Scent of Danger

  "Not this time," Carson supplied. "This time it was Stan. You met him?" He waited for her affirmation. "He and I go way back.... He's the only other person who knows about you."

  A troubled frown. "You told him?"

  "I didn't have to.... He worked for the fertility specialist your mother went to.... He's the one who clued me in to the donor search... she was doing... twenty-eight years ago...."

  "Oh. Wow. I didn't know that."

  Carson regarded her steadily. "I won't tell anyone about your relationship to me.... That choice is yours."

  "I doubt it'll work out that way," she murmured. "But that's life. It'll be up to me to do damage control."

  "You're worried that news of who you are will leak out."

  "Not leak... pour. And it's my family I'm worried about, not me."

  "Speaking of that... are you ticked off that I... checked them out?"

  "No. I would have done the same thing. The difference is, I didn't have to. I already knew a fair amount about you professionally. And Dylan filled me in personally." She broke off, drawing an unsteady breath, then sweeping her hair up and off her neck and sitting quietly, as if she felt light-headed. Studying her more closely, Dylan wondered if maybe she did. He was struck by how pale and strained she looked, even more so than earlier today. The hotel break hadn't done her much good, other than giving her a chance to shower and have it out with her family. She'd changed her clothes, too, and in her khaki slacks and light blue short-sleeved sweater, she looked younger and more vulnerable than the sophisticated corporate woman he'd dealt with until now.

  She also looked on the verge of collapse.

  "Sabrina, you're still white as a ghost," he heard himself say. He got up, poured her a glass of water and pressed it into her hand. "Have you eaten?"

  "Um-hum." She managed a weak smile between sips. "Not fifteen minutes ago. Cranberry juice and crackers."

  "What kind of a meal is that?"

  "The kind the hospital lab gives you when you start to black out. It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm a baby when it comes to needles. Also, my blood pressure tends to be on the low side of normal. So when it comes to anything more than a couple of vials, I tend to get woozy."

  The implication struck home, and Dylan's gaze fell to the inside of her forearm, where a cotton ball was pressed against the crease, held in place by a Band-Aid. "You donated blood."

  She nodded. "I thought it was a good idea. As you know, Carson and I are the same blood type. The hospital's banking my blood specifically for him, just in case he needs it." She looked like she wanted to say more, then thought better of it.

  Dylan caught on right away. And he prayed his assumption was fact and not a pipe dream. "Carson knows about the dialysis and the possibility of needing a kidney transplant," he said pointedly. "So there's no need to avoid talking about it."

  "I see. Well, I'm glad I don't have to dance around the subject. I'll just tell you both that the lab took a separate blood sample to use for tissue-typing. We'll have the results in about a week."

  "Wait a minute," Carson barked.

  Sabrina's head came up, and she eyed Carson warily.

  Dylan turned toward him, too, although he wasn't the least bit surprised by his friend's response. In fact, he'd been expecting this. And if Sabrina was expecting otherwise, if she'd anticipated some big, emotional scene, she was about to be surprised for the second time.

  Addressing the fundamentals first, exploring the benefits of personal gain second, that was Carson's way. And given his newfound sense of responsibility when it came to Sabrina, and the direct part he'd played in triggering her current crisis, he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

  "Yes?" Sabrina inquired.

  "Let's start with your family.... Do they know about this?" Carson's hard stare pinned her to the chair.

  Sabrina wasn't rattled. Nor did she dodge the question. "I spoke to my mother a little while ago. She'd already guessed. Now comes the harder part. She has to tell my grandparents. After that, we'll deal with the fallout. Anything else?"

  "Yeah. Health risks—yours. Privacy invasion—also yours. Screwing up a lot of lives, and a lot of relationships—yours again... Listen, Sabrina, I don't like this… You're not just opting to—"

  "I already have," she interrupted. "It's my choice to make, not yours. Now, stop getting yourself all worked up, or I'll call Dr. Radison and get him back here."

  "He left the hospital, remember?"

  "I have his beeper number."

  "You can't use it There's no emergency."

