Carson's lips thinned into a grim line. "You're sure the press didn't get to her?"
"Positive. Although from what I hear, things are hopping at Beacon Hill, and the phones are ringing off the hook at CCTL."
"Shit. How do you know that?"
"We checked with Gloria Radcliffe. She filled us in."
"Is Gloria home or with her parents?"
"She's home. Her parents went to bed. A rough day for them, I gather."
"Shit," Carson repeated. "Okay, I'll take it from here. Except for one thing. What do you think about assigning police protection to Sabrina?"
Jeannie blew out a breath. "Realistically? There's no way. Not the way you mean. We can beef up police presence near your office, even arrange for routine check-ins with Sabrina, and a patrol car monitoring her neighborhood at night. But round-the-clock one-on-one protection? Uh-uh."
"Then I'll hire a bodyguard."
If Carson was expecting a protest, he didn't get one. "I don't blame you. It's your daughter. Your job is to protect her. Ours is to make sure there's nothing to protect her from."
"I hear you." Carson's wheels were turning. "I'll take care of my end. You take care of yours." A pause. "And detective?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
He disconnected the call, then peered over at his nightstand where he'd placed a napkin with a phone number scribbled on it. He grabbed the napkin and punched up the number.
"Who are you calling?" Susan asked, perching at the edge of the bed.
"Gloria Radcliffe. I want to make sure everything there is okay."
Susan looked puzzled. "Why not call Sabrina? I'm sure she's spoken to her mother."
"I'm sure she has." For the first time, Carson's features relaxed, and he shot Susan a hint of a grin. "But I'm not bothering Sabrina. Not tonight."
"You think she's conked out?"
"Nope. I think she's otherwise engaged."
"Ah." Susan got his drift, and fast. "You're hoping that she and Dylan are solidifying things."
"That's a classy way of putting it. But, yeah, that's what I'm hoping." He turned his attention to the phone, as Gloria's answering machine picked up, instructing the caller to leave a message.
"Hey, Gloria, it's Carson," he announced. "I'm sure you're screening your calls, but if you're there, pick up. I want to—"
"Hello, Carson," Gloria interrupted him, sounding bone-weary and worn. "Is everything all right?"
"That's what I called to ask you," he replied. "I'm fine. Status quo. Susan's here, she sneaked me in some decent food, and all's well." His hand tightened on the receiver. "How bad is it?"
"About what I expected. My mother swallowed a tranquilizer, my father swallowed two martinis, and the phones have been ringing off the hook—in Boston and here. The good news is, the photo of me that they're flashing on the business networks is flattering and shows off one of my newer designs. So that's good for business."
Carson chuckled. "You're one strong lady, you know that."
"So I've been told."
He cleared his throat. "I tried bullying Sabrina out of the transplant. It didn't work."
"I knew it wouldn't."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. This is what I expected. And concern for my child—our child—aside, I'm relieved that she can help you, assuming you still need the help by then."
Carson exhaled sharply. "When are you flying down?"
"When my parents either calm down or agree to join me. Right now, they've got an army of friends who want answers. The head of their damned country club even called. It's like Peyton Place revisited. It brings to mind all the reasons why I left Beacon Hill."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Just get well," Gloria said quietly. "Soon. Sabrina's going to need you, and not just at work. I didn't meet Dylan Newport yet, but I intend to, the minute I get back to New York. I've been paying attention to that personal situation you hinted about..."
"And?"
"And you're definitely onto something. When Sabrina called before... let's just say that, killer day or not, she was very relieved that Dylan was with her. It was nothing she said, just her tone. The same tone I've been hearing all week. Sabrina's not the mushy type, or at least she never was till now. Something's brewing. And that something is Dylan. In which case—let's just say I'd be as thrilled as you if our daughter's heart led her to follow a traditional path."
"Like down an aisle?"
