Kane, Andrea (9 page)

Frank grimaced. "I want to toss that theory in the garbage.
But the truth is, the stuff is raking in a fortune. And if Brooks is eccentric
enough to keep the formula to himself, yeah, I guess it's possible."

A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Don't sound so
skeptical. That whole pheromone thing is a big deal now. And Brooks
incorporated it in a product that does handsprings around his competitors. He
capitalized on a hot trend, and raked in a huge chunk of the perfume market.
The man's a genius."

"No arguments. I'm well acquainted with the C'est Moi rage.
My wife was first on line to buy a bottle. Said it was supposed to make the
wearer irresistible."

Jeannie grinned. "And did it work? Was she
irresistible?"

"I wouldn't know. She didn't buy it. She thought there was a
man's brand, too. Turned out they've only marketed a woman's so far."

The grin widened. "Linda wanted to buy it for
you
to
wear?"

"Yup. Like I'm not irresistible enough."

Jeannie patted his sleeve sympathetically. "Don't sweat it.
From the ads I've seen, they're coming out with the male version for Christmas.
I'll give Linda a heads-up call. That way, we'll make sure you find a bottle in
your stocking."

"Gee, thanks."

"Look at the bright side. Linda might be so turned on, you
won't see the light of day for a week. Think how much weight you'll lose."

"Cute. Really cute." Frank shot her a look. "I'm
not in the mood for jokes. In fact, I'm feeling pretty testy today."

"No kidding."

"Starving to death will do that to you. So will lack of sleep.
Especially when it comes from working on a case like this."

Sobering, Jeannie nodded. "I'm with you there. This
investigation gets more involved by the minute. Rather than narrowing things
down, we've got a growing list of suspects, a ton of alibis to confirm—and very
little to go on."

"I'd say I wish we already found the weapon, but I doubt
it'll help us, even when we do," Frank added in disgust. "We know
from the shell casings on Brooks's rug that the gun was a twenty-two caliber.
Not exactly an uncommon choice. And I doubt it'll have a name tag on it. More
likely, when we trace it, we'll find out it was hot. That'll be another dead
end."

8:45 A.M.

Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership

Dylan swallowed the last of his muffin and coffee, then left the
lounge on his floor that served light breakfast, and headed down to the
reception desk for the third time that morning.

"Any word from Ms. Radcliffe?" he asked.

The young woman looked up from her paperwork. "No, Mr.
Newport. She's still not back." She cleared her throat, evidently deciding
he was losing patience with that response. "Why don't I buzz her
assistant, Melissa Andrews? She might have heard from Sabrina."

"There's no need, Kim." Sabrina's voice came from behind
him. "I'm here. I'll talk to Mr. Newport."

He turned, struck again by Sabrina Radcliffe's startling resemblance
to Carson. It wasn't so much her features, which were softer, more delicate and
refined. But her coloring—the contrast of jet black hair and intense blue
eyes—plus that high forehead, and her mannerisms—the way she held her head, the
stubborn line of her chin and jaw when she was speaking, the astute,
no-nonsense delivery... damn, it was like seeing a smaller, slighter, feminine
version of Carson. The rest of it—the fluidity of her movements, her innate
poise, and her patrician bearing, not to mention the incredible body that only
a dead man wouldn't notice—those attributes she obviously owed to her mother.

She looked exhausted, with lines of fatigue around her eyes and
dark circles beneath them. At the same time, she was composed, her corporate
training kicking in to help her hide whatever emotional turmoil she was
experiencing. He wished she were more readable; he was good at seeing through
people, and he would have given a king's ransom to be able to read her mind.

What had she decided to do—or not to do—about Carson?

"Let's go up to my office," she said quietly.

He nodded, following her down the hall and up a short flight of
stairs. Her office was in a private alcove at the end of a plant-lined
corridor, with only her assistant's cubicle sharing that section of the
building.

"Hi." Melissa Andrews greeted Sabrina, then started as
she saw who was with her. Glancing from Sabrina to Dylan and back again, she
sat up straighter, her brows arching with interest. "Did you just get
back?"

"Um-hum." Sabrina paused beside Melissa's desk,
rummaging through the early morning memos and telephone messages already
waiting for her. "
I
did. Mr. Newport didn't. He spent the night at
CCTL. I spent the night at my mother's. I'm assuming Mr. Newport slept alone.
But you can check with him after our meeting." Sabrina looked up.
"Anything urgent I should know about?"

"Nope. Business as usual." Her assistant didn't seem
thrown by the curt, no-bullshit reply. For his part, Dylan had to bite back a
grin. If that response wasn't Carson, nothing was.

"Good." Sabrina plucked out two memos and one phone
message, handing them to Melissa before placing the rest of the pile back where
she'd found it. "Deal with these. Also, ask Deborah and Mark to divvy up
my workshops for the next day or two. Everything else can wait till I come
back."

"Back? You're going away?"

"Briefly, yes. I'll fill you in on where and when after I
meet with Mr. Newport." Sabrina gestured for Dylan to accompany her into
her office. "Hold all my calls," she instructed Melissa. "I'm
out to everyone except my mother."

Dylan followed her into the office and shut the door behind him.
"You decided to come to New York," he stated flatly, seeking the
confirmation he needed.

Sabrina poured herself a glass of water, taking a few bolstering
swallows before she turned to face Dylan. "Yes, I did." She set down
the glass, tracing the rim with her fingertip. "I caught the business news
this morning. His condition sounds iffy. I want to meet him. That's all I'm
committing to for now."

"Fine," Dylan replied. It wasn't really, but it was a
start. Meeting Carson was the first step toward helping him.

