Kane, Andrea (25 page)

When she'd stared at him dazedly, trying to figure out why she was
still sitting there with Dylan, while Stan was obviously leaving—sans the
limo—he'd informed her that the car and driver were at her disposal, that she
should feel free to go anywhere she wanted, and that she should get a good
night's sleep. He'd then promptly climbed into another car—one that was waiting
to take him back to work—and zoomed off.

Anywhere she wanted? What Sabrina had wanted was to crawl into
bed, pull the covers over her head, and collapse.

The problem was, she couldn't collapse. Certainly not at the
hotel, where her mother was waiting for her. Besides, it wasn't that she wanted
to avoid Gloria. She wanted to touch base with her, to hear how things had gone
with her grandparents, and to fill her in on the pivotal decisions she'd made
that day. Just not at that moment. Not right away.

If only she could go somewhere for a reprieve, she'd thought
wistfully. Just for a little while. Not a noisy bar or a crowded restaurant.
But somewhere quiet, where her thoughts and emotions—both of which were on
overdrive—could come down a peg or two. Then, she'd be ready for her nine
o'clock dinner, and the issues she and her mother had to discuss.

Dylan must have read her mind, because he'd leaned forward, given
the driver an address, and settled back in his seat.

The driver had brought them to what Sabrina realized was her new
Manhattan residence. And, she had to admit, the cozy brownstone was the perfect
medicine.

She'd explored the place from the ground floor up, climbing the
three flights of stairs with newfound enthusiasm, and pausing to stroll around
each level and admire her surroundings. The place was even more charming than
it had looked from the street. More spacious, too, with a library and
conference room on the ground floor, a living room and kitchen on the second
floor, and two bedrooms and a sitting room on the third floor.

The furnishings were both tasteful and expensive, decorated
throughout in sweeping shades of bone and brown, with rich parquet floors and
gleaming marble bathrooms. The updated kitchen was fully stocked, and complete
with every sophisticated appliance known to mankind. The living room bar was
also fully stocked, boasting every top brand of liquor, and a floor-to-ceiling
Subzero wine rack filled with an impressive selection of reds and whiter—the
latter wines on top, the former on bottom, so as to be kept at precisely the
right temperatures. As for the bedrooms, there was a large master bedroom with
an adjoining bath, and an ample-sized second bedroom. Both bedrooms had thick
cream-colored carpeting and magnificent cherry furniture. A vase filled with
fresh flowers sat on the bureau of the master bedroom and, to Sabrina's
amazement, the linens on the bed had been freshly changed, and the covers
turned back. Quite a feat, given the fact that Carson had just offered her the
place an hour ago. Obviously, he'd taken the necessary steps in the hopes that
she'd accept. Well, those steps had worked. The entire brownstone felt homey
and warm, as if it housed permanent residents, rather than occasional visitors
from Ruisseau's European operations.

"Nice, huh?" Dylan asked, leaning against the master
bedroom door frame and watching her reaction.

"It's lovely." Sabrina walked over to the flowers and
sniffed. "Roses, jasmine, and ylang-ylang," she pronounced. "The
floral essences in C'est Moi. I recognize the scents from the lab."

"Impressive sniffing."

"Impressive apartment." Sabrina turned to face Dylan,
shaking her head in wonder. "Who took care of getting it ready in such
record time?"

"Marie, Carson's secretary. She's as good as they come, a
crackerjack assistant in every way. She's the most organized human being on the
planet. Carson got word to her that he'd hired a consultant for an indefinite
period of time. She took care of the rest. The food, the flowers, everything."

"She's obviously a treasure. I'd appreciate if either you or
Stan would introduce me to her first thing tomorrow. I want to thank her. The
personal touches are just what I needed."

"No problem."

"Did you know all this was being done behind the scenes?"

"Um-hum. That's why I brought you here first. You were
weaving on your feet when we left Carson's room, and you fuzzed out more than
once during our meeting with Stan. I was beginning to think we'd have to admit
you to Mount Sinai as a patient if we pushed any harder. Then, when I heard you
make plans to meet your mother at the hotel... let's just say I figured you
could use some space before the next round. So, here we are, Madam
President—home sweet home."

