Kane, Andrea

by Scent of Danger

  A daunting balancing act, to say the least.

  Sabrina finished her perusal, having made all the individual connections, and sipped at her coffee. The tension in the room was palpable. She couldn't help but feel an immense sense of empathy. All the VPs were clearly unglued, fiddling with pens, crossing and uncrossing their legs, and looking generally freaked-out as they waited for Stan to address whatever he'd called them here for. They were exhausted from overwork, unnerved by Carson's shooting, and drained from the police interrogations they'd been through.

  And now, their COO had called an unscheduled, mandatory meeting. So on top of everything else, they were edgy as hell, unsure what was coming next, and casting uneasy, curious glances at her—the unknown intruder—trying to figure out who the hell she was and what she was doing here.

  Stan didn't keep them guessing for long.

  "Good morning, everyone, and thanks for being here on such short notice," he began. "I apologize for the late start. I came from Mount Sinai. The traffic was miserable." He folded his hands on the table, looking pretty green around the gills himself. The poor man had to open the meeting by breaking the worst kind of news imaginable to a group already reeling from a murder attempt on their CEO.

  "Let me start by putting at least one concern to rest," he wisely prefaced things by saying. "There's no upsetting announcement about Carson's health. He's stable. I just spent a half hour with him. He was awake, talking, maybe even a little stronger than yesterday. That having been said, he was terribly upset. So am I. There's no easy way to break this to you. So I'll just say it. Last night, Russ Clark was stabbed to death outside his apartment."

  A collective gasp ran through the room.

  "I don't have any details, other than the fact that Russ's money and watch were taken, and that Detectives Whitman and Barton are investigating to determine if there's any connection between this and Carson's assault." Stan nibbed an unsteady hand across his forehead, then cleared his throat to regain his composure. "Ruisseau will be holding a small service in Russ's honor on Monday evening. A company-wide memo will go out later today with the time and place. In addition, Carson has arranged for a YouthOp fund to be set up in Russ's honor. Contributions of any size are welcome. Again, specifics will be in the memo."

  Stan gazed around the table, his own expression as bleak as those that looked back at him. "I don't have to tell you how devastated Carson is. You know how he feels about his employees. He asked me to remind you how dedicated Russ was, how hard-working, and how thorough. He would have made one hell of an investigative reporter. And he would have been furious if we let his murder bring things at Ruisseau to a grinding halt. I know it's hard to think about perfume when one of our own's been killed, and our CEO's in intensive care. But we have to put our minds and our energies into doing just that—for Russ's sake. And for Carson's. He's counting on us. I'm counting on you."

  Again, he cleared his throat. "On that note, I'm going to continue with the main—and positive—objective of this meeting." He turned toward Sabrina, gave her an encouraging smile. "I'd like to introduce Sabrina Radcliffe. She's the president and founder of the Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership in Auburn, New Hampshire. I'm sure many of you have heard of it, since its success stories are numerous, its write-ups are glowing, and, as a result, its revenues have skyrocketed in the short year it's been in existence. Smart, successful companies send their management teams there for training. We're even luckier. The president herself has come to us. She doesn't do that often, since she's inundated with work. But, in our case, she's making an exception. As you know, Carson can be very persuasive."

  A unanimous chuckle went through the room, as much from relief as from anything else. It was hardly a secret that Carson was a steamroller when he wanted something. But sharing an inside joke felt incredibly good, incredibly normal, at a time when everyone's nerves were raw and everything seemed out-of-control.

  The tension in the room thawed a bit.

  "Bottom line?" Stan concluded. "Carson is the heart and soul of Ruisseau. While he's recuperating, he wants us to stay on track. We've got tremendous momentum going, especially with the upcoming release of C'est Moi for men. We've got to build on our success and keep it going, make it stronger than ever. Sabrina's here to help us do that. She'll be at Ruisseau for an indefinite period of time, and we're very lucky to have her. She'll be reporting directly to me. She'll also be meeting with each of you on an individual basis and working with each of your departments to maximize its potential. I've told Sabrina what great team initiative we have, how we pull together under pressure, and how she can expect full cooperation from each and every one of you. So please join me in welcoming Sabrina to Ruisseau."

