Scent of Danger

  Maybe. Maybe not. Oh, it was doable for a while, even a long while. But for good? What if she couldn't swing it? What if there was an overlap in crises, and both companies needed her at the same time? What if she couldn't handle a steady diet of Manhattan pollution, or tolerate the corporate politics she'd gladly left behind?

  Then there was her family. Her mother was due here this afternoon. How would she take this? She knew how ambitious Sabrina was. She'd understand her daughter's excitement over the opportunity she was being offered. But what if the scandal leaked out that much sooner because of Sabrina's very visible presence at Carson's side? And if she knew for a fact that it would—should that influence her decision? What if her grandparents took this as some kind of betrayal?

  "Forget the what-if's.... Name your terms...." It was as if the man could read her mind. "I won't... lock you in... to anything irrevocable… You can get out... if you want to. But it's my legacy... and so are you." He licked his lips. "There's one more thing I have to dump on you... before you decide."

  "I don't think I can deal with any more."

  "You have to. It's C'est Moi. The scent's a breakthrough.... Momentum strong... Someone has to keep it going, build on it... and expand the line. That someone is you. You'll have to know the formula. Can't let it die with me... I'll tell it to you now... explain it step by step. But verbally. No paper. You'll have to memorize it. And no one can know about this. I want you safe from whoever went after me."

  Sabrina was past reeling and into numb. The formula for C'est Moi? She'd done enough reading to know the unique cloak of secrecy that surrounded Ruisseau's newest fragrance. Carson had invented it. And only he knew what went into it. If he was going to share that information, it should be with someone who could translate formula into fact, use it to Ruisseau's advantage. Blood relation or not, she was completely unqualified to fill that role. "Carson, that's definitely a mistake. I'm not a chemist. I wouldn't be able..."

  "Doesn't matter... We have chemists. Stan and Dylan will choose the right one to replace me... if it comes down to that... and he or she will work with you. But your sense of smell... and your gut instincts... you'll know where we need to go from here. You'll have to queue up timetables for other C'est Moi spin-offs after the men's version takes off.... And marketing... you're trained... and smart. You'll know what to do.... You'll see."

  He eased his head over to give Dylan a pained look. "After they find the shooter... I'll share the formula with you, too. If I'm not around anymore, Sabrina will do the honors. I want both my kids to have that formula.... But, right now, it would be a mistake... for you to have it. Those damned detectives... I'd be giving them more ammo to use against you.... If you knew something they saw as motive for you to get rid of me... they'd jump on it. Better if you don't know, for now." He started coughing, and he moaned with pain, his hand going reflexively to his chest.

  "Carson..." Sabrina took two steps toward him.

  He waved her away. "I'm... fine... just..." Another hard wince.

  "That's it." Dylan bolted to his feet. "This meeting is over." He turned to Sabrina, his expression grim, his entire body taut. "I'm going to see what the hell's keeping Dr. Radison. That gives you and Carson a few minutes alone. Decide what you want to do, about the appointment and the formula. If you've got memorizing to do, do it fast. When I get back, we're leaving. Carson's getting some sleep, if I have to call that nurse back in here to add knock out drops to that morphine drip."

  Dylan was visibly freaked out. It didn't take a shrink to see that. Whether it was over Carson's decisions— which had to have shocked him as much as they had her—or over the bleak possibilities conjured up by Carson's assessment of his medical condition, Sabrina wasn't sure.

  She merely nodded, staring dazedly after Dylan as he left.

  "Sabrina..." She turned to see Carson studying her expectantly, gritting his teeth against the pain. "He'll be okay.... Give him space. And give me your answer."

  She should need time. Leaping before she looked wasn't her thing. When it came to decisions of magnitude, she acted only after a thorough analysis of the facts. And this was the heaviest decision she'd ever had to make.

  "Yes," she heard herself say. "My answer's yes. I'll do it."

  Relief flashed across his face, easing the tight lines of pain. "I'm glad," he returned, a deliberate understatement. "Thank you. Although, if you're made of... what I think you are, I think that one day... you'll be thanking me."

  Sabrina sidestepped that one, at least for now. Besides, she had another matter on her mind—one that needed to be addressed before this meeting ended. "What about Stan? Where does he fit into all this?"

  "Same as always... Runs the company's day-to-day operations... In on almost everything... But not the formula... He's got a crappy memory.... Can't retain a damned thing... Forgot his first wife's birthday four years in a row... probably why they're divorced."

  "Got it." Sabrina wasn't up for humor. Not when beads of perspiration were dotting Carson's forehead, showing her how much he was suffering. Further, she sensed there was more to this issue with Stan than he'd let on. "So you're not giving him the formula. And my guess is, you don't want me, or eventually Dylan, to clue him in to the fact that you gave it to us."

  A raspy chuckle. "You're good. Damned good. And you're right. I don't."

  "Which is the real reason why you didn't want him staying till the end of this meeting."

  "Um-hum. Not lack of trust... Meant it about his memory... But he wouldn't believe that… He'd take it the wrong way.... Stan's insecure enough.... Don't want to add to it. Easier to say it was personal... about you coming on as president. He knows... you're my daughter.... Understands what I want for you... what you can bring to Ruisseau... No resentment there... Don't worry."

