Kane, Andrea

by Scent of Danger

  A heartbeat of silence.

  "Yeah. It does." Carson reached out, squeezed her arm briefly before extending his hand. "Let me see that announcement."

  Sabrina gave it to him, watching his expression as he read it through. "Change anything you want," she urged. "If I had my way, it would be you making that announcement."

  "It will be." He raised his head. "What time did you call the meeting for?"

  "Five-thirty."

  "Good. That gives us plenty of time." He turned to Dylan. "Call Marie. Tell her to get me a good videographer. She's got a list of them. Find someone who's available today. I want him in ICU by this afternoon, equipment in hand. I need the works—tripod, recording deck, lights, microphone—you know the drill. In the meantime, you take care of things at the other ead. Set up the necessary VCR equipment in the conference room at Ruisseau. When the company's new president is introduced at five-thirty, the one introducing her is going to be the CEO." He handed the page back to Sabrina, gave her an approving smile. "By the way, what you wrote here is great. Use any part of it you want to. But you'll be delivering it after I make the announcement."

  Anticipation glinted in Sabrina's eyes. "Nothing would please me more."

  "Nothing, huh? I could argue that one." There was an amused, knowing look on Carson's face, and Sabrina could swear he darted a quick glance in Dylan's direction before looking back at her. "But we'll save that for another time. Right now, we have other things to discuss. Like the media. Have you thought about how you're going to handle them? Because they'll be breaking down your door by tonight"

  "I'll handle them with as much candor and as few words as possible."

  "Not a word about knowing that formula," he reminded her. "Remember."

  "I remember."

  "Now let's get to Gloria. Have you run all this by her?"

  "We discussed it over the weekend. She's steeled and ready, prepped for the media feeding-frenzy that'll take place in Massachusetts—Rockport and Boston. She'll run interference for my grandparents, and address what- ever personal questions she has to. She's a pro when it comes to the press."

  "Not a surprise. She's a class act. Will your grandparents be okay?

  "My fingers are crossed, but, yes, I think they will be. I'll call them as soon as I leave the hospital and tell them everything they need to know, including the tissue-typing results. They need to hear the entire situation, and they need to hear it directly from me. I can handle it. And, in the long run, so can they."

  Carson frowned. "I hate that you have to go through this. This whole scandal thing is what I wanted to spare you from."

  "I know. But I'm tough. I inherited that from both my parents—and my grandparents, too. Wait till you meet them. They're pretty damned formidable."

  "So I hear." Carson was clearly preoccupied, and not with apprehension over meeting her grandparents. "The media's been getting updates on my health," he said pensively. "They know where things stand. Once news that you're my biological daughter leaks out, they're going to jump all over the kidney issue."

  "Fine. Again, I'll stick to the facts, giving as few details as possible. I'll say the doctors are still hopeful that your kidneys will resume normal function. I'll add that, in the meantime, I'm being tested, but I don't have any conclusive results. When I do, they will, too. Period."

  "Shit. This is going to turn into a tabloid circus." Carson rubbed his forehead.

  "If it does, it does. We'll deal with it." Sabrina lay her hand on his arm. "Carson, you can't let this upset you. It'll affect your blood pressure, and your recovery. I've already told you my family will survive this. I'll make sure of it. As for Ruisseau, your staff's a tight, united bunch. Their only concerns are making the company thrive and finding out who shot you. Sure, they'll have some adjustments to my stepping in as president, but they're not about to be thrown by a bunch of reporters grilling them over your being a sperm donor. Is it Susan you're worried about? Will she flip out over the press coverage?"

  "What?" Carson looked at Sabrina as if she were crazy. "Of course not. Susan's known this was coming since we told her who you are. Besides, talk about a pro. She's so used to having flashbulbs go off in her face and being asked if I'm as good a lay as I am a businessman, that nothing frazzles her. No, I'm not worried about Susan. Or about Ruisseau. It's you I'm worried about. You're going to be getting it from all sides—your grandparents, antsy staff members from CCTL and Ruisseau, eager news correspondents, and scum-of-the-earth tabloid reporters. You're already carrying the whole goddamned world on your shoulders. The last thing you need is another load. Goddammit, if I were only out of here, I could shield you from some of it...." He slammed his fist to the bed. "This sucks." His head jerked around, and he gazed straight at Dylan. "You're going to have to do it for me. Take care of her. Do what you can."