  Stan came to his feet, initiating the round of applause that ensued. Sabrina followed his lead, smiling as she rose to meet his handshake. "Thank you, Stan."

  "The floor's yours," he murmured, his words drowned out by the applause. "Go get 'em."

  "I'll do my best," she assured him, her voice equally quiet.

  She turned to face the group, noting the variety of expressions on the faces looking back at her—from pleased to relieved to wary.

  All perfectly normal reactions.

  "My thanks to all of you," Sabrina began as the applause subsided. "I appreciate the warm welcome." Her gaze flitted from person to person, making sure to include everyone at the table. "I'm very excited to be here. Ruisseau's success stories reach far and wide—even to the rural outskirts of New Hampshire." She got a few return smiles.

  Time to get past the dark cloud precipitating her arrival. It was the only way to get things started on the right foot. To sidestep the issue would mean erecting a permanent wall between her and the group, and she could forget maximum efficiency.

  "I was shocked and upset by what happened to Carson Brooks, and I'm even more sickened by the murder of Russ Clark," she said, grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns. "I'm used to stepping in when companies need help. Sometimes it's because they're in trouble—whether they're experiencing growing pains, adjusting to a recent reorganization, or requiring new strategic direction in order to jump to that next level. Sometimes it's because they're thriving, and their CEO wants to go that extra mile to make sure things stay that way. Your situation's different. The reasons for my being here transcend business. Your CEO was shot. That's personal, emotional, and professional, thanks to the kind of organization Carson Brooks has created. The man's a genius. Yet, he not only cares about his company, he cares about his people. That's why I'm here."

  Sabrina's shoulders lifted in an honest but rueful shrug. "Believe me, it's not easy to step in at a time like this. It's even harder to launch a new product and continue expanding Ruisseau's reach in the luxury goods market on the heels of news like the kind Stan just delivered. But I've met with Carson, and that's exactly what he wants us to do. I understand his vision for Ruisseau. I believe I can help you attain it by keeping the momentum going until Carson is back at the helm where he belongs. But I need you to work with me. In fact, to echo Stan's words, I'm counting on you—all of you."

  There were a couple of "I'm-on-board" smiles, several open, supportive expressions, an on-the-fence nod or two, and a few still-wary gazes.

  Fair enough.

  "The job title 'management consultant' is not my favorite," Sabrina continued. "Sometimes I think it's an out-and-out misnomer, since to many people it suggests I'm the one doing the managing. I'm not. I'm doing the consulting. You're doing the managing. You know this company. You know your people and your products. Without your skills, your insights, and your ability to execute, my job is pointless. So let's work together to keep Carson's dream surging ahead until he's well enough to take over himself."

  She pulled a dozen photocopied pages out of her briefcase and passed them around. "This is today's schedule. You'll see that each of you has half an hour with me. Marie has double-checked with each of your assistants to make sure there are no conflicts. If we'
ve overlooked something, let me know and I'll rearrange your time slot. No preparations are necessary. I'd just like to get to know each of you, and get a feel for the way you see your department, its challenges, and how it fits in with Ruisseau's strategic direction. Once we've talked, we can arrange full-department meetings for next week, focusing on the key initiatives and projects each department is working on."

  She waited until the pages had made their way around the table and everyone was scanning them. "Whatever unaccounted-for time I have today, I plan to use walking around with Stan, being introduced to as many staff members as possible. I'm not going to bombard you with hand-outs or espousals of my corporate philosophy. I'm not a windbag and I'm not a game-player. I'm a straight shooter, and I'd appreciate if you would be, too. If you have a problem, tell me. If you don't like an idea, say so. If you disagree with a point of view, give me your reasons why and support them with facts. And if you want to run something by me, or to say hello, or just to check me out and see if I'm really the nice person I seem to be or if I'm really a control freak who's just a great actress, come on by. My office is two doors down from Carson's. Firsthand experience is always the best way to find out."

