Kane, Andrea (45 page)

"Desperate. Yeah, that's a good word for it."

"Is it Carson's announcement? I saw the clips on TV. I can't
imagine the news came as a surprise to you. From the hints you've been
dropping, I realized something big was in the works. You must have known
Sabrina Radcliffe was Carson's daughter."

"Yup, I knew," he confirmed grimly.

"So why are you so freaked out? Is it the media? Are they
jumping all over you?"

"No, Karen, they don't give a rat's ass about me. It's
Sabrina they're interested in."

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "What's the problem
then?"

He moved his arm away from his eyes, angling his head to face her.
"The problem is, the press might not find me fascinating. But the cops
do."

Karen frowned. "More so than before?"

"Oh, yeah. Barton and Whitman were in my face today, and,
boy, did the gloves come off."

"They came to Ruisseau just to see you?"

"No. Evidently, Carson asked them to show up for the meeting,
to make sure the press didn't bug Sabrina. And to make sure no one took a shot
at her, would be my guess." He blew out his breath. "Anyway, they
arrived at Ruisseau a good hour before the meeting. First, they paid a surprise
visit to Ferguson, who's already sweating bullets. He fell all over himself
saying he knew nothing about my personal life. In his frenzy to avoid
mentioning what he knew about you and me, he told them everything else."

"What's everything else?"

"Oh, the fact that I'm a workaholic, the fact that Carson's
tweaking the customary chain of command by having the company president report
to the CEO rather than the COO. Oh, and the fact that I'm so dedicated to my
career that the only recreational activity I have is my twice-a-week target
practice."

Karen digested that thoughtfully. "Okay, fine. So what? None
of that's a secret. Everyone who knows you knows you're a workaholic. Carson's
decision to have Sabrina report to him isn't really such a reach. She is his
daughter. As for the fact that you enjoy target practice, that's common
knowledge, too. Carson's certainly aware of your trips to the shooting range in
Yonkers. So Roland didn't really do much harm. I know you're worried he'll cave
under pressure. So why don't you just give him a bottle of Valium and send him
on vacation? The police won't care if he leaves New York. He has an alibi for
last Monday night."

"He might. But I don't," Stan reminded her. "None I
can share without incriminating myself. As for what was and wasn't a secret,
all but the workaholic part was news to Barton and Whitman. They didn't know
Carson was bypassing me on the corporate ladder. And they sure as hell didn't
know I'm a crackerjack shot. To them, it looks like Carson doesn't trust me,
and that I kept my shooting skills a secret for some sinister reason. They came
marching over to my office and closeted themselves in there for forty-five
excruciating minutes." A muscle in his jaw flexed. "They brought up
Russ Clark, wondered if I had any idea what dirty business dealings he might
have uncovered at Ruisseau that would make someone kill him."

"Oh God."

"My sentiments exactly. And there's more. You'll never guess
whose name came up during my little police interrogation."

"Whose?"

Stan's gaze was as bleak as it was direct. "Etienne
Pruet."

Every muscle in Karen's body tensed. "Etienne's? Why?"

"Because they got wind of the fact that he was worried about
the buying frenzy that would result when C'est Moi was released in Europe. He
was concerned that it would take a bite out of his sales. And rightfully so.
Sex sells. We all know that."

"Okay." Karen sat up, pulled the sheet around herself,
and leaned back against the headboard. She had to stay calm, to think this
through. "So they know Etienne was uneasy that C'est Moi would put a dent
in his profits. They're looking toward motive and, in their minds, Etienne has
one. But he was in Paris when Carson was shot. He couldn't have done it."

"True. But, as luck would have it, he's in New York now,
ready and eager to offer the police whatever assistance he can. So Whitman and
Barton are heading over to his New York office tomorrow to question him—and all
his employees."

"All
his employees?" Karen repeated
weakly. "Why?"

"Because even though Pruet was in Paris, his New York staff
was right here in the Big Apple. The detectives are trying to figure out if any
of those people might be guilty. And I do mean
any
of them."

"I hear you." Karen wet her lips with the tip of her
tongue. "I understand what you're warning me about. What I don't
understand is why the detectives were discussing any of this with you."

"Because Pruet's company and Ruisseau are both key players in
the fragrance business. No one knows better than you that we're major
competitors, or that it's natural for the big guns at Ruisseau to keep tabs on
the big guns at its rival—including who's who, who's up-and-coming, and who's
hungry to get ahead."

"Right. So you're saying the detectives questioned you about
Etienne's staff. Which employees in particular?"

"All of them. They ran down the list of the entire New York
staff, asked me about each and every one."

Karen paled. "Including me."

"Oh, yeah, including you."

"What did you say?"

"What do you think I said? 'Hey, Detectives, now that you ask,
I've got a hot and heavy twenty-year affair going with the executive assistant
to the head of Pruet's New York division?' " Stan snorted. "I lied
through my teeth. I told them I'd met you a couple of times, at meetings and at
professional functions. I said that all I'd heard about you through the
grapevine was that you were bright and ambitious, and that you traveled
frequently to Paris for Pruet because you spoke fluent French. Period."

A fine sheen of perspiration dotted Karen's forehead. "Maybe
that was a mistake. Maybe you should have told them we were involved. After
all, who you sleep with is no one's business."

"Oh, come on, Karen." Stan threw off the covers and
rose, pacing naked around the room. "We both know that's a crock. It's
everyone's business, even though we've managed to keep it a secret all these
years. Because this isn't just a chance affair. It's a business arrangement,
just as it has been from the beginning— one that benefits us both. Okay, there
are perks. In my case, I'm crazy about you. In your case, you're crazy about my
money and about the way I make you feel in bed."

