you might have clued in to the fact that you planned to work on Labor Day?"
"Didn't need to make an announcement... I'm at Ruisseau every day... holidays included. I ran late.... Supposed to leave around five... U.S. Open... Was really looking forward to it..." Carson coughed. "Didn't see anyone... Don't remember much... Dylan went to get files.... I went to windows.... Heard pop... Felt pain... Smelled burning... Smelled..." He dissolved into a spasm of coughing.
"That's it, Detectives," Radison broke in. "I mean it. No more for this session."
Jeannie made an apologetic gesture. "We're on our way. You take care, Mr. Brooks. We'll be back another time."
"Wait." In a slow, pained motion, Carson turned his head in their direction. "Go easy... on my team. Even if one of them's guilty... which I don't believe... the rest are innocent... Remember that...."
"Will do."
Officer Laupen glanced up as Jeannie and Frank walked out of the hospital room. "Hey, Stick, Stone. Any breakthrough?"
"Nothing to write home about," Jeannie replied tersely.
"Sorry."
"So are we," Frank said.
The two of them headed briskly down the hall.
"We're on our own now," Jeannie muttered. "We can't push Brooks any more, not till he's stronger. If we want a rundown on his staff, we'll have to get it elsewhere."
"Yeah, but from whom? Dylan Newport?"
Jeannie shrugged, reaching the elevator and pressing the down button. "We'll pick his brain, yeah. He's certainly on the inside track. But in the meantime, he's in New Hampshire. We're here. Let's go meet the Ruisseau gang and see what we can dig up on our own."
Frank nodded. "We'll duck out the back way. The last thing we need is a swarm of reporters to deal with."
They left the building and headed for the parking lot. Once outside, they automatically punched their cell phones back on, having followed ICU regulations to turn them off.
Jeannie had one message waiting for her. She listened to it carefully, then turned to her partner.
"Dylan Newport called a few minutes ago. He's on his way home. He'll be landing at LaGuardia around noon. Sabrina Radcliffe's with him."
11:15 A.M.
Manchester Airport
The jet accelerated down the runway and took off, slicing the skies as it climbed to its cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet.
Sabrina stared out the window, watching the wisps of clouds rush by, wondering what was waiting for her at the other end of this flight.
"You haven't said ten words since we left CCTL," Dylan commented beside her.
"I didn't have anything to say." She angled around to face him.
"I dropped a bomb on you la
st night. You must have a million questions. Ask."
Right. Ask. Sabrina sighed, thinking that she'd never felt so displaced in her life. Oh, she was used to being a fish out of water. She'd learned early on to become thick-skinned, and to draw on her own inner resources to cope. But this one was a doozy to contend with, even for her.
"I'm not sure where to begin," she answered frankly. "This whole thing is still too surreal. It's also too personal. I'm not really comfortable getting into it with you. I realize Carson Brooks knows you. But I don't. I don't know you, and I don't know him." She shot Dylan a pointed look. "You, on the other hand, know my entire life history. I understand why you felt compelled to dig it up. I'm not blaming you for doing it. That doesn't mean I'm happy it was done. I'm a private person. My life is my own."
"Yeah, I figured that out. I respect it, too. Believe it or not, we're a lot alike in that way." He drummed his fingers on the armrest between them, searching for the right way to get through to her. "Look, if you think about it, I don't know the first thing about you. All I've got are biographical specs."
"Nice try. But PI's dig up a lot more than stats."
"Not in this case. I wasn't investigating you; I was just locating Carson's child. No in-depth personality traits, no activity log. The one intimate detail I know about you is that you were conceived through donor insemination. And that's pretty cut and dry. Hell, it's damned scientific and boring compared to the way most people were conceived, and by whom. Have you watched Entertainment Tonight lately?"
Sabrina had to bite back laughter. The image of Dylan Newport glued to his TV set for nightly updates on what Hollywood's stars were up to was priceless. "No, I can't say that I have. Why? Do you watch it regularly?"
A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted in a crooked smile that made Sabrina understand why Melissa had described him as hot. "Nope. Most nights, I'm at my desk around that hour, with stacks of files and a quart of roast pork fried rice in front of me. But my secretary Nina watches the show religiously. And you should hear the stories she brings in. The stuff they reveal about people is as intimate as you get. And millions of viewers tune in to see those clips. Now that's personal."
He paused as the flight attendant stopped beside their seats and inquired if they'd like a beverage. Dylan ordered a cup of black coffee for himself, then turned questioningly to Sabrina.
"Cranberry juice," she responded. The flight attendant handed her a can of juice and a plastic cup, which she took with a businesslike smile. "Thanks."
"See what I mean?" Dylan asked with a hint of teasing in his voice. "Talk about lack of personal details. I didn't even know your beverage of choice."
"Point taken." Sabrina was beginning to enjoy the lighthearted banter. It felt good to smile. Plus, a nice, superficial conversation was all she could handle right now.
The tight knot inside her loosened a bit.
"I'll fill in the missing blank for you, then," she supplied. "I usually drink either juice or water. As for coffee, I'm not crazy about decaf. So I reserve my coffee-drinking for the morning. Too much caffeine makes me nuts."
"Then I must be certifiable. I drink the leaded kind— strong, black, and all day long." Dylan punctuated his words with an appreciative swallow. "Okay, so it's juice and water. What about wine or mixed drinks? Do you do those?"
"Merlot. But only in moderation or I get a killer migraine."
"I rest my case. That's two personal preferences I didn't see anywhere on my fact sheets."
She couldn't help but chuckle. "You must be a very effective attorney. You're shrewd and disarming. I recognize the traits from my own corporate training."
