Kane, Andrea

by Scent of Danger

  "Thank God."

  "I'll send her in now. Oh, by the way, there are a couple of detectives here who want to speak with you, too."

  Dylan's mouth thinned into a grim line. "Let me guess. Detectives Whitman and Barton."

  "Yup. That's them."

  "They'll have to wait a minute. I want to see Sabrina first."

  The doctor nodded. "Remember, I want you to sit still for a while longer, just to be on the safe side. No sudden movements."

  "I won't dance, I promise."

  "Good. Let me know if you experience any lightheadedness or nausea." With a tight smile, the doctor opened the door and stepped outside. "Ms. Radcliffe? You can come in now." He blocked her path as she reached the door. "He's got to take it easy. Understood?"

  "Yes. Understood." Sabrina's voice was scratchy, but audible. She strode in, relief flooding her face as she saw Dylan. She went right to him, touching his jaw with gentle fingertips and leaning up to kiss him. "Hey."

  "Hey, yourself." He scrutinized her from head to toe, at least as much of her as he could see. She was wearing a hospital gown, which covered a lot more of her than his shirt had. Her cheeks had a few cuts and smudges on them, and a section of her hair was singed. A couple of scrapes and bruises marred the skin of her forearms, and her breathing was definitely raspy. Most of all, her eyes were teary and red, and she kept blinking, trying to make the burning go away.

  Despite it all, she was fine. Alive and fine.

  And worried about him.

  "Does your head hurt a lot?" she grated out, coughing once or twice between words. "The doctor said you had a concussion. And your chest..." Her features tightened as she studied the bandage. "Oh, Dylan. Is it a deep gash?"

  "Just a cut. But you can dote on me anyway." He glanced down at himself. "Hmm. Naked from the waist up, injured, with an impressive-sized bandage on my chest. Pretty damned sexy, huh? Makes me look like James Bond."

  Sabrina snickered, and promptly began to cough. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

  "It's that sensitive nose of yours." He traced it with his forefinger. "Is it badly irritated?"

  "It burns a little. It'll get better. And you didn't answer my question. How's your head?"

  "My head is fine. All of me is fine, now that you're here."

  "I can't believe this happened." Sabrina dragged both hands through her hair. "Someone actually tried to kill us."

  "You," Dylan corrected. "Someone tried to kill you. I just got in the way of his plan."

  Sabrina met Dylan's gaze. "I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  "Putting you in clanger. I had no idea..."

  "Sabrina, I love you. If anything had happened to you and I hadn't been there to stop it..." He drew a sharp breath. "Don't apologize, okay?"

  "Okay." She licked her lips. "But I will say thank you, inadequate as that sounds. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. I've never seen anyone move so fast in my life."

  "Hey, if you've dealt with one Molotov cocktail, you've dealt with them all."

  "Obviously." With a pensive expression, Sabrina contemplated the situation. "Whoever did this knew I was at your apartment."

  Dylan shrugged. "According to what you told me about our involvement being public knowledge, that could have been anyone."

  "Not really. Knowing we're involved doesn't mean knowing I spent tonight at your place."

  "True. On the other hand, whoever did this might have trashed your apartment first, then headed over to mine when he realized you weren't home."

  Sabrina's eyes widened. "I never thought of that."

  "I'm sure Whitman and Barton did. They must know a lot more than we do by now. We should talk to them, find out where things stand."

  "I agree." Sabrina went to the door and croaked out a few words to the nurse outside. "She'll send them in," she told Dylan, before dissolving into another spasm of coughing.

  "Sit down," Dylan ordered her. "And stop doing so much talking. I'll take the lead for a change." He watched her strained, shaky motions as she pulled over a chair, and he realized how much this ordeal had thrown her, bravado or not. "Hey," he said, determined to lighten the gravity of the moment. "Speaking of taking the lead, I have a bone to pick with you."

  "What?" Sabrina gave him a quizzical look as she sat down.

  "Earlier tonight, you threatened to fire me if I didn't make love to you right away. That's sexual harassment. On the other hand, it's also a major turn-on. So I've decided not to file charges. Instead, I've decided to do whatever I have to, as often as I have to, and as fast as I have to, to keep my job."