  "I'll lie."

  Carson scowled. "You're a real ball-breaker, aren't you?"

  "I wonder who I take after," was her wry response. She waved away his continuing protests. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. This tissue-typing is more complicated than it sounds. Besides checking for common genes, they have to do a crossmatch test, see if your immune system has produced any antibodies that might kill off my kidney. Until that's determined, we won't know if I'm a compatible donor. Let's save the arguing for afterward."

  "Does that mean that if all systems are go you'll agree to be the transplant donor?" Dylan demanded. "Have you thought that far ahead?"

  "No, she hasn't," Carson snapped out.

  "Yes, I have." Sabrina ignored Carson's pointed objection. "If the test results indicate that I'm the best match, and if Carson's own kidneys don't resume on their own, then he'll get one of mine." She eased to the edge of her chair and started to get up. "Now, if it's okay with you gentlemen, I'll head back to the Plaza Athenée. You're right about my being a little weak. I'd rather be at my best for this battle of wills. Let's put it on hold until tomorrow. For tonight, all I had in mind was checking in on Carson to make sure he was holding his own. Which I have, and he is. So I'll..." She stopped, groping at nothing as she started to black out.

  Dylan grabbed her before she fell, anchoring his arm around her waist. "You'll head back, all right. But not before you eat a decent meal."

  "Dylan." It was Carson's command-and-control voice. "Get her out of this damned hospital. Take her to a steak house... to Smith & Wollensky's; it's not far from the Plaza Amende.... Order the biggest piece of meat on the menu.... Get one for yourself, too. You've eaten nothing but hospital crap all day.... After dinner, take Sabrina back to the hotel.... Walk her up to her room.... Then, go home and get some sleep. You look like a zombie." He paused to regain his strength. "Don't worry about me.... I'm talked out.... Need to rest."

  "Yeah, you do," Dylan agreed.

  "And don't show up here at dawn.... Susan's already doing that.... So are the cops, to snatch up that bullet the minute Radison gets it out... Besides, I want you here afterward.... When they're gone... we need to talk...."

  "About Ruisseau?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'll be here."

  "Not just you." Carson gestured from Dylan to Sabrina. "Both of you. The three of us have things to work out... alone."

  CHAPTER 11

  9:25 P.M.

  Smith & Wollensky

  Sabrina surveyed the bustling Third Avenue steak house and its tightly packed tables. Seventy percent of those tables were filled with groups of men, ten percent with groups of women, and twenty percent with a mixture of both. The restaurant was filled to bursting—mostly with professionals who worked in midtown and had stopped for business or social dinners before heading home—yet no one seemed to mind the crowd. To the contrary, everyone was having a rip-roaring time, laughing and stuffing their faces.

  She and Dylan were lucky to have gotten a table. Partially because the place was hopping, and partially because neither of them was dressed appropriately. While most of the patrons were wearing jackets or suits, Sabrina was wearing khakis and Dylan was wearing a sport shirt and jeans. Fortunately, Dylan knew the maître d', who greeted him warmly, and whisked them right off to an upstairs table.

  Before she'd slid in her chair, Dylan had already confirmed that she liked seafood, and ordered the
two of them a mixed seafood appetizer. When it came, he instructed Sabrina to wolf down at least half of it, along with two small rolls, before taking her first sip of merlot. As a rule, she didn't take kindly to being strong-armed. In this case, she didn't put up a fight. Dylan was right. She already felt light-headed; drinking wine on an empty stomach would knock her right out.

  The steaks arrived, sizzling and huge, along with three side dishes: hash browns, creamed spinach, and asparagus. It was enough to feed an army, and Sabrina felt well up to the task.

  She dived in with relish.

  "This is fabulous," she pronounced a few minutes later, swallowing another bite of filet mignon, and washing it down with merlot. "Either the New York restaurants are even better than I remember, or I didn't realize how hungry I was."

  A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Maybe both."

  "I take it you eat here often."