"That training is something I do know about you. You've got quite a resume. So I'm flattered." Dylan set down his cup. "While I'm learning nuances about you, let me ask something about your career. You were well on your way to a partnership. What made you leave the fast track and start your own company?"
"Are you really interested? Or just choosing nice, safe topics that will help lower my guard and make me less ambivalent about meeting Carson Brooks?"
"Both."
She hadn't expected him to be so frank. Nevertheless, she appreciated it. The less he tried disguising his agenda, the less additional work he'd create for her. She had no energy to cut through pretense to get at truth. As for his question, she was fine with it. The reasons for her career path weren't a secret.
"I left for a number of reasons," she replied. "I wanted to run my own organization. I was arrogant enough to believe I could do things better, and without a lot of corporate politics. I'm not very good at games, especially when playing them means compromising on what's best for my client. I also believed I could combine work and play into an ideal learning experience. So I guess you could say my striking out on my own was a combination of ideals, ethics, and ego. Plus, I had to get out of Boston. The city air was having an adverse effect on me."
Dylan's brows rose. "Allergies?"
"No. I just have a hypersensitive nose. Cities are always a bit much for me to handle. I'm a mess in L.A., with all the car emissions. Same with Denver. New York's not a picnic, but it's not as hard on me as Boston is. Maybe it's because there are so many bodies of water around Boston. One of the guys in my CCTL team took some meteorology courses. He subscribes to the theory that conflicting land breezes keep the stagnant air hanging around the city longer. Or maybe it's because Boston's older than New York, with lots of historic buildings. They're beautiful, but the mustiness drives me crazy." She shrugged. "There's no particular rhyme or reason to what affects me. Some smells do. Others don't."
"Not a surprise," Dylan startled her by saying. "You have a heightened olfactory sense. That makes every smell more acute." He went on, speaking as if he were reciting information he'd stored in his memory. "The fact is, even the average person can distinguish thousands of odors. Our noses contain sensory neurons. Different neurons respond to different odors and—in some way that's beyond my nonscientific mind's ability to comprehend— they end up stimulating specific patterns of behavior. With you, the effects are even more extreme. A heightened olfactory sense is a gift and a curse. As for why certain things trigger it adversely, who knows? It's just one of life's mysteries."
Sabrina put down her cup in amazement. "You sound like a textbook. How do you know so much about this?"
"Carson taught me. Of course, he explains it with all the right chemical phrases and molecular drawings. I just nod a lot. As for why he's so well versed on the subject, it's because he has the same trait. I guess it's hereditary."
Whatever Sabrina had been expecting, it hadn't been that. She'd always thought of her acute sense of smell as an idiosyncrasy. But an inherited trait... "Wow," she murmured aloud. "That possibility never occurred to me."
"Me, either. But listening to what you just said, it's obviously true. In Carson's case, it's one of the reasons why he's so amazing at creating the fragrances he creates. C'est Moi, for instance, was his baby all the way— from test tube to stores."
"Right." Sabrina responded on autopilot. "I skimmed some articles that mentioned it was Carson Brooks, and not his R&D team, that came up with the formula."
Actually, she'd done a lot more than skim those articles. She'd been fascinated by Carson Brooks's hands-on involvement in his company's success, the way he'd combined business savvy with chemical genius and come up with a unique fragrance formula that had knocked the industry on its butt. He was the most versatile, brilliant CEO she'd ever come across. As for C'est Moi, under normal circumstances, she'd be asking a million questions about Carson Brooks's unique integration of human pheromones in the fragrance production, probing his market research, his assimilation of facts. But right now, it didn't seem to matter. In fact, for the life of her, she couldn't think of a thing to say.
So, she'd inherited her heightened olfactory sense from him. How weird, learning she had such strong commonalities and hereditary ties to a father who'd been a nonentity in her life until yesterda
y. And learning about them from a third party who saw this man every day, worked by his side, well that made the whole scenario seem even more bizarre. She felt both involved and detached, and she wasn't sure which she preferred.
"How did you meet Carson Brooks?" she heard herself ask.
Dylan had been watching her intently. He didn't seem surprised by her question. "Through a work program he initiated," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Over nineteen years ago. Carson was barely past thirty, and Ruisseau was less than a decade old. But the company was growing like gangbusters. Carson needed help—kind of a guy Friday and errand boy rolled into one. Rather than advertise in the newspaper, he went to a high school in a crappy section of New York City. He was hoping to give some underprivileged kid a break."
"And you were that kid." Sabrina eyed him thoughtfully. "You must have jumped at the chance."
A hollow laugh. "Hardly. I fought it tooth and nail. I already had more than enough structure in my life. School. Community service. Chores. I barely had enough time for a life."
Puzzled, Sabrina studied the hard line of his jaw. "What kind of life did you want?"
"One that was a crash course in self-destruction. One that made me feel powerful—and sent me home drunk and bleeding more nights than not. The rest of the time I spent cutting classes I didn't want to attend and breaking rules I didn't want to follow. That's where the community service came in. Social Services thought it would reorient my thinking. It didn't. I felt patronized and pissed off."
"I see."
"No you don't. And don't bother trying. Suffice it to say, my life was a far cry from Beacon Hill."
"I get the message loud and clear." Sabrina looked away. "I'm prying. Fine. Consider the subject dropped."
"That's not what I meant." Dylan drained the rest of his coffee. "Sorry—I didn't mean to come off as abrupt. The truth is, I was stating a fact, not cutting you off. Ask whatever you want to about my past. It doesn't bother me to talk about it. It's like another life."
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