  Sabrina's lips twitched. "I told you not to make me laugh."

  "Can I make you do other things instead?"

  "Dylan..."

  "Okay, I'll be good." He grinned, caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. Kissing them gently, he sobered, watching her pale, anxious expression. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," he promised hoarsely. "Whoever did this is scared. That means they're vulnerable. Whitman and Barton will find them."

  "I hope so," she managed.

  As if on cue, Jeannie and Frank strolled through the door.

  "Never a dull moment with you two," Jeannie commented, shaking her Q-tip head. "I haven't had a full night's sleep in two weeks." She handed a shopping bag to Sabrina. "I picked these up when we checked out your apartment. I thought you might want them. Your place is untouched, by the way. No sign of anything, not even a jimmied door. Whoever did this went straight to Mr. Newport's. They obviously knew you were there."

  Sabrina glanced in the bag, recognized her clothes and underwear, and gave Jeannie a grateful look. "Thank you so much," she grated out. "I wasn't looking forward to going home... in a hospital gown." Another bout of coughing.

  "You sound lousy," Frank noted. He glanced at Dylan. "What about you? Is the concussion too bad for you to fill in a few pieces for us?"

  "Nope," Dylan assured him. "This is one time I'm looking forward to talking to you." Quietly, he filled the detectives in on exactly what had happened. "My guess is that the same hired punk who stabbed Russ, did this," he concluded. "Every street kid knows how to make a Molotov cocktail. It doesn't take a rocket scientist. And by deciding to handle it this way, whoever hired him could keep his own hands clean."

  "I agree with you," Jeannie said. "So let's see your theory through. Whoever hired the punk shot Carson Brooks, then paid someone to stab Russ Clark when the poor kid uncovered some incriminating information. Now, that head honcho is threatened by Ms. Radcliffe coming on as company president, so he goes this route. It can't be coincidence that this happened the night of Carson Brooks's big announcement."

  "No, it can't," Dylan concurred. "But what's not clicking for me is, what's the common denominator? What's going on at Ruisseau that's significant enough to make someone go to these lengths?" His expression darkened. "And please don't start on the inheritance bit again. I'm the only one that scenario would fit. Even if you still believe I'd kill Carson, you've got to realize that what happened tonight would kind of preclude my chances of getting rich. Dead guys can't inherit."

  Jeannie opened her mouth to reply, but Sabrina cut her off. "Look," she croaked out. "You'd better not still be stuck on the sick idea that Dylan's guilty...."

  "Ms. Radcliffe, save your breath," Jeannie interrupted. "We're not. Mr. Newport's not on our short list anymore."

  "Gee, I'm flattered," Dylan said dryly. "And all I had to do was almost die to get crossed off."

  "No, we chucked your name a while ago." A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Like lawyers, detectives have instincts. Ours are usually right."

  "Great. So where do your instincts go from here?"

  Jeannie cleared her throat. "To a few different places. What are your thoughts on Etienne Pruet?"

  An odd expression crossed Dylan's face. "Why? He was in Paris when Carson was shot."

  "Yeah, because he was worried about C'est Moi's impact on his business," Frank put in. "Which left his worried
New York staff here, angsting over whether or not their futures were on the line."

  "That sounds kind of far-fetched," Sabrina rasped. "To kill a competitor to slow the market penetration of his product?"

  "No. To stop penetration of his product," Frank corrected. "Remember, if your father was dead, no one else could duplicate C'est Moi."

  Dylan and Sabrina exchanged glances.

  "Until now," Dylan informed the detectives. "Carson shared the formula with Sabrina last week."

  Jeannie's jaw tightened. "Who knows about that?"

  "Just us." Sabrina's pause was uneasy. "Unless Stan found out somehow."

  "What makes you bring up Stan Hager's name?" Jeannie jumped all over that one.

  "I don't know." Sabrina shrugged. "He's just been acting odd. Nervous, upset. Maybe he found out that Carson told me the formula and that threw him for a loop."

