Kane, Andrea (11 page)

"And you were that kid." Sabrina eyed him thoughtfully.
"You must have jumped at the chance."

A hollow laugh. "Hardly. I fought it tooth and nail. I already
had more than enough structure in my life. School. Community service. Chores. I
barely had enough time for a life."

Puzzled, Sabrina studied the hard line of his jaw. "What kind
of life did you want?"

"One that was a crash course in self-destruction. One that
made me feel powerful—and sent me home drunk and bleeding more nights than not.
The rest of the time I spent cutting classes I didn't want to attend and
breaking rules I didn't want to follow. That's where the community service came
in. Social Services thought it would reorient my thinking. It didn't. I felt
patronized and pissed off."

"I see."

"No you don't. And don't bother trying. Suffice it to say, my
life was a far cry from Beacon Hill."

"I get the message loud and clear." Sabrina looked away.
"I'm prying. Fine. Consider the subject dropped."

"That's not what I meant." Dylan drained the rest of his
coffee. "Sorry—I didn't mean to come off as abrupt. The truth is, I was
stating a fact, not cutting you off. Ask whatever you want to about my past. It
doesn't bother me to talk about it. It's like another life."

"It's really none of my business."

"Actually, it is. You should know the kind of man Carson is.
If this doesn't tell you, nothing will."

"All right. Go on."

"Like I said, Carson needed some part-time help. He showed up
at my school during one of my countless detention periods. He'd reviewed my
records, both academic and personal, then set up a meeting with my principal
and, ultimately, with me. He pulled up a chair, told me I reminded him of
himself at my age—except that he was already in the gutter by age sixteen,
while I had two more years to go before I got tossed there. He advised me to
lose the anger, because no matter how pissed off I got, life would still be
unfair, and it would still be up to me to even the odds. He said I was smart
and tough, and that I could choose to rot in the streets or make something of
myself. He added that unless he'd sized me up wrong, I was too shrewd not to
take his job offer. Said he'd pay me a decent hourly wage, and increase it
monthly as I proved myself. Along with the added pay would come added
responsibilities, including a chance to work on some projects with him, once we
had a better idea where my talents and interests lay.

"In return, I had to clean up my act, show some respect to my
foster parents, go to school, cut out the drinking and brawling, and work my
ass off." Dylan gave a reminiscent chuckle. "Talk about shrewd. He
never patronized me, never showed me a shred of disrespect or censure. It was
hard to abuse myself with someone like that believing in me. From that point
on, everything changed. My grades skyrocketed. I finished high school with
straight A's and a corporate internship at Ruisseau. I got into Columbia on
scholarship. They gave me a huge financial aid package. The remainder of my
expenses were subsidized by Ruisseau. I graduated with honors, and went on to
Columbia Law, where I did the same. The day I got my LLD, Carson had a brass
plate engraved, 'Dylan Newport, Corporate Counsel.' I helped him hang it on my
office door. It's been there ever since. As have I. So you see, I owe Carson
Brooks everything."

Sabrina had been totally absorbed in Dylan's story. Now, she
blinked, an odd lump forming in her throat. Surprisingly, the lump wasn't pity.
It wasn't even admiration, although she felt tremendous respect for what Dylan
had accomplished. It was envy. There was an incredible bond that existed
between him and Carson Brooks—a bond that had formed over nineteen years. They
were tight. Really tight. And here she was, a total stranger, about to meet her
"father" for the first time.

The whole situation was becoming more and more unsettling.

"So now you know my life story," Dylan was saying.
"That makes us even."

"I suppose."

He was watching her intently again. "If I can help make this
easier for you, let me know."

"I'm not sure that's possible." She wet her lips with
the tip of her tongue. "When you called the hospital before, was he
conscious?"

"Yeah. The police were with him."

"Will they tell him about me?"

"I asked them to stay out of it. I think they'll go along
with that. They know we're on our way back to New York. I'm sure they'd rather
leave emotional disclosures to friends and family, and stick to solving the
crime."

"Do they have any leads?" Sabrina asked. "Anyone
who might have a grudge against him? Anyone who stands to gain huge amounts of
money or power if he dies? Or are they concentrating on digging up information
on Ruisseau's rival companies—checking out people who'd benefit by killing off
the competition?"

"They have their suspicions." A muscle flexed in Dylan's
jaw. "I don't know how far they've gotten with the investigation. We'll
find out soon enough."

Sabrina was taken aback by the hostility in his tone. He was
certainly bugged by something pertaining to the investigation. Was he unhappy
with the detectives' speed and thoroughness, or was it the direction they were
taking that was ticking him off?

She opened her mouth to ask.

He cut her off before she could.

"Do you want to talk to Carson by yourself, or should I be
there with you?"

That was enough to startle her back to the face-to-face meeting
that was about to occur. "By myself?" She blinked. "Don't you
think that's a little extreme? The man is fighting for his life. He has no idea
I exist. If I march in there and announce who I am without any preparation from
you—God, I can't imagine a shock like that being good for him."

Dylan was shaking his head, his earlier hostility having vanished
as quickly as it came. "That's not what I meant. For his sake—and yours—I
planned to go in first and lay the groundwork. What I wanted to know is, once
I've given him the facts and introduced you, do you want me to stay or
leave?"

"Oh." Sabrina hadn't actually thought that one through.
Still, it was a no-brainer compared to the other decisions she'd made since
yesterday. "Under the circumstances, I think that choice should be his.
I'll go along with whatever he decides."

"Good enough. One more thing. As I said, Carson's heavily
medicated. I'm not sure he's cognizant of the fact that he's been on dialysis,
or that he might need a kidney transplant. It's going to hit him hard when he
finds out. So let's not get into it just yet."

