Kane, Andrea

by Scent of Danger

  "Don't look so stunned," Sabrina said dryly. "Did you think that because I'm smart and self-assured that I was just taking this whole thing in my stride? If so, I'm either a better actress than I thought or you're not looking close enough. Carson's my father, yes. But he's had twenty-eight years to earn the respect he gets. I'm a rookie by comparison. Raw talent's nice. But it's just the beginning. I've got a lot to learn about Ruisseau. That's why I'm so appreciative of what you and Dylan have done for me. You've helped make this transition easier. I can't thank you enough. That's part of what I wanted to say, one of the reasons I asked you to have lunch with me."

  Stan put down his roast beef sandwich. He had an odd expression on his face, like he wasn't quite sure how to handle her personal candor. "You're welcome," he said simply.

  "As for the other reason I wanted to have lunch, that one I'm sure you guessed."

  "You want to talk about this afternoon's meeting."

  "Right. Obviously, you realize it's something pretty important for me to assemble the entire staff. Well, you deserve a heads-up about the agenda, not only because of the support you've shown me and because you're the company's COO, but because of the special place you nave in Carson's life."

  "You're coming clean, so to speak," Stan guessed, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing it. "You're telling everyone who you are to Carson and what you are to Ruisseau."

  "Yes." She nodded, watching Stan's reaction. He looked pensive, yes. But he also looked exhausted. And torn. That part was weird. What kind of internal battle was he fighting? Okay, fine, he was freaked out by having another Carson-type at the helm. That much Sabrina got But there was something else eating at him. What was it?

  "I think it's time we got my identity out in the open," she continued, still scrutinizing Stan's face, his body language. "Obviously, so does Carson. I hope you feel the same way."

  "Yeah, I do." His answer was blunt and, seemingly, frank. "It'll make things much easier once you're official—in both a personal and a professional capacity. Secrets never manage to stay that way for long. After today, everyone will know who you are and what your future is at Ruisseau. And they'll hear it from you."

  "Actually, they'll hear it from Carson. He's making the announcement himself, by videotape."

  "Even better. It'll hold more weight coming from him." A quick glance at Sabrina. "No offense intended."

  "None taken. You're right. Like I said, I harbor no illusions about my place in this company. Carson's the heart and soul of Ruisseau. That's never going to change." She leaned forward, trying a tactic she hoped would work. "Stan, you don't need to walk on eggshells around me. I'm tough. I don't fly off the handle when I'm challenged. And I refuse to accept special treatment because I'm Carson's daughter. I'm counting on you to remember that, and to make sure everyone else does, too. The staff will follow your lead. If you kowtow to me, they will, too. In which case, I can't do my job, and Ruisseau can't fulfill its potential. Agreed?"

  He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing it slowly as he considered what she'd said. "Yeah," he said finally, with a terse nod. "Agreed. Although I won't lie to you. This is going to take some getting used to."

  "I never thought otherwise. That's what change is about. On the other hand, only idiots fix what's not broken, or implement change for change's sake without retaining the strengths of the previous organization. You've been here since the beginning. Tell me what works. Yell at me if I screw up. Believe me, Carson does. Constantly."

  A hint of amusement. "I'll remember that."

  "You won't have to. You'll hear him. He's not shy about putting me in my place." She propped her elbows on the desk, interlacing her fingers and resting her chin on them. "There's one more thing. It's good news—very good news, although I'm not supplying the press with details. My blood test results came back. My compatibility as a donor match is very high. If it becomes necessary, I'm pretty sure I can give Carson one of my kidneys."

  Stan blew out a huge—and very genuine—sigh of relief. "That's the best news I've heard yet. Thanks for telling me." He paused, a flicker of comprehension dawning in his eyes. "I'm not the only one you told. You must have spoken with your family, and with CCTL. No wonder you look so beat."

  She nodded. "It was a rough morning, yes."

  "Your grandparents must be overwrought."

  "They'll handle it. So will I."