  "Or maybe it's more." Frank rubbed his chin.

  Dylan's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning we've got some things to work through. Stan Hager's one of them. As soon as we've got our ducks in a row, we'll discuss them with you. As for Pruet, we're meeting with him and his New York staff in a few hours. We'll let you know how that goes."

  Dylan had opened his mouth to pursue the subject, when the door opened and the ER doctor stepped in. "How do you feel?" he asked Dylan.

  "Better."

  "Good. Because there's a wheelchair on its way. When it arrives, get in it. No arguments. Even though you're feeling stronger, I don't want you walking yet."

  "Walking where?" Dylan asked, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

  "You and Ms. Radcliffe are taking an elevator ride."

  "Why?"

  The doctor sighed. "Apparently, the incident that took place at your apartment tonight was reported on TV a few minutes ago. The early edition business news broke it. They gave a brief overview of what happened. And they described it as a close call for both of you."

  "So?"

  "So, Carson Brooks saw the TV clip. He's making a huge scene in ICU. He won't stop bellowing until he sees for himself that you're both all right. I told Dr. Radison I'd send you up there as soon as you felt up to it, to calm him down."

  Sabrina was already on her feet. "Poor Carson. He must be frantic."

  "The poor nurses," Dylan amended dryly. "They must be rioting."

  Jeannie looked like she was biting back laughter. "Yeah, well, you'd better get your friend to simmer down. I've heard him when he's ticked off, and it's not pleasant." She stepped aside as the wheelchair was brought in.

  "Oh, for God's sake, I don't need that," Dylan protested.

  "I say you do," the doctor contradicted him. "So either you use it, or you don't go. In which case you'll help us hire new nurses after the ICU staff quits."

  "When you put it that way..." Dylan levered himself off the examining table and maneuvered himself into the wheelchair. Actually, he didn't mind being forced to comply. His head was still throbbing pretty badly. And his chest stung like hell.

  "The nurse is bringing in a hospital gown for you to put on. She should be here any minute." The doctor turned to Sabrina. "Would you like something to wear over your gown? I realize that parading around like that doesn't do much for your modesty."

  "I'd rather get dressed," Sabrina replied. "Detective Whitman was kind enough to bring me some of my clothes. Not only would I feel more comfortable, but Carson will be less upset if only one of us looks like a patient."

  "No arguments there." The poor doctor sounded as if he'd try anything that might succeed in mollifying Carson. "And no problem. You've been discharged, so there's no reason you can't get dressed. Go ahead and change. You can use the room next door."

  "Thank you."

  After Sabrina had excused herself and stepped out, and the doctor had vanished to attend to other patients, Dylan spoke up, maximizing the time he had alone with the detectives.

  "Two things before you go. First, any idea what the damage was to my apartment? The fire department was there on a dime, but the fire was burning like hell when the ambulance took us away."

  "Your downstairs is a mess," Frank supplied. "The hall's destroyed, and your living room furniture was charred to the point where you might have to chuck it all. The rest of the ground floor isn't much better. The good news is, your two upstairs levels are pretty much intact. They're smoky, but that'll clear up with some fresh air and a cleaning service. The downstairs you'll have to renovate."

  Dylan nodded. "That's a small price to pay for being alive. It's also better than I expected."

  "Your insurance will cover it," Jeannie pointed out. Again, that hint of a smile. "In the meantime, I'm sure Ms. Radcliffe will let you bunk with her. She seems fond of you."

  "Yeah, thanks." Dylan kept his face carefully expressionless. "Good observation. I'll mention your suggestion to her."

  "What was the other thing you wanted to discuss?"

  "Stan." Dylan cleared his throat. "Listen, Detectives, I'm bound by attorney-client privilege. That having been said, I want this case solved yesterday. So I'll go out on a limb and say this much—I think you might be barking up the wrong tree if you think Stan shot Carson. Look elsewhere. If you still come up empty, if you're pushed to the wall and need some concrete facts, I'll see what I can do to give you some."

  Jeannie's eyes narrowed. "What you're telling us is that there's something going on with Stan Hager."