"Don't worry, I won't say a word. It's better that way
anyway, since I haven't made any decision about what my next step will be—until
after I've met him."

The words sounded hollow and insincere, even to Sabrina.

What's more, she realized with an abrupt flash of insight, they
sounded equally insincere to Dylan. He'd led her right where he wanted her,
acquainting her with Carson Brooks by presenting him in the most likeable,
emotionally-compelling light possible. And he'd managed it either totally by
chance, through his own opportune, yet genuine affection for the man, or
through one of the most cleverly manipulated conversations she'd ever fallen
victim to.

Sabrina didn't know why that bothered her so much. Maybe it was
because she hated being bested, and she rarely was. More likely, it was because
it drove home how emotionally involved in this whole situation she was. She
hadn't expected it. It made her feel much too vulnerable. And she had no
intention of letting Dylan Newport play on that vulnerability, no matter how
worthy his motives were.

She edged a quick, sideways glance at him. He was putting up his
tray, then repositioning his seat as the plane began its rapid descent into
LaGuardia.

He was either giving her the space she needed to get herself
together, or giving her a chance to steep in her newfound personal connection
to Carson Brooks—a connection he'd made sure to foster.

Putting her at ease. Sharing his own personal story. A little
flirtation. A hint of humor. A touch of compassion.

Nice work.

Sabrina snapped her own seat upright, feeling Dylan's gaze slide
over her. He was assessing her, trying to figure out how won-over she was.

Good question.

A meeting was one thing; donating her kidney was another.
Especially when donating her kidney meant affecting not only her life but the
lives of her family.

Deliberately, Sabrina kept her face averted, busying herself with
her seat belt, not giving Dylan anything definitive to go on. She wasn't ready
to commit herself. Not yet.

But the next phase of the decision-making process loomed just a
cab ride away.

11:35 A.M.

Ruisseau
Fragrance Corporation

Roland Ferguson was fifty-six, and had been Ruisseau's VP of human
resources for eleven years. He'd left corporate America at forty-one to start
his own recruiting firm. He liked being his own boss, and had fully intended on
keeping and running his small but successful company until retirement.

That was before Carson Brooks got ahold of him.

He'd called Roland out of the blue. But he'd sure as hell done his
homework. He knew Roland's résumé inside out, including every promotion he'd
ever received from the three different human resource departments he'd worked
in, as well as the promising reputation he'd established since going out on his
own. And, yes, he was impressed. Impressed
and
impressive. Carson Brooks
was a dynamo. Saying no to him was almost as hard as saying yes. "No"
meant walking away from the opportunity of a lifetime; "yes" meant
committing yourself body and soul to your work.

It was a tough choice.

Not that Carson gave you one. When he wanted something, he was
like a dog with a bone. And he wanted Roland to head up HR. It wasn't just what
he'd seen on paper. He liked Roland's style, his inherent people skills. And he
wanted those skills applied at Ruisseau.

After two weeks of intense negotiations and equally intense
soul-searching, Roland had hired a manager for his recruiting firm, and had
gone to work for Carson Brooks.

Two months later he'd sold his company outright and made his stay
at Ruisseau permanent.

His job wasn't easy. Working for a hard-assed genius with the
energy level of an eighteen-year-old and a 24/7 work ethic produced an
environment that was fast-paced, high-pressure, and crackling with ambition.
Which meant equal amounts of success and tension, commitment and rivalry.

As a result, Roland had faced his fair share of hostile employees
and explosive situations.

But the current crisis blew the rest of them out of the water.

Nothing had prepared him for the past two days. First, walking
into Ruisseau and finding a roped-off CEO's office that was now a crime scene.
Second, hearing that Carson was hovering somewhere between life and death. And
third, enduring the somber aura enveloping the office, not to mention the taut
apprehension emanating from an office full of coworkers who were now attempted
murder suspects.

Including him.

He'd seen the two detectives briefly, first yesterday when they'd
dropped in on the team of cops scouring Carson's office for clues, then again
this morning when they'd arrived around ten-thirty, only to vanish into the
executive wing for almost an hour, presumably to interview people.

Now it was his turn.

There they were in his office, pressing him for whatever leads
they could find.

God, this was a political nightmare. And it might end up being a
personal one, as well.

He had to be careful.

"Mr. Ferguson, we appreciate your time." Detective
Whitman was seated adjacent to her partner in one of the two chairs directly
across from Roland's desk. "We'll try not to keep you long."

"I'll help in any way I can." Roland pulled off his
glasses, rubbing his eyes in a few unsteady motions before shoving the glasses
back onto his nose. "I still can't believe this happened."

"We understand your shock. Hopefully, Mr. Brooks will pull
through. In the meantime, it's up to us to find out who's responsible."
Whitman glanced over her notes. "Let's start with some basics. In total,
how many employees work at Ruisseau?"

"Just over a hundred. That includes the part-timers, and the
R&D staff at our New Jersey research facility in Englewood Cliffs. We also
have about a dozen interns in the various departments. In addition, there's our
European Operations, headquartered in Paris. It's got a managing director and a
half-dozen employees."

She nodded. "And how many of the people you just described
would have access to Mr. Brooks?"

That question was safe enough. Answering it candidly required no
finger-pointing. "If you're asking about the chain of command here, it's
very informal. Carson's not into protocol. If the custodian came up with a
great idea, Carson would meet with him. So I don't think you can zero in on
anyone using that method." Roland cleared his throat, giving the
detectives a cautious look. "I realize you're just doing your job, but do
you really believe someone at Ruisseau shot Carson?"