"Um-hum. And if that happens, guess who's got to be strong enough to be her escort?" Gloria sounded as if the one bright spot in her life right now was the fact that Sabrina might have found her key to happiness. "Like I said, she's going to need you. So get well soon."
"Count on it," Carson assured her. "In the meantime, when things get tough over the next few days, soothe yourself with the fact that you and I are going to have some amazing grandchildren in the not-too-distant-future."
A slight chuckle. "I'll do that."
"Stay in touch."
"I will."
Carson placed the phone back in its cradle. He stared broodingly at it, wishing like hell he could get out of this goddamned hospital bed and move life's events along— on the investigation front, on Sabrina and Dylan's courtship front. He needed to be in control, to make things happen. This whole victim routine—lying here, doing nothing—it was killing him. His fists clenched at his sides, as he fought the incredible sense of pent-up frustration and impotence.
"Hey." Susan unclenched one of his fists, and interlaced her fingers with his. "Everything will work out. You'll see."
"Yeah, I know," he replied with a scowl. "But it would work out a helluva lot faster if I were the one running the show."
"You will be. Before you know it, this whole ordeal will be over and you'll be in control again."
"That's not good enough." His scowl deepened. "Time's not on our side. I've got this bad feeling. It keeps nagging at my gut. I don't know what it means. But I don't like it."
11:35 P.M.
Yonkers, New York
The garden apartments were on the Yonkers-Tuckahoe border, a nice area in Westchester County to call home. The buildings were brick, modern, but with a homey touch. Set back from the main road, they were hidden by a line of pine trees, planted to ensure the privacy of the tenants. The apartments weren't inordinately expensive, not by today's standards, but they were tasteful, with manicured grounds, an outdoor swimming pool, and a small tennis court reserved for residents only. As for the tenants themselves, they were, by-and-large, in their thirties and forties, upwardly mobile and financially comfortable. Many of them commuted daily to Manhattan, hopping on the train and riding the short distance on Metro North to Grand Central Station.
For a single woman like Karen Shepard, who spent most of her life at the office, building a solid foundation in a solid corporation, and the rest of her time with friends or at the gym, it was a great place to live. Especially since she wanted to keep a low profile, to live somewhere where the tenants came home tired and late, and were, on the whole, too wrapped up in their own lives to pry into hers. That way, Stan could drop by and spend two or three nights a week in her bed—during both his married and his unmarried years—without anyone noticing or, quite frankly, caring.
It was a great arrangement for them both.
Except that when Stan veered into the parking lot that night, he felt anything but great.
He jumped out of his car and made his way to the double glass doors outside Karen's building. Impatiently, he pressed the button marked 3F, and paced around, waiting.
The answering buzzer sounded.
He grabbed the door, yanked it open, and tore through the lobby and up the stairs like gangbusters.
She was expecting him. He'd called her earlier this evening to say he was coming, then again from the car to let her know he was on his way. They hadn't originally made plans to see each other tonight. But after his late-day interrogation—which had thrown him so b
adly he'd puked up his lunch—their getting together was a necessity. And not just for sexual pleasure or mutual gain. For survival.
Karen opened the door the minute she heard Stan's footsteps, stepped aside to let him in. He blew by her, wired to the hilt. Even so, he felt that sharp jolt of sexual awareness he always felt in her presence, the same pull that had drawn them together the first time they'd met, and still made him hard the minute he saw her. Even at a time like this, when his life was in chaos and his ulcer was about to eat him alive, she got to him.
She looked sensational, as always, her honey-brown hair loose and silky, curling around her shoulders as if to embrace them. Her robe was a delicate Chinese print, belted around her slender waist, concealing every inch of that incredible skin he couldn't get enough of. Her dark eyes were filled with questions as she shut the door behind him.
Jesus, he thought, turning to face her. Between her pristine attire and that wide-eyed expression, she looked more like a young virgin on her wedding night than a forty-one-year-old woman who'd been his lover for nearly two decades and was practically insatiable in bed.
