Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  Bernadotte's home was large, built of pale local fieldstone and reminiscent in both its size and sprawling central courtyard plan of a medieval monastery. How appropriate for a hermit, Molly thought. And how inappropriate for his son, profligate in all things. But, coming out into the drive to meet them, Bernadotte was gracious and hospitable, not at all what she had expected. He was in fact so far removed from his normal composure that Carey was reminded of a remark his mother had once made when he mentioned his father's tranquillity. “You didn't know him when he was young, darling,” she had said with a smile. “He was a very serious, pleasure-seeking man.”

  Carey saw the unutterable charm today, the attentive courtesy and captivating social loquacity he'd never before witnessed. The courtly gallantry Bernadotte showed Molly and the two young girls was unconstrained, as though he hosted parties of young ladies every day. They were instantly captivated. As Molly and Carey followed Bernadotte and the two skipping young girls into the house, Molly quietly said, “I thought you said your father was reclusive.”

  “He always has been,” Carey slowly replied, astonished by the sight of the trio before him, his father bending toward the chattering girls, responding to them in ways that made them squeal with laughter.

  “He seems wonderful,” Molly said, watching her daughter's face glow with smiling delight, understanding where Carey had acquired his effortless charm.

  “I told you he was anxious to meet you.”

  “You also told me he never had company, except your mother.”

  “Well, you're family now.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “It sure looks like it to me,” Carey replied with a grin. “I've never seen him so delighted in my life.” Taking Molly's hand in his, he began walking again, his dark gaze on the extraordinary sight of his tall, white-haired father entertaining two nine-year-olds.

  “In that case, I can relax. We passed muster.”

  “Darling, no one has to pass muster.” But in a curious way, Carey, too, felt relieved. Knowing his father's eccentric attitude toward company, Carey hadn't been altogether certain of the degree of warmth his father would exhibit. Apparently Bernadotte was as enchanted as he with his daughter and future wife. Since he had been deliberately reticent over the phone, Carey used their first quiet moment together to explain the situation to his father.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey, suggested she show Molly and the girls their rooms, and Carey took the opportunity to speak with his father. They all agreed to meet at the pool for lunch.

  A few moments later, Carey and his father sat over iced tea in the library. Both men relaxed in the soft comfort of worn leather chairs. Carey had kicked off his sandals the minute he sat down; the glazed tile fronting the terrace door felt cool on his feet.

  “She's a beautiful woman,” Bernadotte said, thinking how perfect they looked together, golden beauty and youth. But more important he'd noticed how happy his son appeared, how he looked at Molly with a curious kinetic devotion, both volatile and ardent, like a fledgling young boy in love. This was dramatically different from the tolerant indulgence with which he'd viewed women over the years.

  “The same one I spent my last summer with-before going out to U.S.C.”

  “I thought she bore a remarkable resemblance to the photo you kept on your desk that summer.”

  “And Carrie's my daughter.” There was a world of pride in his voice.

  Without a modicum of surprise, Bernadotte casually said, “I thought so. She's very much your daughter-her face, her movements, and horse-mad, like you were at nine.”

  “Perhaps it's genetic,” Carey said with the doting smile of a father.

  “Perhaps,” Bernadotte replied softly, his smile nostalgic as he recalled his own youthful equestrian training under his father's tutelage. His father was patient and kindly to a young child, instilling in his son his own passion for riding. Something Bernadotte had, in turn, taught to Carey. And now his granddaughter had inherited their love of horses. “She has your hands. She'll be good.” It was as if he read Carey's mind.

  “I was about to ask if you would help Leon with her first lessons.”

  “Carrie and I have already agreed on five o'clock, after the heat of the day has passed.” He lifted his brow in indulgent amusement. “She's insistent, just like you.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, can't abide tractable people. I would have known she was yours blindfolded. She has the same decisive way of making a question a foregone conclusion. And the inflections in her speech… I wouldn't have thought it possible to inherit those patterns, but-” He raised his tall crystal tea glass. “Thank you for a delightful granddaughter. I had, quite frankly, given up hope.”