  Gathering up her briefcase and coffee, she made a mental note of where the chuckles came from—and where they didn't. "I'm heading to my office now. My first meeting's set for eleven o'clock. That's with you, Rita." She turned to the head of marketing, ensuring that she made direct eye contact. Good. Rita was nodding, and she looked enthused.

  "So," Sabrina concluded, with a quick glance at her watch. "That gives all of you more than enough time to put your heads together and come up with an initial assessment of me." She headed for the door. "Someone will have to let me know how I measure up. See you at eleven, Rita."

  CHAPTER 19

  6:35 P.M.

  Mt. Sinai Hospital

  Carson was propped up on his elbows, watching the door like a predatory hawk, when Sabrina and Dylan walked in.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Well what?" Sabrina feigned ignorance, slipping off her jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair.

  "Well, Radison told me twenty minutes ago that you were here.... It took you this long to waltz into my room?... What'd you do, stop for a five-course dinner in the lounge?"

  "No," Dylan replied, pulling up two seats, one for himself and one for Sabrina. "We stopped to talk to Dr. Radison. We wanted an update. We had to wait. He was with another patient. There are one or two of those around, you know. Anyway, he told us you were doing better. Although I can see that for myself. You're cranky as hell." Dylan turned to Sabrina. "Like I said, he's a miserable patient."

  "No shock there," Sabrina quipped back.

  She wasn't fooled by Dylan's bantering tone. He was worried about Carson. She could see it written all over his face. And the way he was scrutinizing his friend, giving him a thorough physical inspection—it was far from subtle.

  She found herself doing the same thing.

  Walking over to Carson's bedside, she acknowledged to herself that, despite all the medical reassurances Dr. Radison had provided, she needed to see for herself that Carson was okay. She'd been uneasy all day, troubled by what his reaction must have been to Stan's news about Russ. Obviously, he'd jump to the immediate— and no doubt accurate—conclusion that there was a tie-in between his own assault and Russ's murder. So, on top of coping with his sense of loss, he'd experience a sense of guilt. He cared about his employees. He'd feel responsible. And—talk about the straw to break the camel's back—he had the additional burden of shielding and comforting Susan. He was a strong man, but he was in a weakened state. There was just so much strain he could hold up under, despite his unwavering show of bravado.

  It was amazing how well she understood this man, almost on instinct. Then again, in many ways it was like gazing in the mirror.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sabrina spotted the dialysis machine, which had reappeared in Carson's room and was now sitting idly to the side. The sight made her insides twist. Not that its being there was a surprise. She knew Carson had undergone another dialysis treatment. Dr. Radison had told them so. She'd responded by asking him to put a rush on her tissue-typing. But, according to him, that was pointless, since it would be weeks before Carson was strong enough to undergo surgery—should it be needed.

  Dammit. She was beginning to feel as frustrated and helpless as Dylan.

  "Cut it out, both of you," Carson barked out, interrupting her train of thought. "You're about as subtle as bricks.... I'm fine.... Strong as an ox... I'm just losing my mind, lying here in this bed.... Can't do anything but think. And thinking sucks."

  "I'm sorry about Russ," Sabrina said quietly, laying her hand over his.

  Carson gazed down at her fingers covering his, and an odd expression crossed his face. "Yeah, me, too." His voice was rough.

  "Everyone's going to the service," Dylan interjected, closely observing the exchange between father and daughter. "And the contributions to the YouthOp fund are spilling over on Marie's desk."

