Kane, Andrea (44 page)

"How does Stan know they got there okay? Did he check in with
Dylan?"

Susan sighed, visibly prepping herself for Carson's outburst.
"I didn't hear that part from Stan. Detective Whitman called and told me
about it herself."

"And you didn't wake me?" Carson barked. He was already
reaching for the phone. "What time did Whitman call?"

"Around eight-thirty. She said to let you sleep."

"Yeah, I'll just bet she did. She didn't want me firing
questions at her. Well, tough." He punched in a number. "I'm calling
her cell phone. She'd better answer or... Yeah, Detective Whitman?"

At the other end of the phone, Jeannie—who was still at her desk,
going over the information she and Frank had gleaned from Stan Hager
today—munched on another potato chip. "Hi, Mr. Brooks. I was wondering
what took you so long."

"I just woke up. Tell me what happened."

"Exactly what you wanted to happen. Your daughter and Mr.
Newport were delivered to his apartment, unscathed, uninterrogated, and in one
piece."

"Was she all right?"

Jeannie put down the bag of chips. "Physically, she was fine.
Other than the fact that she looked white as a sheet. She answered questions
for over an hour, following a day that, from what I heard, was a circus."

Carson's lips thinned into a grim line. "You're sure the
press didn't get to her?"

"Positive. Although from what I hear, things are hopping at
Beacon Hill, and the phones are ringing off the hook at CCTL."

"Shit. How do you know that?"

"We checked with Gloria Radcliffe. She filled us in."

"Is Gloria home or with her parents?"

"She's home. Her parents went to bed. A rough day for them, I
gather."

"Shit," Carson repeated. "Okay, I'll take it from
here. Except for one thing. What do you think about assigning police protection
to Sabrina?"

Jeannie blew out a breath. "Realistically? There's no way.
Not the way you mean. We can beef up police presence near your office, even
arrange for routine check-ins with Sabrina, and a patrol car monitoring her
neighborhood at night. But round-the-clock one-on-one protection? Uh-uh."

"Then I'll hire a bodyguard."

If Carson was expecting a protest, he didn't get one. "I
don't blame you. It's your daughter. Your job is to protect her. Ours is to
make sure there's nothing to protect her from."

"I hear you." Carson's wheels were turning. "I'll
take care of my end. You take care of yours." A pause. "And
detective?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

He disconnected the call, then peered over at his nightstand where
he'd placed a napkin with a phone number scribbled on it. He grabbed the napkin
and punched up the number.

"Who are you calling?" Susan asked, perching at the edge
of the bed.

"Gloria Radcliffe. I want to make sure everything there is
okay."

Susan looked puzzled. "Why not call Sabrina? I'm sure she's
spoken to her mother."

"I'm sure she has." For the first time, Carson's
features relaxed, and he shot Susan a hint of a grin. "But I'm not
bothering Sabrina. Not tonight."

"You think she's conked out?"

"Nope. I think she's otherwise engaged."

"Ah." Susan got his drift, and fast. "You're hoping
that she and Dylan are solidifying things."

"That's a classy way of putting it. But, yeah, that's what
I'm hoping." He turned his attention to the phone, as Gloria's answering
machine picked up, instructing the caller to leave a message.

"Hey, Gloria, it's Carson," he announced. "I'm sure
you're screening your calls, but if you're there, pick up. I want to—"

"Hello, Carson," Gloria interrupted him, sounding
bone-weary and worn. "Is everything all right?"

"That's what I called to ask you," he replied. "I'm
fine. Status quo. Susan's here, she sneaked me in some decent food, and all's
well." His hand tightened on the receiver. "How bad is it?"

"About what I expected. My mother swallowed a tranquilizer,
my father swallowed two martinis, and the phones have been ringing off the
hook—in Boston and here. The good news is, the photo of me that they're
flashing on the business networks is flattering and shows off one of my newer
designs. So that's good for business."

Carson chuckled. "You're one strong lady, you know
that."

"So I've been told."

He cleared his throat. "I tried bullying Sabrina out of the
transplant. It didn't work."

"I knew it wouldn't."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. This is what I expected. And concern for my child—
our
child—aside, I'm relieved that she can help you, assuming you still need
the help by then."

Carson exhaled sharply. "When are you flying down?"

"When my parents either calm down or agree to join me. Right
now, they've got an army of friends who want answers. The head of their damned
country club even called. It's like Peyton Place revisited. It brings to mind
all the reasons why I left Beacon Hill."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just get well," Gloria said quietly. "Soon.
Sabrina's going to need you, and not just at work. I didn't meet Dylan Newport
yet, but I intend to, the minute I get back to New York. I've been paying
attention to that personal situation you hinted about..."

"And?"

"And you're definitely onto something. When Sabrina called
before... let's just say that, killer day or not, she was very relieved that
Dylan was with her. It was nothing she said, just her tone. The same tone I've
been hearing all week. Sabrina's not the mushy type, or at least she never was
till now. Something's brewing. And that something is Dylan. In which case—let's
just say I'd be as thrilled as you if our daughter's heart led her to follow a
traditional path."

"Like down an aisle?"

"Um-hum. And if that happens, guess who's got to be strong
enough to be her escort?" Gloria sounded as if the one bright spot in her
life right now was the fact that Sabrina might have found her key to happiness.
"Like I said, she's going to need you. So get well soon."

"Count on it," Carson assured her. "In the
meantime, when things get tough over the next few days, soothe yourself with
the fact that you and I are going to have some amazing grandchildren in the
not-too-distant-future."