  “You knew my feelings on Agent Orange.”

  “Yes… apparently you didn't know of her existence?”

  “No.” And then Carey filled his father in on the bizarre set of circumstances which had transpired, making Molly and Bart unaware of Carrie's paternity.

  “You're a very lucky man,” his father said at the conclusion of Carey's explanation.

  “I know, and it makes this search for Egon doubly frustrating. Going off and leaving Molly and Carrie behind is difficult… unsettling.” He looked across the small distance separating them, thinking how little his father had changed over the years, knowing he'd done the right thing bringing them here. “It's the hardest choice I've ever had to make, but I can't leave Egon out in the cold. You know what Rifat's like.” In short, brusque sentences, Carey described his fear at seeing Ceci at the press conference, and his subsequent dash to the Merchandise Mart to find Carrie and Lucy safe only because of their own resourcefulness.

  “They'll be safe here,” Bernadotte assured him. “The surveillance cameras are quite effective, as is the monitoring equipment.” Bernadotte preferred his privacy, and had developed a highly sophisticated electronic barrier around his estate as more of a hobby than a necessity.

  “Do you have any idea where Egon might be?”

  “My guess is he's making for his retreat in Jamaica. Since his villa is a mile up the mountain beyond the main road, Egon has this peculiar notion he's entirely hidden. Like a child covering his eyes who says, ‘You can't see me.' I've never been able to convince him otherwise, and frankly never had the heart to disillusion him further. And perhaps the major attraction is the availability of drugs there. He'll be strung out-on fear and heroin. Not a difficult person to follow, I'm afraid. Rifat should be hot on his heels, but I may be able to beat him there by a few hours and meet Egon at the airport, a flight or so ahead of Rifat's men. I'm taking a chance by going directly to Jamaica, but Rifat will have to pick up his trail. I should be ahead of him, and if I'm lucky, Egon and I should be back here late tomorrow night, or early the following morning.”

  Bernadotte absorbed all the detail, offering no unwanted advice. “What explanation have you given Carrie?”

  “None so far. We're here to see her new birthday horse.”

  “And Molly is amenable to your leaving and going after Egon? Surely Sylvie must have caused an irritable ripple or two.” Bernadotte had never lacked for female company until he'd married Carey's mother, and he understood the subtleties of jealousy. And although he'd politely avoided Sylvie during her marriage to his son, he knew that Sylvie was difficult, thoroughly selfish, and rude.

  “Between Sylvie and Molly's ex it was a toss-up on boorish behavior, but I think Molly's reconciled to my going. Reconciled-but reticent. I'm counting on you to take her mind off my absence. You'll enjoy her. She's outspoken, like Mother.”

  “Ah… so I have a reluctant-”

  “Fiancйe,” Carey finished. “We're to be married as soon as she says the word.”

  “And when do you anticipate that?” Although Bernadotte's question was mildly put, the novelty of Carey pursuing rather than being pursued amused him. He decided Molly was very bright.

  “She dislikes all the publicity surrounding my
life.”

  “Truly?” His brows rose in skepticism. In his experience, women sought the spotlight.

  Carey sighed. “Sincerely.”

  “An interesting conundrum for you, no doubt,” Bernadotte replied softly and, in a thoughtful aside, asked, “How does your daughter feel about publicity?”

  Carey grinned. “It's in the genes. She adores the photographers, wants a date with Chachi from Happy Days, and is wondering when she can have a role in my next movie.”

  “Ah, a sweet child,” Bernadotte cheerfully observed. “And can you give it all up after all these years-the limelight and display?”

  “Because of all the years, I can, without a backward glance. You, more than anyone, should understand my feelings. You'd led a life of some… irregularity before building this home.”

  “I envy you,” his father said very quietly. His own dream had been the same-to live peacefully with Kirsti. But various egomaniacs had intervened, and their armies had criss-crossed his ancestral lands, taking away his patrimony and his darling wife. “My very best wishes for your happiness,” he gruffly said, his sense of loss a dull ache of poignant regret. He'd never considered himself a romantic in his youth, but as he'd aged he'd begun to realize how fortunate one was to have experienced a deep, abiding love. So few in this world encountered their perfect lover or felt the startling intensity of passion so profound its memory never diminished. He and Kirsti had been fortunate.