She leaned forward, crossing her arms over her breasts, and
staring him down. "That's unfair. To begin with, I'm in love with you and
I have been since I was twenty-one. Yes, I like wearing beautiful clothes and
getting expensive jewelry. And, yes, I'm wild about the way you make me feel in
bed. But money and sex aren't the only reasons I'm with you. Any more than the
only reasons you're with me are for the marketing updates and sales strategies
I pass along."

"True. I'm in love with you. I blew two marriages to hell
because of that fact. As for the last part, I think the term for what you
described is corporate espionage."

"That's an ugly term. Especially in this case, where it's not
even accurate. You've never used any of the information I shared with you
against Etienne."

"Big deal. That's not because I'm a great guy; it's because
it never suited my purposes. You know why I needed those briefings, and what I
used them for. I had to stay on top. I had to be the best COO in the
business." A bitter pause. "I had to live up to Carson's
expectations." Stan paused, rubbed the back of his neck. "I feel
lousy that Russ is dead. But if he really did have something on me, it's a
damned good thing he didn't get to Carson with it. Because if Carson had the
slightest idea what I've been doing, he'd kick my ass out of Ruisseau so fast
I'd have whiplash."

"He's never going to find out."

"I'm glad you're so sure of that. Because I'm not. The
detectives are sniffing around me like bloodhounds, Ferguson's seen us together
and is about to crack like an egg—bonus payoff or not—Russ Clark's murder
smacks of a company tie-in, and now Sabrina Radcliffe is starting to get
suspicious."

Karen went still. "Sabrina Radcliffe? You're saying she knows
about us?"

"No, but she knows something. I'm just not sure what. And
she's sleeping with Dylan Newport, so God knows what she's shared with him, and
vice versa. This whole thing is spinning out of control. I've got to nip it in
the bud."

"How are you going to do that?"

"By handling the situation myself. I've already set things in
motion. If everything goes according to plan, we might luck out. You just deal
with those detectives tomorrow. Stick to the same story I gave them, about how we
barely know each other."

"What about my alibi for the night Carson was shot?"

"Say you were at the movies—alone. Find out what was playing
that night, in case they ask. Just stay cool. They have no reason to suspect
you. Not unless you give them one."

"Don't worry," Karen assured him. "I won't."

"Good." Stan walked over to the window, stared out into
the night sky. "If we can get past this one, maybe we can still save our
asses."

11:55 P.M.

341 West 76th
Street

The flames in the fireplace burned steadily, casting a warm,
orange glow through the downstairs sitting room. The intimate light and
occasional crackle set a romantic atmosphere for the room's two occupants, who
were draped across the shag rug, enjoying their dinner as they stretched out,
naked, beneath two oversize blankets.

"M-m-m." With an appreciative sigh, Sabrina swallowed
another bite of linguini in white clam sauce. "Carson was wrong. This is
definitely Zagat's material."

Dylan chuckled, lifting the glass of sauvignon blanc to Sabrina's
lips and holding it while she took a sip. "It's the wine. It heightens the
taste buds."

"Uh-uh." She gave an emphatic shake of her head.
"If anything heightened my senses tonight, it was you. An amazing lawyer,
lover,
and
cook. I'm beyond impressed." Her eyes twinkled. "Do
you plan to cook all our meals naked?"

"That depends. Do you plan to eat them all naked? If so,
count me in."

Sabrina's lips curved. "And here Carson said you could do
better than having me camp out on the rug. I'll have to tell him he was
wrong."

"We used the sofa, too," Dylan reminded her. "And
later, I have plans for the bed, and the Jacuzzi, and that great recliner I was
telling you about. What can I say? I'm a creative guy."

"You're an energetic guy," Sabrina said, with a
half-groan. "I'm not sure I have your strength."

"I'll renew you." His fingers traced her spine,
caressing lightly.

Sabrina's eyes slid shut. "Dylan, we have to get
some
sleep.
Tomorrow's a workday—my first as president of Ruisseau. How do you think the
troops will react to my napping at my desk? I doubt it'll win them over."

"They're already won over." His lips brushed her
shoulder. "You knocked their socks off today."

That reminded Sabrina of something she'd better share with Dylan,
although she wasn't sure how he was going to take it. "Speaking of the
troops, I think you ought to know that, super-discreet or not, you and I are a
known item. Apparently, everyone in the office knows we're involved. Stan as
much as told me so."

"Of course they do." Dylan gave an offhanded shrug.
"I'm sure they figured it out the first time they noticed me undressing
you with my eyes. They're a shrewd bunch. They're also a caring bunch. My guess
is, they're cheering us on." He tipped up her chin, rubbed his lips
lightly against hers. "So am I."

"Me, too." Sabrina gave another contented sigh. "I
must say, this was a wonderful end to a turbulent day."

"The day's not over," Dylan corrected.

"U-m-m, I forgot. The Jacuzzi, the recliner, the bed..
,"

"Well, yeah, there's that." Dylan gave her that
bone-melting grin of his. "But we also have plans to make. Like, when am I
meeting your mother? When are we breaking our news to Carson? And, most
important of all, when am I slipping a wedding band on that beautiful ring
finger?"

"Wedding band?" Sabrina arched a brow. "Now wait
just a minute, buster. You're not getting out of an engagement ring. Now that
I've shocked myself by falling in love and wanting to get married, I'm not
skipping any of the steps along the way."

"There's not a chance I'd let that happen. I've been a
renegade all my life. Not this time. This time I want to enjoy every
traditional, sentimental ritual there is" Dylan's fingers threaded through
her hair. "Need I remind you that Ruisseau is practically across the
street from Tiffany's? I planned—with your permission, of course— to take you
there tomorrow at lunchtime. We'll pick out an engagement ring and a set of
matching wedding bands together. Then, I'll get down on one knee right in the
middle of Fifth Avenue, and ask for your hand. How's that?"