Sabrina shot him a look, wondering if he was being compassionate
or sarcastic. "Thanks—I think. As for the apartment, when Carson said I
should move into one of his extras, I wasn't expecting all this. Are you sure
you don't need to keep it available for the company's use?"

"You're the company now, too, remember? Besides, we've got
two other apartments if someone from Paris blows into town. Carson wanted you
to have this one. Unless you'd rather move into his place. He said to make that
available to you, too, if you'd prefer. It's on Central Park West, and it's
huge."

"Now wouldn't that be cute?" Sabrina returned dryly.
"Especially if we were to continue that arrangement after Carson came
home—which he will. I'm not sure who'd appreciate it more, the tabloids or
Susan. The new, young management consultant shacked up with the great-looking,
middle-aged CEO. Nice publicity. We could say it was all thanks to C'est Moi.
But of course that would backfire when Carson and I decided to make the
announcement that I was his daughter. We'd go from a sex scandal to an incest
scandal. Neither one would do much for Ruisseau's reputation, or its sales. So
I think I'll pass."

Dylan's lips curved into one of those sexy, crooked smiles.
"When you put it that way, it does sound like a bad move."

"Um-hum. Besides, Central Park West isn't really my thing.
This place is. It's ideal."

A satisfied nod. "Yeah, I think it suits you. Classy,
impressive in an understated way, and naturally beautiful— no enhancements
required."

"Thank you." This time her thanks were genuine, although
she was somewhat surprised by the compliment. This was more like the Dylan
she'd had dinner with last night—charming, putting her at ease. It was a far
cry from the mercurial guy she'd crossed paths with today.

The one-eighty was baffling. His moods today had ranged from harsh
when they'd left Carson at lunchtime, to distant when they'd converged in ICU
late in the day, to crisply businesslike when they'd met with Stan. So why now
was he being so warm and accommodating, even flattering? On top of that, she
sensed different undercurrents than before—ones that rattled her, where the
others hadn't.

She had a pretty good idea why. What she didn't know was where
those undercurrents were leading.

Damn, it would be so much easier if she could read this man's
mind.

"So it's a go?" he asked.

Sabrina blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The apartment?" he reminded her. "Is it the one
you want to live in?"

"Oh. Yes. Consider it signed, sealed, and delivered."

"Almost. We've still got to move you in. I was just waiting
for your nod of approval before I contacted the Plaza Athenée, and arranged to
have your things packed up and sent over. I'll make that call now. It'll be
taken care of within the hour. You can sleep here tonight." He whipped out
his cell phone.

"Wait a minute." Sabrina reacted on gut instinct,
feeling more than a twinge of irritation. She wasn't used to having her life
controlled. And she didn't plan on becoming used to it, either. "I'll take
care of the arrangements. I'll settle my account in person, when I meet my mother
for dinner. I'll also pack my own things."

Dylan's gaze was steady, although one brow rose— whether in
annoyance or amusement, Sabrina wasn't sure. "Whatever you say."

Tension crackled in the air and, abruptly, Sabrina reached the end
of her rope. This whatever-it-was had gone on long enough.

Abandoning diplomacy, she folded her arms across her breasts and
stared Dylan down. "Look, I'm too tired to play games. Don't try the
take-charge approach to show me who's boss. It's not necessary, and it won't
work. I don't intimidate easily. Further, if you've got something on your mind
where I'm concerned, just spit it out. If it's resentment, I understand. Three
days ago I didn't even know Carson Brooks, except as a name in
Business
Week.
You've been an integral part of his life for almost twenty years. My
coming on as president of Ruisseau must really piss you off."