  There was a certain tranquillity to age, he reflected, that mellowed the inequities of life. With fondness, he looked at his son and wished him happiness.

  “Thank you, Papa. And if all goes well, I'll be back with Egon, Rifat will be checked, and hopefully, I can get on with my life.”

  “Surely,” his father said, his finger tracing a path up the condensation on the tea glass, “you're not that naive.”

  Carey looked out through the open French windows under the low-pitched eaves to the sunwashed poolside, busy with servants preparing the luncheon table. He knew as well as his father did the brutal nature of the man he was opposing. “One step at a time,” he said very slowly. “I have to get Egon out of danger. Rifat's been on several government hit lists for many years now-unsuccessfully. I don't know if I can do what they've failed to do.”

  “He won't leave you alone,” his father quietly reminded him, “if you thwart him.”

  Carrie and Lucy had appeared in their bathing suits, watermelon pink and lime green accents against the lapis-tiled pool and were beginning to splash their feet in the sparkling water. An incongruous sense of unreality overcame Carey as he gazed at his daughter peacefully playing in the summer sun. He shouldn't be discussing Rifat's assassination with his father; he had no vested interest in Rifat's particular brand of banditry; all he wanted was a tranquil life with his wife and daughter.

  “Wars are different now, but they're still wars, aren't they?” he said. “Only smaller and more frequent. I'm in this war purely by an accident of marriage.” He leaned his head back against the worn leather and shut his eyes. “Shit.”

  “It might be possible to put together a team. I could check with Geoffrey or Rupert.”

  Carey's first response was to say, “Sure, check with your old network in MI6. Hire someone to knock Rifat off. Hire a dozen mercenaries and maybe one might manage what Rifat's numerous enemies to date have not managed.” But he wasn't comfortable yet with coldly plotting an assassination. He still clung to a naive optimism that once Egon was safe, Rifat would withdraw. Opening his eyes, he pulled himself upright and said, “I'd like to wait. Do you mind?”

  “I prefer you not put yourself in undue danger.”

  “At this stage, if Jess and I take off say in an hour or two, we should be in Jamaica in good time-ahead of Rifat's men. Egon just left Nice yesterday, and if I know him he stayed in Madrid or Barcelona and caught a flight this afternoon. I might even beat him to Le Retour if he gets corrupted in Montego Bay.” And he rose suddenly as he caught sight of Molly approaching the girls at poolside. “Molly's here. If I leave rather abruptly, make my excuses to her, will you, Papa? I'm counting on you to soothe any ruffled feathers.”

  Bernadotte set his glass aside and stood. The two tall men exchanged silent glances in the quiet room. “I'll do the best I can. But one last word of caution from an old man. I understand you must help Egon, but promise me no extraordinary heroics. He's not worth your life.”

  Carey smiled faintly, his dark eyes under his heavy brows intensified by the shadows in the room. He nodded his head. “Don't worry, I have too much to live for.” He turned back toward the poolside scene and softly added, “I'm coming back to them.”

  Luncheon was cheerful, the adults all congenial, the children vivacious and full of questions. The menu was elaborate, both grown-up and childish fare offered in magnificent variety. Bernadotte insisted on champagne in honor of his future daughter-in-law and granddaughter. A buffet table was arranged at a poolside gazebo, complete with a lavish bouquet of roses and lilies. There was black and red caviar. Blinis were served hot in a napkin-lined basket with dill butter. Fresh figs filled with prosciutto and garnished with a caper dressing were beautifully cut in water lily shapes. Poached salmon, presented whole on an enormous silver fish plate, had been flown in fresh when Bernadotte heard Carey was bringing company home. A Greek lemon soup looked and tasted cool and delicious on the warm summer day, while tabbouli salad scented the air with mint. Chilled grape tarts looked like jewels on a silver tray. Molly thought the entire buffet table should have been photographed for a House and Garden cover. It was delightfully different from Chucky Cheese. But the girls' tastes had been catered to, as well, with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into bunny shapes, small pizzas decorated with happy faces, hand-cut French fries, watermelon slices, and chocolate ice cream arranged in a large crystal bowl of crushed ice. They were enchanted.