  "Every Wednesday night at eight o'clock sharp. Carson, Stan, and I catch up on business matters over dinner. This is our regular table. It's a great arrangement—no ringing cell phones, no meetings, no distractions. We get twice as much accomplished. We also get our weekly red meat fix."

  "Sounds like a winning combo to me." Sabrina paused, toying with her food. "By the way—thanks."

  "For what?"

  "For dinner. And for catching me before I cracked my skull on the hospital floor."

  "You're welcome on both counts." Dylan resumed eating his sirloin with gusto. "I must admit, I've sprung for lots of dinners, but the knight-m-shining-armor bit was new. I'm glad my reflexes were quick enough."

  "They were. As for being a first-timer, never fear. There are two tables over there who'd love to help you practice—and perfect—your reflexes." Sabrina couldn't believe she'd said that. It must be the wine talking.

  Dylan's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "You lost me.

  The women behind us," she explained, gesturing with her glass. "There's a table of four to my right, and a table of six to my left. They've been salivating over you since we sat down, and openly gaping since our appetizers arrived."

  One dark brow rose. "I'm flattered you noticed."

  "Don't be. They're not exactly subtle. I think the waiter's about to trip on their tongues." Sabrina's lips curved. "I guess this proves Melissa's right. You must be hot."

  Dylan's expression remained impassive. "If that's the criteria, then you're bordering on scalding."

  Sabrina blinked. "Huh?"

  "A third of the men in this room are in the process of undressing you with their eyes. Another third are trying to decide if your bra unhooks in the front or the back. And the last third are already fantasizing about what positions you like best in bed, and planning how fast they can get you there." Dylan calmly helped himself to another roll.

  Laughter bubbled up in Sabrina's throat. She couldn't help it. The images Dylan had conjured up were too priceless. As for what he'd said—well, it had to be the most outrageous thing anyone had ever said to her. "You're quite the cynic, aren't you?"

  "Nope. Quite the realist."

  "You've condemned every man in the room? Surely there must be a few exceptions."

  "Not unless they're gay or dead."

  Sabrina gave an astounded shake of her head. "How do I respond to that? Do I say thank you?"

  Dylan's hand paused on his wine goblet. "I don't know. How do you usually respond when men say you're beautiful and sexy?"

  "I'm not sure you want to know."

  "Try me."

  Debating whether or not to do just that and to blurt out the truth, she took another sip of merlot. She was drinking too much, too fast, and she knew it. But it was only her second—and final—glass. She had no intentions of getting sloshed. But the thin wire of tension inside her was about to snap. The day had simply been too much. And if she didn't have some relief, find some way to unwind, she'd shatter.

  "Slow down," Dylan murmured, as if reading her mind. "Drink more water and less wine."

  Her brows rose. "Why? Are you afraid I'll take you back to my hotel and have my Way with you?"

  There was that lopsided grin again. And damn if Melissa wasn't right. He was hot. Very hot And very earthy. As for being her type, what was her type anyway?

  She really had drunk too much wine. Time for water. She reached for her glass.

  "An interesting thought," Dylan commented. "Intriguing as hell, too. But not terribly realistic."

  "Really." Sabrina's chin came up, and she found she was irrationally annoyed by his assessment. "Why is that?"

  He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, until she could see the tiny orange flecks in his eyes. "One, because knights-in-shining-armor don't take advantage of women who are tipsy and at the end of their ropes. Two, because Carson would rip my head off if I touched you. And three, because my guess is you have a lot more experience with corporations than you have with men. Am I right?"

  Sabrina could actually feel the hot color flood her cheeks. "It depends on what you mean by experience. I've been hit on by the best of them."

  "All of whom you shot down."

  No reply.

  "I guess it's time to change the subject."

  "No." Sabrina shook her head. "Not until I set you straight."

  "About?"

  "Whatever conclusion you've come to. It's one of two. Either you've decided I'm an ice queen, or that I'm a raging feminist who likes castrating men. For the record, I'm neither."

  "And, for the record, I didn't think you were."