This time Dylan reacted, anger flashing in his eyes as he went
from lounging in the doorway to jerking upright, his posture rigid. "Is
that what you think? That I'm threatened by your place in the company, or in
Carson's life for that matter? Quite the opposite, Sabrina. I see how much
Carson's investing in you—and I don't mean financially or even professionally.
I've spent the past few days praying I could convince you to get tissue-typed,
praying you'd be a donor match, praying that, if you were, you wouldn't balk
and decide not to go through with the kidney transplant. Now I've got to pray
that you won't desert Carson on another level. That you won't decide Ruisseau's
not for you, or cave under pressure from your family, or just not give enough
of a damn, and go back to head up CCTL full time.
That's
what's on my
mind where you're concerned."

Sabrina blinked at the fervor in Dylan's voice. His sincerity wasn't
even a question. That he doubted hers— well, wasn't that natural? Given how
reluctant she'd been to accompany him to New York, how reserved she'd been
about making commitments, how ambivalent she'd been about accepting everything
Carson offered—could she blame Dylan? He didn't know her, not really. He had no
idea how seriously she took those commitments she did make. And Carson was his
family—his
only
family. He wanted to protect him, and he felt helpless
to do that under the circumstances. Wouldn't she feel the same way if the
tables were turned?

"I'm sorry," she heard herself say. Raking a weary hand
through her hair, she walked over to the bedroom doorway, facing Dylan head-on.
"I've been so caught up in my own emotional meltdown, I became insensitive
to yours. I'll try to make up for that now by being as honest as I can. Yes,
I'm in shock. My life's been turned upside down. Yes, I'm worried about the
fallout where my family's concerned. And, yes, I'm committed to the continued
success of CCTL. That having been said, I won't change my mind. Not about
anything. If I'm the best kidney match, I'm going through with that surgery. If
I can do the job the way Carson wants it done, I'm stepping up to the plate as
president of Ruisseau. And, most of all, I'm getting to know my father. He
wants that. And so do I. Does that put your mind at ease?"

A muscle worked in Dylan's jaw. "Very much so. Thanks."
He took a step closer, until she could smell the musky scent of his
cologne—some Ruisseau brand, no doubt, one that suited Dylan perfectly—mixed
with the lingering scent of his soap. "Oh, and for the record," he
added, tipping up her chin so their gazes locked. "I wasn't pulling a
power trip when I said I'd take care of the hotel. I was trying to take
something off your plate. It's getting pretty crowded these days."

"You're right. It is." Sabrina was having trouble
breathing. She and Dylan were standing entirely too close, and the mood between
them was far too intense. She was stunned by how off-balance it made her feel.

Or maybe not so stunned. There was something about Dylan Newport
she found incredibly exciting—a hard-edged sexiness she'd never been attracted
to before, but now was. Between that, and the fact that he was so damned
challenging, so mentally stimulating... okay, so the moment of truth had
arrived. Time to put a name to those undercurrents.
And
time to put some
serious distance between her and Dylan if she wanted to consider her options
before she acted on them.

Averting her gaze, Sabrina took a step backward, then made a move
to go around Dylan and leave the intimacy of the bedroom ASAP. "I was
relieved to see that Carson was stronger this evening," she declared, her
voice bright as she strove to make casual conversation. "He was so wiped
out this afternoon that I—"

Dylan's arm snaked out, caught her around the waist, and brought
her up against him. "You asked what was on my mind where you're
concerned," he said huskily. "There's one thing I didn't mention.
This."

There was no time to react, no time to protest—not that Sabrina
wanted to. Dylan's mouth took hers in a kiss so consuming she felt it down to
the tips of her toes. Like everything else about him, Dylan's kiss was hot and
proficient, his lips slanting over hers, moving with hungry precision as he deepened
the caress. His tongue plunged inside, rubbing against hers with a sensual
thoroughness that awakened every nerve ending in her body.

Sabrina heard herself moan, responding to him on sheer instinct.
One minute she was standing there, drowning in sensation, and the next minute
she was kissing him back, her motions just as fervent as his, her fingers
clutching the lapels of his suit jacket, gripping tightly and holding on for
dear life.