  Dylan nodded, although his expression was wary, as if he were trying to figure out how much Carson knew. "I will. I'd already planned to."

  "I figured as much. I don't know what you had in mind, but get her away from Ruisseau and from her apartment tonight. The press will be camped outside both. Take her to your place. Cook dinner. You make a decent linguini in white clam sauce. It wouldn't make Zagat's top fifty, but it's better than average."

  "Gee, thanks. Okay, I'll be Julia Child and the diversionary committee all rolled into one. Not to worry."

  "Excuse me," Sabrina interrupted. "I'm not some fragile piece of china that needs to be handled gingerly. I won't break."

  "I know." Carson dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. "You're tough as nails. No surprise. You're my daughter. Which is exactly the problem—you're my daughter. And, hell, was Gloria right about the protective instincts this whole parent scene conjures up. I'm just beginning to find out what a wimp you become when your kid's well-being's at stake." He snorted. "This fatherhood thing is something else."

  Sabrina smiled, not only at Carson's words, but at his expression. He might be bitching up a storm, but he didn't look upset. What he looked, was self-satisfied and overprotective. Like he was settling into the father role quite comfortably, rather than with the irritation he was feigning.

  "That takes care of the media issue," he concluded. "So, we've covered kidney donors, sperm donors, and presidential announcements. Before we kick into high gear with this videotaping thing, is there anything else? Any other bombs you want to drop on me today? Any business issues we need to discuss?"

  That brought Sabrina down to earth with a thud.

  She hesitated, unsure whether or not now was the time.

  Instantly, Carson picked up on her hesitation. "What is it?"

  "It's Stan," she forced herself to say. "I feel really uncomfortable broaching this topic, not only because Stan's helped me adjust, but because you two go back so many years. Unfortunately, I think I have to."

  "This is business. Not personal. Shoot. What's on your mind about Stan?"

  "To be blunt, he's a mess. I have no idea what's wrong, but he's coming apart at the seams. It's possible he's having trouble adjusting to my role at Ruisseau— my real role, since he's the only other person who knows the whole truth—or it's possible he's having trouble adjusting to my place in your life. Or maybe it's something entirely different. Whatever it is, I seem to be the only one who's picked up on this in a major way. That could be because he's more on edge around me. I remember your implying he had an issue with self-esteem. I think we should get into that so I'll have a better handle on how to deal with him."

  "You're not the only one who's picked up on it," Dylan corrected, catching her completely by surprise. "I have, too."

  Sabrina gave him a startled look. "You never mentioned anything."

  "You never brought up the subject."

  She couldn't argue that point. "Fair enough. Then again, neither did you."

  "Yes he did," Carson refuted. "Dylan brought it to my attention this weekend. I was wondering when you'd do the same, and stop letting personal feelings s
tand in the way of that corporate shark you were describing before. This is my company. Yours, too, for that matter. There's no room for stupid emotions like guilt or discomfort."

  "What about a stupid emotion like insecurity? Doesn't that apply?"

  "You win on that one," Carson conceded. "I'm a soft touch when it comes to Stan. It's a problem. Don't let me get away with it. When I need a swift kick in the ass, give it to me."

  "With pleasure," Sabrina replied sweetly.

  "Here's the story with Stan. Yeah, we go way back together. I told you he worked for that fertility specialist your mother went to at the time of the donor insemination. Stan's the one who tipped me off to what this mystery lady was looking for, and how much she was willing to pay the right sperm donor. He encouraged me to go for it. I did. And with the twenty thousand dollars Gloria paid me, I started Ruisseau. For me, that was the beginning of everything."

  "So you felt indebted to Stan."