  "What about Dylan?"

  Sabrina blinked. "What about him?"

  "I assume he knows."

  "He was with me when I told Carson, yes."

  "That must have been a pleasant conversation," Stan noted wryly. "Did Carson blow your head off?"

  "Pretty much. But we came to terms."

  "And Dylan? How did he take the news of your test results?" Stan gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "He must be torn—concern over you, concern over Carson. I don't envy the guy."

  Okay, now Sabrina was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm not following you. Dylan is as relieved as I am, and as you are. This was the outcome we were hoping for. It's why Dylan flew up to New Hampshire to find me to begin with—as you well know."

  "Sure, but that was before you and he—" Stan broke off, abruptly realizing he was trespassing on a do-not- enter zone. "Sorry. I didn't mean to overstep. Let's change the subject."

  Dammit. Stan knew about her and Dylan. How? And who else knew?

  "Sabrina, relax," Stan said, responding to the brooding expression on her face. "No one's gossiping at the water-coolers. It's just speculation, although the vibes between the two of you are kind of hard to miss. But so what? Dylan's Ruisseau's corporate counsel. You're Ruisseau's president. There's no big-time conflict of interest that I can see. So live your life and don't worry about what people say or think."

  "Like you do?" The question was out before she could censor it.

  His eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

  There was no turning back now. Still, she chose her words carefully. "It means you worry a lot more than I do about the way you're perceived. In my case, I'm choosing to keep my private life private. In your case, you're eating yourself alive. Cut it out, Stan. No, you're not Carson. No one expects you to be. You're good at your job. You'd never do anything to compromise Ruisseau's interests or to hurt its CEO. And that's all that matters— right?"

  For a long moment, Stan just stared at her. He looked as if he'd been punched. A flush crept up his neck and a myriad of emotions flashed across his face—surprise and irritation, which Sabrina had expected—mixed with something that looked disturbingly like self-consciousness and guilt. "Right," he said finally. Blowing out his breath, he dropped back in his seat. "You're a piece of work, Sabrina. Talk about a Carson-clone."

  She'd upset him. That was a definite. But whether that was because he was disconcerted by her blunt analysis or whether it was something deeper and more serious—the jury was still out on that one.

  "Look, Stan, I didn't mean to insult you," she said, deciding that now was not the time to pursue this. "I'm stressed out and tired. Let's concentrate on getting through today. Then, we'll set guidelines for the future, okay?"

  "Works for me," Stan replied stiffly.

  "Good." She gestured for him to eat. "Let's polish off these sandwiches. I've got so much to do between now and five-thirty, I might have to skip that trip to the ladies' room where I smack myself around for courage."

  He nodded.

  The rest of the meal lasted less than fifteen minutes, during which time they made perfunctory chitchat. Sabrina knew Stan was still pissed off or freaked out by what she'd said. But that wasn't what was bothering her. She'd find a way to smooth things over, to get their relationship back on the right foot—if that's all that was needed.

  What was really bothering her was that she couldn't get past her own uneasiness. Something about Stan wasn't sitting right. His anxiety smacked of more than insecurity. And what had he meant by the statement that secrets didn't manage to stay that way f
or long? Why did she feel like there was some kind of underlying message there, something he hadn't meant to let slip?

  When it came to Stan Hager, Sabrina felt a fine layer of mistrust that she just couldn't get past.

  CHAPTER 24

  6:23 P.M.

  Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

  You could have heard a pin drop in the conference room when Carson Brooks finished his taped statement and the screen went dark.

  Someone flipped the lights back on, and Sabrina wasn't surprised to see more than a hundred pairs of eyes staring at her. The wall between the two main conference rooms had been removed, opening it into one huge room so that everyone could fit inside. The meeting was closed, a staff-only event, but Marie had faxed a brief statement to the press minutes before the meeting began, which was doubtless being delivered on business networks everywhere as breaking news. Sabrina knew what would be waiting for her outside the building tonight when she left.