  "Yes, the line at her desk looked like passenger check-in at JFK." Sabrina heard the tremor in her voice, and she mentally beat herself up. Losing control wasn't her thing. And now certainly wasn't the time to change that. What the hell was wrong with her? It had to be fatigue and tension combined with the adrenaline drop that followed a long, roller-coaster of a day. Still, there was no excuse.

  She forced herself to get a grip.

  "My staff's the best," Carson replied. He was watching her, and Sabrina knew it. "Including Russ. I expected nothing less... than total unity." He obviously sensed Sabrina's turmoil, because he gave her hand a hard squeeze before releasing it. "Hey," he chided. "I don't fall apart that easily.... Just ask Dylan... As for that machine you were staring at... it did its job.... Dialysis is a piece of cake.... Stop worrying."

  "I'm not worrying," she retorted. This time her voice was steady. "Not only do you look better, you've got some color, you're breathing more evenly, and you're sitting up without support. As for being strong as an ox, maybe not yet, but almost—that is, if your grip's any indication." Her brows arched. "Or is it fear that's prompting your newfound strength? Are you worried that I destroyed your company in nine short hours?"

  "The thought did cross my mind."

  "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but Ruisseau's better than ever." Sabrina gave him a smug look, filled with mock-challenge. "I even came up with a few ideas you haven't—at least not yet. But when you hear them, you're going to wish you had."

  Rather than take the bait, Carson just studied her, his blue eyes probing. Abruptly, a grin curved his lips. "You're hooked. Damn. It took less time than I

  Thought… One day at the helm, and you're hooked." He settled himself on the pillows, his gaze still fixed on her. "So, how did it feel... being president of Ruisseau? What's your take on my company?"

  Sabrina sat down and crossed her legs. "The overview? Or the blow-by-blow?"

  "Both."

  Having expected that response, Sabrina was already reaching for her briefcase. "I took notes."

  "Good." While she retrieved them, Carson turned to Dylan, who'd settled himself in the other chair. "In the meantime, what'd you think? Was she all I expected?"

  "She was amazing," Dylan reported. "Slapped her cards right on the table and turned up aces. She gave the troops a few minutes to catch their breath, then plunged into basic training. She worked everyone's butt off, especially her own. Despite a few war wounds, the feedback was great. Rave reviews across the board." A wry grin. "The consensus is, she's almost as much of a slave-driver as you are, but with a slightly more genteel and persuasive delivery. In a nutshell, she's a tsunami, but no one realizes they've been hit. A brilliant strategy."

  "Gee, thanks—I think." Sabrina edged him a sideways look, although her real reaction was a one-eighty from the one she displayed. Rather than rankled, she felt pleased and reinforced by Dylan's praise. He didn't hand o
ut compliments easily. By the same token, she didn't usually need to hear them.

  If that didn't speak volumes about whatever was happening between them, nothing did. And if that was an indicator of the shape of things to come—she didn't even want to go there. Not now.

  God, there was so much emotional turmoil converging on her at once—she wondered if she was going to survive.

  "You're welcome." Dylan was watching her, and that lopsided grin went from wry to something else—something knowing and intense.

  Was it Sabrina's imagination, or was the room suddenly ten degrees warmer?

  "A subtle tsunami, huh?" Carson was muttering with great satisfaction. "Couldn't ask for more. A balls-and-diplomacy combo... Just like Gloria planned."

  That dragged Sabrina's attention away from Dylan. "Nice phraseology," she commented. "A balls-and-diplomacy combo. I sound like something you order at McDonald's." She paused in her paper-shuffling. "And what do you mean, just like Gloria planned? Did your sources turn that up when they checked out my mother?"

  "Nope... Came straight from the source... She's almost as impressive as you are."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your mother. She stopped by today."

  The briefcase slid to the floor. "My mother?" Sabrina repeated. "She was here?"

  "Yup. We had a great visit.... Long overdue, too." Carson nodded at some internal thought. "No surprise you turned out great... She's quite a person."