"I've got a few loose ends to tie up," Sabrina
continued, feathering her fingers through her hair in a weary gesture.
"Then, I'll throw some things in a bag. Give me fifteen minutes. There's a
ten forty-five flight that gets into LaGuardia at noon. Will that work?"

"Yeah, it'll work." Dylan cleared his throat. Despite
his relief over her decision, he couldn't help feeling responsible for the
emotional chaos he'd thrust into her life. Getting into this with her mother
couldn't have been pleasant. And now—facade or not, she looked pale and
faraway. "Are you okay?"

"As okay as you'd expect." Her chin came up—a clear
indication that she wasn't about to lower her guard. "Don't worry about
me, Mr. Newport. I hold up well under pressure. Besides, it's not me I'm
concerned with. It's my family. I'm trying to think of ways to keep the press
from jumping all over this."

"You could start by calling me Dylan."

As intended, his abrupt change in subject and tone came at her out
of left field, rattling her facade, if not lowering it. She blinked, eyeing him
warily. "And how exactly would that help?"

He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "You just said
that your trip to New York, at least for the time being, is purely to meet
Carson. That won't necessitate a disclosure of your biological ties to him. So,
whatever media's hanging around Mount Sinai won't have the slightest idea who
you are or why you're there. They'll just see you with me and assume we're
friends—unless you raise a red flag by referring to me as Mr. Newport, that
is."

Sabrina's brows rose. "Why do I get the feeling that the
business correspondents of the world are used to seeing you with women—and not
the kind the tabloids would label as friends?"

"Colleagues then," Dylan suggested, sidestepping that
loaded question. "If anyone asks about you, I'll say you're a management
consultant assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."

"Very smooth. Quick, too. You must be a real asset— Dylan.
It's no wonder Carson Brooks hired you."

He found himself grinning. "I'll take that as a
compliment."

"Do that." There was a challenging light in her eyes,
one Dylan suspected was an integral part of her. Verbal sparring, winning—he
recognized the traits.

"I'll leave you to get your professional life in order,"
he said, reaching for the door. "I'll take care of the travel
arrangements. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes."

"Melissa will take care of our travel plans. She knows what
hotel to book for me. And I guarantee you, she's more efficient at organizing
itineraries than you are."

Another attempt at retaining the upper hand.

Dylan couldn't help himself. When it came to a challenge, he was
too used to rising to the bait. "I don't doubt that she is," he
acknowledged smoothly. "Shall I stop at her desk on my way out? I can
relay our plans
and
confirm that I slept alone last night." One
dark brow rose. "As opposed to with you, I assume?"

A slight flush stained Sabrina's cheeks—her only overt reaction to
his provocative remark. "Something like that. If I remember correctly, she
said you were hot. She also said you weren't my type. She was right."

"About which?"

"The latter. Which makes me unqualified to answer the
former."

Dylan's lips twitched. She was good. Very good. Carson would be
proud. "Touché" He opened the door. "We'll continue this battle
of wits on the plane. For now, let's call it a draw." He paused, speaking
bluntly and without forethought. "You're going to like him, you know. I
realize you don't want to. But you will."

10:05 A.M.

Mt. Sinai ICU

Jeannie and Frank were frustrated.

After waiting forever for the go-ahead from Dr. Radison, they'd
finally gotten in to see Carson Brooks—for a five-minute session max, given how
touch-and-go his condition still was. He was wiped out from the extensive
testing he'd undergone, as well as from the possible infection indicated by the
increased fluids present in his chest. His voice was raspy and irritated from
the endotracheal tube, and his breathing wasn't great on its own. He was weak
as a kitten—hardly up for a pointed interrogation session. And whenever they
asked about specific Ruisseau employees, he became agitated. Especially if the
question happened to involve Dylan Newport.

In short, three of their five minutes were gone and they'd learned
absolutely nothing of value.

"Mr. Brooks." Jeannie pulled up a chair at the foot of
his bed, trying a softer tactic. "You're exhausted. We don't want to push
you. We also understand you view us as the enemy. We're not. We're not out to
attack your company, or harass your employees. But someone tried to kill you.
Our job is to find that someone. We want to keep you safe. I think you'll agree
that, if your assailant happens to work at Ruisseau, he or she doesn't deserve
your protection."

Carson turned his head slightly, staring past the tubes in his
nose and fixing his probing blue gaze on her. "Nice try, Detective,"
he wheezed out. "But the bonding technique... won't work with me. I don't
need... to feel loved. I need to survive. I'm not protecting anyone.... If I
knew who put this bullet in me... I'd hand... the son of a bitch... over to you
on a silver platter." He stopped, dragging in a few labored breaths.
"But I'm not listening to you... spout crap about Dylan. Or the rest of my
team... without good reason. If you want to know... if any of them shot me...
ask them."

"We will. We're going over to Ruisseau this morning."
Jeannie glanced quickly at her watch. "Let's talk about C'est Moi. Ms.
Lane suggested that your attack might be tied to its success."

"Smart girl..." Carson rasped, his expression indicating
he'd been thinking along the same lines. "That wouldn't surprise me."

"Is it true you're the only one who knows the formula?"

A nod. "In my head... Not written down anywhere..."

"I don't get it," Frank said. "That formula is a gold
mine. Didn't you patent it?"

"Nope." Carson wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Took the risk not to.... Bigger risk if I had... Would have had to put
the formula in writing. More chance of the secret leaking." A pained
smile. "Besides, didn't you ever hear that mystery... in consumer
products... is a great marketing ploy? Worked with the secret Coca-Cola formula...
Did the same with C'est Moi."

"True. But getting nothing in writing—those are high stakes
you're gambling with," Frank said in amazement.