Authors: Scent of Danger
Whitman studied him for a long moment. Then, she nodded, tearing
off a scrap of blank paper and handing it to Dylan. "Write down Mr.
Brooks's daughter's name and address," she instructed. "And keep your
cell phone on. If we need you, we'll find you."
8:15 P.M.
Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership
Sabrina was just finishing up an evening workshop when her
assistant, Melissa Andrews, poked her head in.
"Excuse me, Sabrina," she murmured, looking distinctly
uncomfortable—a rarity for the thirty-five-year-old dynamo, who could cope with
just about anything. "May I see you for a moment?"
"Sure." Sabrina took the cue, gathering up her notes and
gesturing for the group to disband. "We were just about to call it a night
anyway. These folks need a little R&R." She smiled politely around the
room. "The evening's yours. Enjoy it."
She walked into the hall, edging toward the quiet alcove where
Melissa had already positioned herself so they could talk in private.
"What is it?"
"There's a man here to see you," Melissa reported,
folding her arms across her breasts and tapping one manicured nail against her
sleeve. "His name's Dylan Newport. Evidently, he's corporate counsel for
Ruisseau Fragrances."
"Ruisseau?" Sabrina's brows rose with interest—an
interest that was rapidly eclipsed by puzzlement. "Their corporate
counsel? That's odd."
"Almost as odd as showing up at my desk at eight o'clock at
night, insisting on speaking to you and
only
you, now if not sooner. He
practically forced me to interrupt your workshop. I swear, I think the guy
would have broken down the door if I'd said no."
"That sounds pretty extreme." Sabrina frowned.
"We've never done business with Ruisseau, so this can't be a legal
suit."
"It isn't. I specifically asked him if he had documents for
you. He said no. I pressed him as hard as I could. He finally acknowledged that
he wasn't here on legal business. That's as much as I could get out of him. He
refused to say another word, except that it was you he needed to see.
Tonight." Melissa shot her a questioning look. "You're not having an
affair with him, are you?"
"Yeah, right," Sabrina retorted, her mind racing to find
a logical explanation. "I barely have time for a nap, much less an
affair."
"I didn't think so. It's too bad, though. He's hot.
Really
hot. But he's not your type. This guy's too earthy."
"Thanks for the assessment." Sabrina wasn't bothered by
Melissa's bluntness. Her assistant was as plunge-in-and-get-it-done about
relationships as she was about work. "But whatever this Dylan Newport
wants to see me about, it's not sex."
"Like I said, too bad. Anyway, he's definitely a man with a
mission. He won't take no for an answer. Rather than test his limits, I decided
to interrupt you."
"A wise move. Where is he now?"
"In the office behind the reception area. I showed him in
there to keep the disruption to a minimum. He's waiting for you, pacing around
like a caged lion."
"Then let's not waste time—his or ours. Let's find out what
he wants."
"Have fun." Melissa patted her shoulder. "I'll be
at my desk. Just hit the intercom and bellow if you need me."
"I think I can handle this." Sabrina was already on her
way, heading down the hall, her thoughts moving faster than her feet. Why would
an attorney for Ruisseau Fragrances be here, demanding to see her?
Only one way to find out.
She cut across the marble and glass reception area and made a
beeline for the rear office.
Stepping inside, she nearly collided with the tall, dark-haired
man who was pacing near the doorway. "Mr. Newport?"
When he turned toward her, Sabrina knew instantly why Melissa had
described him the way she had. He
was
earthy. And hot—if you went for
the dark, rough-around-the-edges type. He was certainly both those things, more
dangerous-looking than classically handsome, right down to his penetrating gaze
and strong, slightly crooked nose that suggested it had been broken at least
once. His stance and build were equally tough and Sabrina could sooner picture
him in a black T-shirt and jeans than in the herringbone blazer and
conservative wool slacks he had on.
No, definitely not her type.
"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe," she informed him, extending her
hand. "I understand you're here to see me."
He returned her handshake as if on autopilot, something akin to
startled realization flashing in his eyes. Then, he stepped back, scrutinizing
her with fierce, unnerving intensity, his stare raking her from head to toe—
not in the usual suggestive manner Sabrina had been subject to all too often,
but in a clinical way, like a scientist might examine a specimen under a
microscope.
"Do I get the part?" she asked pointedly.
Her meaning sank in, and he broke off his physical inspection, his
gaze rising to meet hers. He looked a little shell-shocked, although why, she
had no idea. "Yeah, you get the part. I hope you'll want it."
Okay, so he
was
here to hire her. But why the timing? And
why an attorney?
This was getting more fascinating by the minute.
"I'm intrigued." Sabrina tucked a wisp of hair behind
her ear. "Ruisseau's last quarter was incredible. You blew away all your
competition. Your company's clearly on a roll. So why seek out CCTL now? Don't
get me wrong— we can always find ways to make a company better. But it's a rare
CEO who thinks that way when profits are skyrocketing. And it's rarer still to
have him or her send corporate counsel to do human resources' job. So what's
the scoop?"
To her surprise, a crack of laughter escaped Dylan Newport. He
gave a hard, disbelieving shake of his head, rubbing the back of his neck as if
to assimilate some major discovery.
"Care to share the joke with me?"
"Sorry. It's been a pretty intense day. And there's no joke.
Just some unexpected enlightenment."
"You lost me."
Her guest's amusement faded, and he leaned past Sabrina to shut
the door. Then, he gestured toward a chair. "Sit down, Ms. Radcliffe. The
conversation we're about to have is not going to be easy."
Normally, she'd remain standing. But something in his voice made
her comply.
He pulled around another chair so he could face her, lowering
himself into it. "I didn't come here to hire you."
"Then why did you come?"