  Sabrina pushed away her glass, folding her hands firmly in front of her. "I'm not in the habit of explaining myself. I'm not even sure why I'm doing so now, except that I just met my father for the first time, and you're the closest person in the world to him. So maybe I care what you think of me. Or maybe it's because you opened up to me on the plane, and I don't think you're in the habit of doing that either. Or maybe it's just because I'm strung out and a little drunk. It doesn't matter. I'll give it to you in a nutshell."

  She leaned closer. "When you're a kid, being super-smart means being alone. Going to college at sixteen when you're as unprepared as a middle-schooler means being alone, too. Jumping into the workforce at twenty and spending half your day saying no and the other half fighting to get ahead because you're bright and qualified, not because you're pretty, means being alone. And meeting an occasional man who shows a glimmer of promise at being different, only to find out he's threatened by your brains and your ambition means being alone. So, no, I don't have lots of experience with men. Frankly, it's just not worth it."

  To her astonishment, Dylan gave a thoughtful nod. "Yeah, I guess it wouldn't be."

  "You don't seem surprised."

  "I'm not. Men are simple beings. Most are driven by either sex or power. Sometimes both. They're threatened by women they can't conquer or outshine. With you, that's next to impossible. So they walk."

  Sabrina wasn't thrilled by the way that made her come off. But she knew it was meant as an observation, maybe even a compliment. Besides, she was more impressed by Dylan's insight into the male psyche, and his candor about the same. It was rare to meet a man who recognized the truth about his own species, much less one who was willing to admit it.

  Lastly, she was amused by the conclusion he'd drawn. "Nice analysis," she commended. "One correction. When I said it wasn't worth it, I didn't mean for them. I meant for me."

  "I know. But it works both ways."

  "I guess it does." She propped her chin on her hand. "I notice you didn't include yourself in the 'them.' So tell me, which category do you fall into? Are you driven by sex or power?"

  He shrugged. "It varies. Sometimes sex, sometimes power. But I'm luckier than most. I've got a healthy ego. So I don't waste time trying to prove myself."

  Sabrina started to laugh again. "Do you have any idea how arrogant you sound?"

  "Why? You just described yourself as pretty and intelligent. I didn't accuse you of being arrogant. You were jus
t stating facts. They were also gross understatements, by the way. But facts nonetheless. I'm merely doing the same about myself. Fact: I'm driven, and driven hard. By many things, sex and power included. I'm a normal male—just an unusually secure one who happens to be more complex than most."

  "Anything else?"

  "Attributes, you mean? Sure. I'm smart, tough, and persistent I can also be charming, attentive, and funny. That depends on the person I'm with."

  "Or on whether you're with her in or out of bed."

  One dark brow rose again. "Did I say that?"

  "You didn't have to."

  "So now it's you judging me. Or doesn't the reciprocal apply?"

  Sabrina couldn't refute that one. "You're right I apologize."

  "You're forgiven." He glanced at her now-empty goblet. "No after-dinner drink for you. But they do make an unbelievable dessert. A chocolate basket filled with white chocolate mousse and drizzled with raspberry sauce. If you like chocolate, that is."

  "Who in their right mind doesn't?" Sabrina leaned back with a sigh. "But I'm about to burst."

  "This dessert's worth bursting for. We'll split one." He signaled for the waiter. "Do you want coffee?" he asked Sabrina as the waiter hurried over. "And, yes, I remember—decaf."

  "I'd love some."

  Dylan ordered the chocolate basket and two coffees— decaf for her, regular for himself.

  When dessert came, they stopped talking long enough to enjoy it. Dylan was dead-on. This sinful, incredible chocolate nest was worth bursting for.

  "M-m-m, fabulous," Sabrina murmured, swallowing another chocolaty mouthful.

  "Better than that." Dylan had been studying her over the rim of his coffee cup, an enigmatic expression on his face.

  "Something on your mind?" Sabrina inquired.

  "As a matter of fact, yes—since we left the hospital." He set down his cup. "I was wondering what made you change your mind."

  She didn't even pretend to misunderstand. "About the tissue-typing or the transplant?"

  "Both."

  "I think you know the answer to that."