  That was for later. For now she had the staff—a stunned, curious throng of people watching her and waiting for her comments.

  She hadn't expected to be this choked up. Carson's words hadn't been sentimental or emotional. They'd been factual. He'd simply stated that she was his daughter, that he'd only recently learned of her existence, and that he was delighted to announce her joining Ruisseau on a permanent basis as its newly appointed president, reporting directly to him. He said he suspected they'd all be reading colorful details about Sabrina's conception and her prominent family in the newspapers over the next few weeks, and he urged them to use discretion when they were grilled by the media, and compassion and consideration before bombarding their new president with questions. He concluded by saying that they were fortunate to have someone of Sabrina's caliber, quality, and professional experience as Ruisseau's president. He then asked for everyone's cooperation in making her transition a positive one, and urged everyone to join him in welcoming Sabrina to her new place at Ruisseau.

  It was a carefully planned, well-executed announcement.

  Carson had given Sabrina his ringing endorsement, while keeping the facts scarce to allow her to pick up the ball and run with it in whatever direction she chose. As for spin, he'd left that to the media.

  So there was no explanation for why Sabrina felt emotional. Yet she did. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of a pivotal precipice—one that, once she leaped across it, would change her life forever.

  The prospect was exhilarating and daunting all at once.

  She wet her lips, walked to the head of the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dylan, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched her. Stan was beside him, looking sheet-white, which was no surprise, given that Detectives Whitman and Barton were hovering next to him, just inside the door. They'd explained their appearance by saying Carson had asked them to come—which Sabrina didn't doubt—but it hadn't stopped them from closeting themselves in Stan's office for half an hour, grilling him about God-knows-what.

  She couldn't think about that now.

  Glancing down at the sheet of paper in her hands, Sabrina abruptly folded it in two and put it aside.

  "I'd prepared something to say," she told the staff. "But as I look it over, the words seem suddenly very trite. Suffice it to say that as shocked and overwhelmed as you feel, I was twice as shocked and overwhelmed. I've had time for the reality to sink in. Oh, I'm still a little overwhelmed. But I'm also honored. Honored, proud, and excited. You know what I want for this company. I told you my vision the day I came on board—some of you in person, some in a memo I distributed. If anything, a week with all of you has made me want that vision for Ruisseau even more. I intend to make it happen, with your help, and with Carson at the helm. Rather than having me talk endlessly, why don't you ask the questions that are on your minds, and I'll do my best to answer them. And don't be shy. Believe me, the press won't be."

  A titter went through the room.

  Sabrina spent the next hour discussing professional issues—reassuring people that their jobs would remain intact, that Ruisseau would continue on its present track and with its current objectives—and addressing more human issues—admitting that she'd been shocked and awed to find out Carson Brooks was her father, acknowledging that she still had kinks to work out before she was comfortable with the balancing act of running CCTL and being president of Ruisseau.

  The last few questions were the hardest.

  "Ms. Radcliffe," Claude Phelps asked, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. "What about the formula for C'est Moi—has Carson shared that with you?"

  Sabrina didn't blink or avert her gaze. "I'm not going to answer that question, Claude. Because it's not mine to field. Whatever decisions our CEO chooses to make, or not to make, are his to disclose. I'll only answer questions that pertain to me, to my vision for Ruisseau, or to my philosophies as they might affect you. Any questions you have for Carson, you'll have to take up with him personally."

  Claude scowled, but fell silent. Across the room, Dylan gave her a thumbs-up.

  "I'll take one more question," Sabrina stipulated. She was starting to feel a little woozy. "Then we'll call it a day." A day. Right. With the media hounds waiting outside. "Yes?" She acknowledged Eve Rogers, one of Ruisseau's up-and-coming product managers, who'd stuck her hand nervously in the air.

  "I may be out of line," Eve began, shifting a bit as she spoke. "But I know we're all wondering—and worrying—about Mr. Brooks's health. Could you tell us what's rumor and what's fact? Will he be all right?"