"What is it?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You sounded terrible on the phone. And you look worse." She sized him up for another instant, then headed over to her sideboard. "I'll make you a drink. Sit down and tell me what's going on."
"Sit down? Forget it. I can barely stand still. But I'll take the drink—a couple of them, in fact."
She poured him a shot of bourbon, and handed it to him. "One's enough. Unless you're spending the night. I don't want you driving home drunk. Can you stay?"
His brows rose as he tossed down the shot. "When have I ever been able to say no to that invitation?"
"Never," she replied frankly. "At least not till now. But tonight... something's very wrong."
"Yeah. Very wrong." He put down the glass, rubbed his forehead.
Karen watched him, more worried about his state of mind than whatever had caused it. "Stan." She walked over, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. "Whatever crisis has you so frantic, let it wait a few minutes. You need to unwind."
He made a pained sound, pulled her against him like a drowning man. "I'm not sure that's possible. I feel like a cornered rat."
"Oh, it's possible." She kissed his neck, molded herself to him until his body responded, his erection pulsing against her. "As for how you feel, I'd say you feel pretty damned good. Tense, but good. Whatever's gnawing at you, let me make it go away for a little while."
She knew what his answer would be. It always was. When it came to each other, neither of them was capable of saying no.
Stan was already unbelting her robe, pulling her toward the bedroom as he did. He pushed the garment off her shoulders, stripping off his own clothes as she lay back on the bed, waiting for him.
He took her with an intensity that bordered on violence. Afterward, he rolled away, flung an arm across his eyes, and lay there, his breathing ragged.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to be so rough."
"Don't apologize." Still breathless herself, Karen propped herself up on one elbow. "That's one thing that you, of all men, never need to do—at least not in bed. You're an incredible lover. I don't need to tell you that. And you weren't rough; you were desperate."
"Desperate. Yeah, that's a good word for it."
"Is it Carson's announcement? I saw the clips on TV. I can't imagine the news came as a surprise to you. From the hints you've been dropping, I realized something big was in the works. You must have known Sabrina Radcliffe was Carson's daughter."
"Yup, I knew," he confirmed grimly.
"So why are you so freaked out? Is it the media? Are they jumping all over you?"
"No, Karen, they don't give a rat's ass about me. It's Sabrina they're interested in."
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "What's the problem then?"
He moved his arm away from his eyes, angling his head to face her. "The problem is, the press might not find me fascinating. But the cops do."
Karen frowned. "More so than before?"
"Oh, yeah. Barton and Whitman were in my face today, and, boy, did the gloves come off."
"They came to Ruisseau just to see you?"
"No. Evidently, Carson asked them to show up for the meeting, to make sure the press didn't bug Sabrina. And to make sure no one took a shot at her, would be my guess." He blew out his breath. "Anyway, they arrived at Ruisseau a good hour before the meeting. First, they paid a surprise visit to Ferguson, who's already sweating bullets. He fell all over himself saying he knew nothing about my personal life. In his frenzy to avoid mentioning what he knew about you and me, he told them everything else."
"What's everything else?"
"Oh, the fact that I'm a workaholic, the fact that Carson's tweaking the customary chain of command by having the company president report to the CEO rather than the COO. Oh, and the fact that I'm so dedicated to my career that the only recreational activity I have is my twice-a-week target practice."
Karen digested that thoughtfully. "Okay, fine. So what? None of that's a secret. Everyone who knows you knows you're a workaholic. Carson's decision to have Sabrina report to him isn't really such a reach. She is his daughter. As for the fact that you enjoy target practice, that's common knowledge, too. Carson's certainly aware of your trips to the shooting range in Yonkers. So Roland didn't really do much harm. I know you're worried he'll cave under pressure. So why don't you just give him a bottle of Valium and send him on vacation? The police won't care if he leaves New York. He has an alibi for last Monday night."