  "Big time. He's a great guy, and a great friend. On top of that, he's sharp, with a good business mind. Hiring him was a no-brainer. We didn't use fancy titles like COO back then. There weren't enough of us to bother with titles, anyway. And I was never one for protocol. Hey, I wasn't exactly your typical corporate exec. I spent most of my time playing around in the lab or scribbling ideas in a notebook."

  A nostalgic grin touched Carson's lips. "I was determined to make the sexiest-smelling perfumes in the business. Hell, I was twenty-two. At that age, sex is a top priority—the number one recreational activity. Although even sex didn't give me the high that building Ruisseau did. Anyway, I had some pretty tough competition. The powerhouse designers, the European perfumers—everyone was fighting to control the market on whatever scent was the rage that year. The professional woman's scent, the outdoor macho-guy's scent, the romantic evening by candlelight scent and, of course, the supreme accomplishment—to create the ultimate turn-on fragrance that set every man or woman on fire."

  "C'est Moi certainly fills that bill," Sabrina murmured. "I've never smelled anything so sensual."

  "Yeah, well, it took years to perfect. Then there were all our other scents—formulating them, fine-tuning them, test-marketing them, promoting them, and sometimes trashing them. Stan was right there with me through all the research, all the frustration, all the setbacks. He screwed up two marriages because of the number of hours he spent at work. He busted his ass, and I mean busted his ass. Even when something didn't come easy to him, he never balked. He just kept at it until he could master it; or, if not master it, at least be comfortable working with it. At times that's been rough."

  Sabrina pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I get it. I'm reading between the lines. What you're saying is that Stan is bright, but he's not the genius you are. Few people are. But few people have to work right beside you. Stan does. And sometimes he feels the strain."

  Carson nodded. "Something like that. So my guess about this past week is that he's seeing me in you all over again. It's probably throwing him for a loop. Not to mention that the cops are all over him. Apparently, they questioned both his ex-wives. Not a fun scene. So try to cut him some slack, okay?"

  She frowned. "Why would Whitman and Barton question Stan's ex-wives? Is he up there on the suspect list now?"

  "He was asleep in front of the TV the evening I was shot. That doesn't count as an alibi, not in their minds. And he acts like a nervous wreck around them, which makes them more suspicious."

  "Yeah, well, everyone's a little testy around those two," Sabrina muttered. "I almost punched them out when they implied my mother was a suspect." An uneasy thought struck her, and she attacked it head-on. "Carson, you said I shouldn't let you be a soft touch when it comes to Stan. So I'll ask you flat out—is there any chance he is the one who shot you?"

  "Nope." Carson didn't looked pissed off by her suggestion. But he did look certain of his reply. "Sentiment aside, I know Stan's innocent."

  "How can you be so sure? If his insecurity runs deeper than you realize, isn't it possible that his feeling of being second-best drove him to do something drastic—even if it's something he regretted as soon as he'd done it?" She paused, rolling her eyes. "God, I sound like something out of a bad movie."

  "Yeah, actually you do." A corner of Carson's mouth lifted. "I guess daughters can be as irrational and over-protective as fathers."

  "I guess so."

  "To answer your question, Stan's insecurities are irrelevant. He didn't do it. How do I know? Easy. Because I'm still sitting here talking to you. The gunshot wasn't fatal. If Stan had pulled the trigger, I'd be six feet under. He's a crackerjack shot."

  Sabrina tensed. "Stan owns a gun?"

  "Calm down. No, not anymore. But when we were in our twenties, when we lived in that first dump we shared, hell yeah, he owned a gun. It was a cheap nine millimeter by the way, not a twenty-two. Anyway, Stan was convinced we were sitting ducks for muggers and lunatic drug addicts. He drove himself crazy thinking they would break in and kill us for the pathetic wad of cash—maybe twenty or thirty bucks—that we had on us. Finally, he did something about it. He went out and took shooting lessons. He was good—damned good. I watched him at target practice a couple of times, and it was one bull's-eye after another. He bought the gun for protection, then sold it when we moved up and out."

  "That was years ago," Sabrina pointed out, feeling compelled to see this notion through, no matter how crazy or farfetched. "If he hasn't held a gun in all this time, he could be rusty. That would explain a less than dead-on shot."

