Authors: Scent of Danger
Carson frowned. "I remember... the woman was from Beacon
Hill... that's all I ever knew.... Who is she?..."
"Her name's Gloria Radcliffe. She's an upscale fashion
designer. Fairly well known, too. She must be— Susan's already bought half her
fall line. She's in the lounge right now chewing your daughter's ear off about
how much she loves Gloria's designs."
That didn't sit well with Carson. "You told Susan
about...?"
"Nope," Dylan assured him quickly. "I gave her the
same story I gave the press—that Ms. Radcliffe is a management consultant
assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."
"Nice story." Carson eyed his friend. "Management
consultant?... Can she pull it off?"
"No problem there. She can pull it off fine, since that's
just what she is. A pretty sought-after one, too. You should see her list of
clients."
It was ludicrous and unjustified, this surge of pride that rushed
through him. He'd contributed nothing to this young woman, except his genes. He
hadn't raised her, had never even met her. But still... hell, she was his
daughter.
"So, are you ready for your introduction?" Dylan asked.
A slow nod. "Yeah."
Dylan rose. "I'll be right back."
Carson shut his eyes, deliberately conserving his strength for
what lay ahead. It was bound to be a difficult meeting. He didn't delude
himself. He never had, never would. No matter what Dylan said, this young woman
must be completely thrown by what she'd learned. As for meeting him, she'd be
curious, yeah, but she'd also be uncomfortable as hell. Why not? She didn't
know him from Adam, yet he was being introduced as her father.
Christ, this was bizarre.
He opened his eyes as two sets of footsteps entered the room.
"Carson," Dylan said, stepping aside so the woman
accompanying him could approach the bed. "This is Sabrina Radcliffe."
He kept the introduction simple, avoiding any use of the word father.
"Sabrina, Carson Brooks."
Sabrina. So that was his daughter's name. It suited her, too, he
thought, studying her intently. Beautiful and classy.
Dylan was right. There was a resemblance. Her coloring
was the same as his, and there was a certain look about her—her
chin, maybe, or the way she held her head—that she'd gotten from him. Dylan was
also right that she was a knockout. She had a fineness and poise about her that
screamed breeding, traits she'd obviously inherited from her mother.
He couldn't believe how choked up he was.
"Hello, Mr. Brooks." Her voice was steady, but her hand
trembled as she extended it to him. "I'm glad you're up to seeing
me."
He met her handshake solemnly, proud as hell that she had the guts
to put up such a brave front. "I've wanted... to find out about you... to
meet you... for a long time.... Thanks for coming."
She extricated her grip. "The doctor says you're holding your
own."
"I'm too... tough to die... without a fight...." He
gestured toward the chair. "Sit." He waited until she'd complied.
"Dylan says... you're a management consultant...."
She nodded. "I own and run a company called the Center for
Creative Thinking and Leadership. Companies send their management teams there
for training."
Carson's brows lifted. "CCTL is you?... I just read up on
it.... Top-notch reputation... Considered sending my team there... for
brush-up. I'm... impressed."
Sabrina's lips curved slightly. It was a tight smile, but a smile
nonetheless. "Given the source, I'm flattered. I've read about you, too.
I'm familiar with Ruisseau's successes. Not only are you a corporate genius but
you're personally involved in every facet of your company, a policy I think
more CEOs should adopt. It's fitting that Ruisseau is named after you—albeit in
French."
"Yeah, well, 'Ruisseau' has... an exotic, romantic... ring to
it.... No one wants to buy... a perfume called 'brook.' Sounds like a drinking
hole for trout..."
A flicker of amusement lurked behind the guarded veneer in her
sharp blue eyes—
his
eyes. She had a definite sense of humor. But she
wasn't ready to let down her defenses. Instead, she opted for another tight
smile. "I see your point."
Enough about him. He didn't want to talk about his
accomplishments. He wanted to hear about her. "Tell me... about your
life... your mother.... She wanted to make... an exceptional child....
Obviously, she succeeded." He began to cough.
"Are you all right?" Sabrina half rose.
He waved away her concern. "Fine... But listening hurts
less... than talking."
"Okay." She got the message and sat back down,
considering what she wanted to say. "I don't know how much Dylan's told
you."
"Not much," Dylan supplied. "Just your name and
profession."
"He also said you... were a knockout...." Carson added.
"He's right."
Sabrina shot Dylan a look that Carson couldn't quite make out.
Wariness or discomfort, maybe, mixed with something else.
Whatever it was, Dylan picked up on it. "Do you want me to
leave?" he asked.
"Not on my account," she replied. "Unless Mr.
Brooks feels otherwise?" A quizzical glance at Carson.
He shook his head, waving Dylan toward a chair. "I have no
secrets... from Dylan...." He wet his lips. "Sabrina... I know this
situation's awkward... But call me Carson.... Mr. Brooks seems pretty
ridiculous... under the circumstances...."
"I
suppose so," she agreed. "All right, I'll try." She
cleared her throat. "You asked about my mother. Her name's Gloria Radcliffe.
She's a fashion designer with her own label. She has clients
everywhere—including New York. In fact, she just got back from showing her
latest designs here."
"Back? She... lives in New Hampshire?"
"No, in Rockport, Massachusetts."
"A... good place... for an artist... to call home."
Carson couldn't miss the warmth with which Sabrina spoke of her mother.
"You're very... proud of her."
"Yes, I am."
"Did you... tell her... you were coming... to see me?"
"She knows." A troubled expression flickered across Sabrina's
face. "She wishes you well."
"But she'd... preferred if you'd... stayed away."