He interlaced his fingers, staring at them for a moment before
answering. "You know a lot about Ruisseau's success. Why is that?"
Sabrina blinked. "I'm a management consultant. My clients are
companies, big and small, public and private. It's my job to know what's going
on in the business world. And I'd hardly say I know a lot about Ruisseau; only
what's been in every financial newspaper and on every television network in the
country."
"Yeah, well, check out the early morning business news
tomorrow."
She jumped on that one. "Why? Will Ruisseau be a news item?
Is that why you're here? Has something major happened?"
A humorless smile. "That's the understatement of the century.
It's only because we called in a few favors and because we're a private company
that I managed to keep things quiet until after you and I talked."
This was getting more outrageous by the minute. "Why would
you need to talk to me first, especially if you don't plan to hire CCTL? Where
does my company fit into all this?"
"It doesn't.
You
do."
Sabrina's gaze narrowed. "How? And I want an answer, not
another question."
"Fine. I'll cut to the chase. The reason I'm here is because
of your father."
"My..." Sabrina broke off. After all this buildup, Dylan
Newport's visit was obviously a mistake. Whoever he was looking for, it wasn't
her. "You've been misinformed. My father's not alive, much less affiliated
with Ruisseau."
"You're wrong, Ms. Radcliffe. He's both." A resigned
frown. "I was hoping this wouldn't come completely out of left field. No
such luck, I see. Were you told your father is dead, or just a nonentity?"
An odd, uneasy sensation formed in the pit of Sabrina's stomach.
She'd heard this song and dance before, but never from a reputable attorney,
and never with such an intricate scenario to back it up. Why would Ruisseau's
corporate counsel represent a two-bit hustler when there was so much at stake?
He wouldn't.
The cerebral part of her was dying of curiosity. The instinctive
part wanted to tarn around and run.
She started to get up, eyeing the file Dylan Newport pulled out of
his leather case. "I repeat, you're talking to the wrong person. Now if
you'll excuse me..."
"Your mother's Gloria Radcliffe," he announced, stopping
Sabrina in her tracks. "She's a fashion designer from a prominent Beacon
Hill family. You're her only child. You were born on June third, nineteen
seventy-five, at Newton-Wellesley Hospital. You blasted your way through school
and, at the ungodly age of nineteen-going-on-twenty, got your degree from the
Cornell School of Hotel Management. You worked in the Ritz-Carlton's management
trainee program for a year, then went back and got your MBA from Harvard. For
three years, you were employed at Haig, Lowell, and Fontaine—one of Boston's
most renowned management consulting firms— and you were well on your way toward
becoming their youngest junior partner when, a year ago, you did a one-eighty,
leaving to start the Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership. At that time,
you recruited top talent from all over the country to form your staff. You're quite
a success story. Still think I have the wrong person?"
Slowly, Sabrina sank back down. "Okay, what's this about? Why
did you dig up my entire history? Or maybe I should ask for whom? In fact,
maybe I should see some identification. You claim you're a lawyer. I'm starting
to think you're a PI."
"I'm not. If I were, I'd be handling this conversation
better." He pulled out his license and company ID, handing both to her.
"Proof enough?"
Sabrina skimmed them, then handed them back. "Fine. You are
who you say you are. That still doesn't explain..."
"How much do you know about your father?" he
interrupted. "Or, more to the point, the details surrounding his becoming
your father?"
The way he said that—she had a gut feeling he had facts to back up
his allegations. So, obviously, did whoever had sent him. They knew exactly how
she'd been conceived. Which explained the way Dylan Newport was staring at her,
as if he were checking for some resemblance, something concrete to lend
credibility to his client's claim.
Still, she could be wrong. This could be nothing more than another
run-of-the-mill case of a con artist who assumed she was the product of a
one-night-stand, and was looking for a windfall. An incredibly good con artist,
if he'd convinced Dylan Newport to represent him.
"You're representing a man with an alleged claim," she
stated, testing the waters. "Is your client going after my mother? Because
if he is, it won't work. My mother's got an amazing memory for the men she's
been involved with. This hoax has been tried before—my long-lost father showing
up, trying to extort money from my family—and he and his lawyer have been
slapped with lawsuits so big they'd make your head spin. Although, I must say,
I'm surprised that an attorney of your standing could be so easily duped. Or
that you'd stoop so low and risk so much."
"Hold it." Dylan Newport shook his head. "There's
no alleged claim. And I'm certainly not going after your mother, or anyone else
in your family. I'm just trying to get a handle on how much of the truth you've
been told."
"You tell me."
"Fine. You were conceived through donor insemination. You
never met your biological father. Is that consistent with the information
you've been given?"
So she'd been right. He did have the facts.
Sabrina's eyes glittered. "It is. It's also a private aspect
of my life—not one I'm ashamed of, by the way, but one I don't discuss with
strangers. I must say you've gone to great lengths, Mr. Newport. Prying into
confidential medical records, divulging that information—you've already given
me grounds to have you disbarred. Keep talking and we'll add charges of
extortion and fraud to invasion of privacy. Try leaking this bogus claim to the
news—and you'll be spending time in jail."
"Thanks for the warning." Dylan Newport's unflinching
stare said that none of her threats were news to him. And, in spite of it, he
was still pushing ahead with this.
Why?
The obvious answer was that whatever he was about to tell her was
true. And damned important to the higher-ups at Ruisseau.
The pit in Sabrina's stomach became a full-fledged knot.
"Your assessment is right," he was continuing. "At
least partly right. You'd get me on the invasion of privacy charge. Add
emotional distress, for that matter. But you'd lose on extortion and fraud. Because
I don't want money, and the claim I'm making isn't bogus. It's real. The fact
that I'm willing to go to these extremes despite the risk should tell you
that."