  "Uh-uh." Carson shook his head. "He got rid of the gun, not the skill. He still drives up to a shooting range in Yonkers a couple of times a week for target practice. It's good for his ulcer; it helps him let off steam. And, before you ask, yeah, I know for a fact he hasn't lost his touch. A couple of months ago, he rode up with Susan and me to her parents' farm, and did some outdoor target practice. He was dead-on accurate every time. Trust me, Sabrina. If Stan had been the one who shot me, I'd be dead."

  "Okay." Sabrina felt a surge of relief. Regardless of her concerns over Stan's behavior, she truly liked the man. And while she had a hard time picturing him as Wyatt Earp, she was pretty sure she understood the gist of who he was. The thought that she could be so wrong about someone, that he would actually shoot Carson in cold blood—well, it was something she didn't want to consider.

  "Feel better?" Carson asked.

  "Um-hum." Sabrina's wheels were turning, this time in a slightly different direction. "Carson, would you mind if I met with Stan privately and told him what was on my mind? Not about the shooting, obviously, but about my concern that it's me who's making him ill at ease? I think I could help smooth things over without pushing any buttons or rubbing the second-best thing in his face. Plus, I want to give him a heads-up about the announcement we're making this afternoon. He deserves to know ahead of time, not find out along with everyone else."

  "That's fine with me. Go for it. The more you bond with Stan, the more productive your work relationship will be..."

  "... and, as a result, the more productive Ruisseau will be," Sabrina finished for him.

  "You got it."

  "Done." Sabrina rose. "I'm out of here. I've got a million things to do. First up, is calling my mother and grandparents. I'll do that in the limo. I'll also call CCTL, set up a conference call with Deborah and Mark. They know pieces of the puzzle, but they need to be aware of the entire situation, including the fact that the press is going to be camped on their doorstep. Once that's done, I'll torn my attention back to Ruisseau. I've got to get things on track, read those reports, go over the R&D results, see if Stan's free for lunch, have Donna and Marie get the conference room ready..."

  "Hey, easy," Dylan interrupted. "You'll collapse by noon. I'll get going on the videographer. After that, I can supervise the conference room setup."

  "You've got a pile of legal papers so high you can't see your desk."

  "They'll wait a day. This comes first."

 
"Don't forget dinner," Carson reminded him. "At your place. I don't want Sabrina going to her apartment tonight. Not until every reporter's either given up and gone home, or fallen asleep on the sidewalk."

  "I haven't forgotten." Dylan looked distinctly amused. "I'll even brew espresso. That'll kill time and keep us both up until the wee hours, when I can sneak Sabrina past the snoozing media-mongers. Okay?"

  "Not really." Carson scowled. "Then you'll both be wired till dawn, and crash just in time to screw up a day's work."

  "There's no pleasing you, is there?" Sabrina said with mock irritation. "Why don't I just bring a sleeping bag and camp out on Dylan's living room rug?"

  "Now that's an idea. Not the living room rug part—I think Dylan can come up with something better than that. But staying at his place? Good solution. See? And you said there's no pleasing me." Carson waved the two of them off before they could probe his underlying meaning, which was becoming increasingly clear with each pointed comment. The question was, how much of his Cupid-playing was based on having actually figured out what was going on, and how much was based on matchmaking for what he hoped would go on?

  "Well? Get going," he ordered them. "You've got your work cut out for you. Oh, and on your way out, tell someone at the desk to page Radison and let him know about the taping in ICU later today. If he gives his okay without bitching or making trouble, maybe I'll be nice and give him a twenty-second walk-on part."

  CHAPTER 23

  11:20 A.M.

  Midtown North Precinct

  Frank chewed his piece of gum like a demon, partly because he was starving and partly because he was frustrated as hell.

  This damn Brooks shooting kept turning up more questions and fewer answers.

  The bullet analysis had been a bust. Ballistics couldn't tell them a thing besides what they already knew—that it was a badly distorted slug fired by a .22 Walther TPH from below and behind the victim. Nice gun. Light. Easy to hide. Not hard to get. Not cheap. But the suspects in this case weren't poor.