  Sabrina nodded, bracing herself for where she knew this was headed. "Carson is the strongest human being I've ever met. He's going to pull through this. I'm sure you saw that much from watching him on tape. He's chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital and back to his desk. Just ask the nurses. They're drawing straws to see who's forced to go in there and deal with him in his current—intolerant, shall we say—state of mind." She smiled, as a universal chuckle echoed through the room. "By the way, no, you're not out of line. Everyone at Ruisseau cares about Carson. He regards all of you as his family. I think you know that."

  "We do." The young woman stood up straighter, pushing her glasses higher on the rim of her nose. "What about his kidneys? Have they recovered, or are they still failing?"

  "The doctors are being cautious on that prognosis," Sabrina replied. "Apparently, in some cases, it can take up to two months for kidney function to return. The bullet caused a lot of trauma. So it's too soon to tell."

  "Meaning his kidneys aren't functioning now?"

  "Right. He's had several dialysis treatments, and responded very well to them. He's playing the waiting game—not very well, as I said—the same way we are." She rolled her eyes. "Trust me. Mount Sinai will never be the same."

  Another chuckle went through the room.

  "Ms. Radcliffe—" Eve asked what she, and everyone else, really wanted to know. "We're aware that the hospital was searching for a compatible donor match. Since you're Mr. Brooks's natural child, I was just wondering..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked a little panicked that she'd overstepped.

  "You were wondering if I'd been tested to see if I fit the bill," Sabrina finished for her. "The answer is yes, I have been tested. We don't have conclusive results yet. The process is complicated, and may take up to a month to complete. But when those results are in and when I have more current information on Carson's kidney prognosis, I'll share the outcome with all of you. In return, I ask that you pass as little as possible on to the press, out of respect for Carson's privacy. Is that fair enough?"

  A uniform nod and a murmur of yeses ran through the room.

  "Thank you. I'm sure we'd all like to go home and get some rest. This has been quite a day—for all of us. I'll be at my desk bright and early tomorrow morning, ready and eager to assume my new responsibilities. I appreciate all of you taking the time to be here to share in this announcement."

  Sabrina was aware of the applause, bu
t she was so light-headed that she wondered if she'd embarrass herself by fainting on her way down from the head of the table. She walked slowly, methodically, stepping into a swarm of people who had no more desire to let her go home to rest than they had to dance naked in the streets.

  She was screwed. She'd be here for hours.

  As if on cue, Dylan made his way through the crowd, planted himself in Sabrina's path. "Excuse me, Sabrina, but I need you to sign some legal papers before you head out. I don't mean to keep you, but I've got to get the documents over to Carson tonight."

  "All right. Fine." She wanted to weep with gratitude as he pressed a firm palm against the small of her back and practically shoved her out of the room.

  In the hall, he took her arm, led her down the corridor and toward his office.

  Sabrina blinked in surprise when she saw Detectives Whitman and Barton standing outside Dylan's door. She hadn't seen them leave the conference room.

  "Your limo's parked outside, right near Fifth," Whitman informed Sabrina. "The press is gathered around it like a bunch of hornets. Go out of the building, veer toward Sixth, and head over to the park. We have a squad car there that'll get you to Mr. Newport's apartment intact."

  "Thank you so much," Sabrina breathed.

  "Don't thank us. It was your father's idea." Barton folded his arms across his chest. "A pretty good one, though, judging from what's going on. Congratulations, by the way."

  Sabrina didn't have time to answer. Dylan was already dragging her toward the elevator.

  The next few minutes were a blur. The elevator down to the second floor. The stairs the rest of the way down, letting them out on the far side of the lobby. Veering outside. Getting swallowed up in rush-hour pedestrian traffic. Central Park. The welcome sight of a NYPD squad car.

  Manhattan traffic had never looked so good.

  An unknown time later, they turned onto West 76th Street, stopping in front of Dylan's apartment. He tugged her out of the squad car, unlocked his front door, and pulled her inside.