A slight chuckle. "I'll do that."

"Stay in touch."

"I will."

Carson placed the phone back in its cradle. He stared broodingly
at it, wishing like hell he could get out of this goddamned hospital bed and move
life's events along— on the investigation front, on Sabrina and Dylan's
courtship front. He needed to be in control, to make things happen. This whole
victim routine—lying here, doing nothing—it was killing him. His fists clenched
at his sides, as he fought the incredible sense of pent-up frustration and
impotence.

"Hey." Susan unclenched one of his fists, and interlaced
her fingers with his. "Everything will work out. You'll see."

"Yeah, I know," he replied with a scowl. "But it
would work out a helluva lot faster if I were the one running the show."

"You will be. Before you know it, this whole ordeal will be
over and you'll be in control again."

11:35 P.M.

Yonkers, New York

The garden apartments were on the Yonkers-Tuckahoe border, a nice
area in Westchester County to call home. The buildings were brick, modern, but
with a homey touch. Set back from the main road, they were hidden by a line of
pine trees, planted to ensure the privacy of the tenants. The apartments
weren't inordinately expensive, not by today's standards, but they were
tasteful, with manicured grounds, an outdoor swimming pool, and a small tennis
court reserved for residents only. As for the tenants themselves, they were,
by-and-large, in their thirties and forties, upwardly mobile and financially
comfortable. Many of them commuted daily to Manhattan, hopping on the train and
riding the short distance on Metro North to Grand Central Station.

For a single woman like Karen Shepard, who spent most of her life
at the office, building a solid foundation in a solid corporation, and the rest
of her time with friends or at the gym, it was a great place to live.
Especially since she wanted to keep a low profile, to live somewhere where the
tenants came home tired and late, and were, on the whole, too wrapped up in
their own lives to pry into hers. That way, Stan could drop by and spend two or
three nights a week in her bed—during both his married and his unmarried
years—without anyone noticing or, quite frankly, caring.

It was a great arrangement for them both.

Except that when Stan veered into the parking lot that night, he
felt anything but great.

He jumped out of his car and made his way to the double glass
doors outside Karen's building. Impatiently, he pressed the button marked 3F,
and paced around, waiting.

The answering buzzer sounded.

He grabbed the door, yanked it open, and tore through the lobby
and up the stairs like gangbusters.

She was expecting him. He'd called her earlier this evening to say
he was coming, then again from the car to let her know he was on his way. They
hadn't originally made plans to see each other tonight. But after his late-day
interrogation—which had thrown him so badly he'd puked up his lunch—their
getting together was a necessity. And not just for sexual pleasure or mutual
gain. For survival.

Karen opened the door the minute she heard Stan's footsteps,
stepped aside to let him in. He blew by her, wired to the hilt. Even so, he
felt that sharp jolt of sexual awareness he always felt in her presence, the
same pull that had drawn them together the first time they'd met, and still
made him hard the minute he saw her. Even at a time like this, when his life
was in chaos and his ulcer was about to eat him alive, she got to him.

She looked sensational, as always, her honey-brown hair loose and
silky, curling around her shoulders as if to embrace them. Her robe was a
delicate Chinese print, belted around her slender waist, concealing every inch
of that incredible skin he couldn't get enough of. Her dark eyes were filled
with questions as she shut the door behind him.

Jesus, he thought, turning to face her. Between her pristine
attire and that wide-eyed expression, she looked more like a young virgin on
her wedding night than a forty-one-year-old woman who'd been his lover for
nearly two decades and was practically insatiable in bed.

"What is it?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind
her ear. "You sounded terrible on the phone. And you look worse." She
sized him up for another instant, then headed over to her sideboard. "I'll
make you a drink. Sit down and tell me what's going on."

"Sit down? Forget it. I can barely stand still. But I'll take
the drink—a couple of them, in fact."

She poured him a shot of bourbon, and handed it to him.
"One's enough. Unless you're spending the night. I don't want you driving
home drunk. Can you stay?"

His brows rose as he tossed down the shot. "When have I ever
been able to say no to that invitation?"

"Never," she replied frankly. "At least not till
now. But tonight... something's very wrong."

"Yeah. Very wrong." He put down the glass, rubbed his
forehead.

Karen watched him, more worried about his state of mind than
whatever had caused it. "Stan." She walked over, loosened his tie and
unbuttoned his shirt. "Whatever crisis has you so frantic, let it wait a
few minutes. You need to unwind."

He made a pained sound, pulled her against him like a drowning
man. "I'm not sure that's possible. I feel like a cornered rat."

"Oh, it's possible." She kissed his neck, molded herself
to him until his body responded, his erection pulsing against her. "As for
how you feel, I'd say you feel pretty damned good. Tense, but good. Whatever's
gnawing at you, let me make it go away for a little while."

She knew what his answer would be. It always was. When it came to
each other, neither of them was capable of saying no.

Stan was already unbelting her robe, pulling her toward the
bedroom as he did. He pushed the garment off her shoulders, stripping off his
own clothes as she lay back on the bed, waiting for him.

He took her with an intensity that bordered on violence.
Afterward, he rolled away, flung an arm across his eyes, and lay there, his
breathing ragged.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to be so
rough."

"Don't apologize." Still breathless herself, Karen
propped herself up on one elbow. "That's one thing that you, of all men,
never need to do—at least not in bed. You're an incredible lover. I don't need
to tell you that. And you weren't rough; you were desperate."