  "What I'm telling you is that whatever it is that's going on with him, it isn't attempted murder, or conspiracy to murder. Trust me on that one. When you're getting your ducks in a row, don't spend too much time on this particular duck."

  "Even though the duck in question knew Ms. Radcliffe was at your place tonight?"

  "Yeah, even so. Lots of people saw Sabrina leave with me. They all could have made the assumption that we spent the night together. From what I hear, our relationship is far from under wraps." Dylan spoke tersely, emphatically. "I repeat, Stan's not your duck."

  "What about Roland Ferguson?"

  "What about him?"

  "Should we discount him as a duck, too?" Frank asked sarcastically. "Does whatever the hell he's freaked out about tie into Hager, or into this case?"

  Dylan blew out his breath. "The former. Forget Roland. He's harmless."

  "Why didn't you mention any of this before?"

  "Because, like I said, I'm bound by attorney-client privilege. Plus, this is the first time I've picked up on the fact that Stan is a key suspect. Till recently, it was me you had your eye on. Besides, to be frank, you grilled the hell out of everyone. It was hard to tell who was a bona fide suspect and who you just felt like provoking."

  "Yeah, we are a nasty duo," Jeannie responded in a wry tone. "Everyone says so. But, hey, it keeps us employed."

  "Could be because they're afraid to let us go," Frank surmised.

  "Nah." A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "The NYPD isn't an easily intimidated bunch. My guess is they keep you around because you're good at what you do, browbeating included. You might not have a lot of civilian friends, but I'd say your jobs are secure."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence." Jeannie met Dylan's gaze. "Ms. Radcliffe isn't on the inside about this Stan Hager situation, is she?"

  "Not at this point, no."

  Jeannie studied Dylan for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, she nodded. "All right, Mr. Newport, we'll play this your way—for now. But if another day goes by and we have nothing, I'm coming to you for answers." A meaningful stare. "So when you get up to ICU, I'd suggest you talk to your client and get his permission to spill the beans. Got it?"

  Dylan didn't let any reaction show on his face, or come through in his voice. "I hear you."

  At that moment, the nurse came in and handed Dylan a hospital gown.

  He'd just finished putting it on when Sabrina reentered the room.

  Silence greeted her.

  She glanced from Dylan to the detectives and back again. "Wh
at did I miss?"

  "Nothing," Dylan assured her. "Our allies here were just leaving. Keep us posted, Detectives."

  "We will." With that, Jeannie and Frank headed out.

  "Okay, what was really going on?" Sabrina demanded in a hoarse rasp.

  Dylan didn't insult her by lying or feigning ignorance. "We'll talk about it later. I want to get upstairs before Carson kills someone."

  "Fair enough. If we talk about it later."

  "We will. I promise. All I ask is that you give me five minutes alone with Carson first."

  Sabrina scrutinized Dylan's expression. "It's privileged," she correctly deduced. "No problem. Talk to Carson. But, after that, you're talking to me."

  "Or I'm fired?" Dylan teased.

  "Nope. You're too good an attorney. I'd only fire you if you refused me in bed. Which I don't think you ever will. So your job's secure."

  "Glad to hear it." He grinned, settling himself in the wheelchair. "And you're right. 'No' isn't in my vocabulary when it comes to you. Now, would you help me steer this stupid thing?"

  "My pleasure."

  CHAPTER 28

  6:50 A.M.

  ICU

  Three nurses were restraining Carson, who was demanding to be allowed out of bed, when Sabrina wheeled Dylan into the room.

  "Carson," Sabrina called out in a scratchy voice. "Stop tormenting those poor nurses. Dylan and I are fine. We're here. Abuse us instead." Her insides twisted when she saw the white-faced apprehension on Carson's face—apprehension that transformed to relief when he saw that she and Dylan were all right, then to anxiety when he saw that Dylan was in the wheelchair.

  "Just a precaution," Dylan assured him immediately. "The doctor was afraid you'd take a swing at me and make my concussion worse."

  "You have a concussion? How bad is it?" Carson barked.