  An hour later, when Carey suggested everyone take a short nap before riding lessons, the children agreed. They were both so excited about riding-had already fed Carrie's new horse carrots and apples, and had checked out the riding ring with Leon-they were being on their best behavior so as not to jeopardize their lessons.

  “I should have thought of a horse for a bribe before,” Molly said, her grin teasing. “Usually when you say nap, you can count on a lengthy argument.”

  “Just watch me, babe,” Carey teased back, “and I'll show you a thing or two about handling little girls… it's a lot like-”

  “Don't you dare say it.”

  His look was innocent. “I was going to say it's a lot like being nice to their moms.” But his grin was pure wolf.

  “You're way too smooth, Carey Fersten.”

  “And you're so sweetly green, Ms. Darian, you could sell yourself for salad.”

  “A pleasant change for you, then,” she replied.

  “Amen,” he said, and meant it with all his heart. Which made his next words doubly hard to say. They were almost to their room on the opposite side of the pool, and he touched her arm gently to stop her. “I have to check with Leon,” he said. “I'd forgotten to see if we have boots for Lucy. I'll be right back.” He felt a sinking sense of loss already, and he hadn't even left yet.

  The face Molly turned up to him was smiling. “You won't be long?”

  “A few minutes,” he lied and, bending low, touched her lips in a light brushing kiss. He straightened and smiled. “Keep my spot warm.” It was meant to be a casual remark, but he couldn't leave without touching her again. Taking her face gently in his hands, he bent and kissed her once more, a soft, lingering good-bye kiss. He had found her and lost her and found her again, and leaving her was the hardest choice he'd ever made. Damn. Why couldn't Egon be normal? Why did his drug habit fuck up everything he did? Why couldn't his family own a textile factory, so he could go to hell without bringing in the world's most dangerous terrorist as a partner on his ride to destruction? Yeah, sure. And as long as we're dreaming, let's end world poverty, too
. In the meantime, Fersten, put on your spurs and ride, or Egon's going to disappear one bloody piece at a time. “I love you, Honeybear,” he murmured as his mouth lifted from hers. “Always.”

  “Hurry back,” Molly whispered.

  And his startled expression was immediately masked with a smile. “I'll be back before you doze off.”

  But Molly had read his reaction properly; she knew he was leaving to go after Egon.

  Immediately after Carey walked away, she entered their room, set her note to her daughter prominently in the center of the bed, and left to follow Carey. She knew her daughter well enough to know she would be the first to say, “Go, Mom.”

  Anticipating his swift departure, she'd changed before lunch into comfortable slacks and a cotton sweater. With a jacket clutched in one hand, she watched Carey stride toward the stables. He must have some last minute instructions for Leon; she didn't believe the ruse of Lucy's boots for one minute.

  Bernadotte's home was situated on a gentle rise overlooking a rolling panorama of hills and pastures and forest. The stables were closest to the house at the back, separated by a broad stretch of green lawn and a beautifully raked gravel turnaround for loading horse trailers. Directly east of the stables, beyond three fenced pastures, were the hangars for the planes. A hedged drive bordered the pastures, leading to the large airstrip cleared from the forest, and Molly made swiftly for the security of the hedge shadows. With Carey taking a detour to the stables, she'd have the advantage of arriving at the plane before him. And if by chance she'd misinterpreted and he did return to the house, she could simply say she'd gone out looking for him.

  Would it be possible for her to board the plane undetected? How many people would be around the hangars and plane? Would she have to threaten Carey somehow to have him take her along? Was she overreacting? she wondered, struck by a niggling sensation suggesting she was overplaying the Nancy Drew clues. Then the jet engines roared into operation.

  One gold star for Nancy Drew.

  And one for a young woman who'd never done anything more exciting than fight her way through Frank Murphy's annual sale of designer dresses. She felt an exhilarating sense of adventure.