A sharp intake of breath. "It's not as black and white as
that, Mr. Broo— Carson. It's complicated."
"Most things are...." He paused. "Twenty-eight
years ago... she was determined to... go it alone...." He saw the glint of
surprise flash in Sabrina's eyes. "No, I never... spoke to her...
firsthand," he clarified. "But I was given... some background... by
the medical personnel. Your mother's... criteria were pretty stringent.... She
was blunt about the fact... that no man... would fill the bill... as a mate....
So she wanted one who could fill the bill as an ideal sperm donor... to make an
extraordinary child...."
"I see." Clearly, she'd known only pieces of the puzzle.
It gave Carson some pleasure to know he was able to fill in more.
"She stuck to her guns... and never married?" he asked.
Sabrina nodded.
"Not... surprised..." He angled his head, glanced at
Sabrina's left hand. "You're not wearing a ring.... Are you a die-hard
soloist... too?"
"A die-hard soloist?" This time her smile came
naturally. "That sounds like I'm in flight school."
He chuckled, wincing a little at the resulting pain in his chest—a
pain he stubbornly ignored. "Okay, then... what's the female equivalent...
of a bachelor—a bachelorette?"
"I get the picture." She feathered her fingers through
her long, dark hair. "And, no, I'm not militant about staying single. But
I strongly suspect that's the way things will play out."
"Because you work... all the time." It was a statement,
not a question.
"Something like that, yes."
"And you're different... out of sync with others... A loner
and a maverick...."
The practiced look was back in place. "Are we describing me
or you?"
It was a good business ploy, one Carson recognized well. She was
reclaiming a position of power, turning a defense into an offense. Good for
her. She was sharp and self-protective. Regardless, he was right.
"Both of us," he answered frankly. "But for now,
you... I assume there's no one special... in your life....?"
She looked like she wanted to slug him for butting in where he
didn't belong.
"Cut me... some slack," he urged. "I just... found
out... I'm a father...."
Her brows rose. "Fine. I'll placate you—this time. No,
there's no one special."
"Change that."
"What?"
"I said... change that."
"I don't believe this." Sabrina was at the edge of her
seat again, looking like she was about to bolt. "I never met you before
today, never even knew who you were. And here you are, analyzing me and handing
out romantic advice?"
"You got it," he confirmed. "Because I'm... an
expert on the subject.... I know... what you're cheating... yourself of.... I
just found out the full extent of it... when you walked in. I was a damned
fool.... Don't be the same...."
She said nothing for a minute, just stared at him, and the myriad
of emotions crossing her face told him he'd struck home.
"I didn't mean... to upset you...."
"You didn't," she assured him, her tone deceptively
light. "I hear this on a daily basis from my assistant. She lectures me
about being a workaholic, insisting that it's the unhealthiest of
lifestyles."
"She's right… You grow old... alone."
"Is that why you wanted to meet me?" Sabrina asked.
"You think you're growing old alone? Because that's certainly not what the
media reports."
"There's alone... and there's alone." He was beginning
to fade, but dammit, he had to finish. "I have a full life.... Ruisseau...
Susan... And Dylan's like a son. But no continuity... I didn't realize... until
recently. Then I started thinking... that you might be out there.... Had to
know..."
Moisture dampened Sabrina's lashes, and she quickly blinked it
away. "I think you should rest. Contrary to what you believe, a lot of
people care about you. Dylan, for one. And Ms. Lane, who from what I hear
hasn't left the hospital since yesterday."
"Susan's great." Carson was stunned to taste the salt of
his own tears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, if ever.
"But a relationship... at my stage... is something different.... It's not
a family... kids.... I wish I'd realized... sooner. Don't... make that
mistake." He didn't wait for her to answer. "I want to... get to know
you. I realize... I have no right... but think about it. Discuss it with your
mother... if you need to." His jaw set. "And don't do it... because I
might die. Do it because you want to... and so do I."
"I will. I'll think about it. I—I've got to go." Sabrina
rose, her motions jerky and her eyes damp.
"Don't cry."
"I'm not." She needed to lie to protect herself. Carson
understood. She wasn't ready to bare or share emotions yet. It was too soon.
Hell, he hadn't known he possessed these kind of feelings himself until now.
"I'm not crying," she repeated, seeing the knowing look
on his face. "My eyes are just watering. It's the antiseptic smells.
Hospitals do that to me."
"Yeah... to me, too."
"Sabrina has a heightened olfactory sense," Dylan
contributed, joining the conversation for the first time. "I told her it
must be hereditary."
Carson marveled at the wonder of genetics. "I guess it must
be." He reached out a hand, touched Sabrina's sleeve as she turned to go.
"Will you... be back?"
She swallowed, gazing at him for a moment before she nodded.
"Yes. I'll come by later. I can't promise more than that."
"I understand." He was relieved he'd gotten this much.
And he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. "Then...
later..."
"Fine. Now get some sleep." She headed for the door.
Dylan leaned over the bed. "I'll be back in a while," he
said quietly. "I just want to get Sabrina to her hotel."
Carson nodded. "Good. Make sure she's okay." His lids
drooped. "We'll talk... when you get back."
Dr. Radison was waiting outside ICU when Dylan and Sabrina
emerged.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"Fine. It went fine," Sabrina replied dazedly. She felt
exhausted and too off-balance to speak, much less go into detail.
"He's still so damned weak," Dylan reported. "And
his breathing's labored."
"We need to talk about that. Mr. Brooks's chest is filling up
with fluid. He's fighting an infection, and he's losing. The chest tube's going
back in this afternoon. The respirator and ET tube will probably follow suit
tonight. Tomorrow morning I'm going in and removing the bullet."