"He might. But I don't," Stan reminded her. "None I can share without incriminating myself. As for what was and wasn't a secret, all but the workaholic part was news to Barton and Whitman. They didn't know Carson was bypassing me on the corporate ladder. And they sure as hell didn't know I'm a crackerjack shot. To them, it looks like Carson doesn't trust me, and that I kept my shooting skills a secret for some sinister reason. They came marching over to my office and closeted themselves in there for forty-five excruciating minutes." A muscle in his jaw flexed. "They brought up Russ Clark, wondered if I had any idea what dirty business dealings he might have uncovered at Ruisseau that would make someone kill him."
"Oh God."
"My sentiments exactly. And there's more. You'll never guess whose name came up during my little police interrogation."
"Whose?"
Stan's gaze was as bleak as it was direct. "Etienne Pruet."
Every muscle in Karen's body tensed. "Etienne's? Why?"
"Because they got wind of the fact that he was worried about the buying frenzy that would result when C'est Moi was released in Europe. He was concerned that it would take a bite out of his sales. And rightfully so. Sex sells. We all know that."
"Okay." Karen sat up, pulled the sheet around herself, and leaned back against the headboard. She had to stay calm, to think this through. "So they know Etienne was uneasy that C'est Moi would put a dent in his profits. They're looking toward motive and, in their minds, Etienne has one. But he was in Paris when Carson was shot. He couldn't have done it."
"True. But, as luck would have it, he's in New York now, ready and eager to offer the police whatever assistance he can. So Whitman and Barton are heading over to his New York office tomorrow to question him—and all his employees."
"All his employees?" Karen repeated weakly. "Why?"
"Because even though Pruet was in Paris, his New York staff was right here in the Big Apple. The detectives are trying to figure out if any of those people might be guilty. And I do mean any of them."
"I hear you." Karen wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I understand what you're warning me about. What I don't understand is why the detectives were discussing any of this with you."
"Because Pruet's company and Ruisseau are both key players in the fragrance business. No one knows better than you that we're major competitors, or that it's natural for the big guns at
Ruisseau to keep tabs on the big guns at its rival—including who's who, who's up-and-coming, and who's hungry to get ahead."
"Right. So you're saying the detectives questioned you about Etienne's staff. Which employees in particular?"
"All of them. They ran down the list of the entire New York staff, asked me about each and every one."
Karen paled. "Including me."
"Oh, yeah, including you."
"What did you say?"
"What do you think I said? 'Hey, Detectives, now that you ask, I've got a hot and heavy twenty-year affair going with the executive assistant to the head of Pruet's New York division?' " Stan snorted. "I lied through my teeth. I told them I'd met you a couple of times, at meetings and at professional functions. I said that all I'd heard about you through the grapevine was that you were bright and ambitious, and that you traveled frequently to Paris for Pruet because you spoke fluent French. Period."
A fine sheen of perspiration dotted Karen's forehead. "Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe you should have told them we were involved. After all, who you sleep with is no one's business."
"Oh, come on, Karen." Stan threw off the covers and rose, pacing naked around the room. "We both know that's a crock. It's everyone's business, even though we've managed to keep it a secret all these years. Because this isn't just a chance affair. It's a business arrangement, just as it has been from the beginning— one that benefits us both. Okay, there are perks. In my case, I'm crazy about you. In your case, you're crazy about my money and about the way I make you feel in bed."
She leaned forward, crossing her arms over her breasts, and staring him down. "That's unfair. To begin with, I'm in love with you and I have been since I was twenty-one. Yes, I like wearing beautiful clothes and getting expensive jewelry. And, yes, I'm wild about the way you make me feel in bed. But money and sex aren't the only reasons I'm with you. Any more than the only reasons you're with me are for the marketing updates and sales strategies I pass along."
"True. I'm in love with you. I blew two marriages to hell because of that fact. As for the last part, I think the term for what you described is corporate espionage."
Kane, Andrea Page 31