  "I wasn't. Not about me."

  "Not about anything... It's all under control."

  So that was the missing link. Stan Hager was insecure. And insecurity made people act in strange ways, do strange things. Carson was far from naive. Regardless of what he said, how lightly he touched on—and seemed to dismiss—the subject of Stan's low self-esteem, he was aware of its significance. He didn't want to bad-mouth Stan. That much was clear. But what was also clear, at least to Sabrina, was that Carson recognized that Stan ran the risk of being a loose cannon. Bottom line? He was protecting his friend and his company.

  "The basis for Stan's insecurity—is it anything I should know about?" she asked carefully.

  "Nothing sinister... or specific... We'll discuss it next time.... Right now, all we've got time for is the formula."

  Sabrina placed her hand on Carson's arm. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

  "Yes."

  "Just as important, are you sure this is what you want?"

  "That depends—are you sure it's what you want?"

  She met his gaze, pain-filled but intense. Was she sure? Very. She didn't know why, but somehow she was.

  Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I'm sure." An attempt at a smile. "As sure as I'll ever be. My entire world's been turned upside down these past few days. I don't expect it to right itself anytime soon."

  "With me for a father?... And a boss?... Don't count on it." With great effort, Carson raised his arm, sticking out his hand to seal things in a handshake. "So you're on board. Welcome to the team."

  "Yes, I'm on board," she echoed. "And thanks." She met his grip, feeling a sense of comfort at the physical contact. Was that some unfathomable instinct because he was her father? Or was it just relief that he had enough strength left to master a handshake?

  "Go to Ruisseau tomorrow morning...." Carson instructed. "Dylan will have the paperwork done by then.... Stan will introduce you around.... Nothing formal... Just a top-notch consultant who's there to help Ruisseau stay on track... Won't make an official announcement till you're ready... Anyway, come see me afterward.... I want your take on my people... my company...."

  "Only if you promise to be at the top of your ga
me when I report in," Sabrina returned lightly. "Meaning you rest, follow doctor's orders, and stop causing trouble. Too much to ask? Tough." She forced a teasing smile to her lips as she echoed what he'd said to her earlier. "You're going to be busting your ass for me. I don't tolerate less."

  A tight grin permeated his physical distress. "I'll keep that in mind.... Now let's get to the formula...."

  "Right." Sabrina wet her lips, focusing all her energies on her powers of concentration. "All I know is that it's based on human pheromones, right?"

  "Pheromones and a compound that enhances male receptivity to those pheromones..." he clarified. "... Variations in men's brand, obviously... But both are blends of natural essences and synthetic chemicals.... Musk. Cinnamon and ginger... Orange. Three floral scents... Other stuff. I'll give it to you exactly. And I'll have Dylan and Stan run you over to the lab later today.... You can check out R&D firsthand.... Now listen... and lock what I tell you into your brain."

  CHAPTER 14

  3:25 P.M.

  Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

  Stan stood at his office window, staring out at the line of buildings across West 57th Street, wondering if anyone in any of those jaillike grids called offices could possibly be as strung out as he was.

  He felt like a goddamned hamster in a maze. Well, he was tired of running. Tired of scrambling to stay ahead. Tired of looking over his shoulder. Tired of keeping secrets and doing damage control. Tired of trying to be more than he was.

  And most of all, tired of answering these detectives' questions.

  "Mr. Hager?" It was Detective Whitman again, shoving another question down his throat. She and her partner had been at it for almost an hour, right on the heels of raking poor Claude over the coals. Claude had emerged from the interrogation looking like a broken sparrow, making Stan's guts twist with a sense of foreboding as he tried to imagine what they had in store for him.

  Well, now he knew. They'd poked, prodded, and probed into every last facet of his life. They knew about his two divorces, his personal habits, and his professional rise at Ruisseau. They'd delved into his take on every corporate officer, every company executive—from upper management down to middle management—then moved on, dissecting every one of Ruisseau's divisions, trying to determine who might have even the slightest beef with Carson Brooks. From there, they'd explored the in-house clashes Carson had been involved in—even on the most peripheral level—over the past month or so, including such trivial incidents as when he'd demanded that the custodial staff switch rug cleaners.

  Then came reviewing Ruisseau's chief competitors, a topic that always made Stan's guts twist. He could tell Whitman and Barton had done their homework. They'd gotten Jason Koppel's name from Carson, and they'd gone over to Merrill Lynch to meet with him. They knew exactly which companies' profits had taken a downslide since C'est Moi hit the market. They ran through each of them with Stan, questioning him about which high-level execs he knew at each company and whether any of those people were, in his opinion, unbalanced or over the edge.

  He was a fine one to ask.

  Oh, they'd tackled every subject imaginable, concentrating particularly on him—his state of mind, his feelings about Carson, his status at Ruisseau. Over and over, they came back to the fact that he had no alibi for Monday evening, that he'd allegedly been alone in his apartment, sleeping off a seventy-hour workweek, when Carson was shot. They kept harping on how difficult it must be to stand in your best friend's shadow, day after day, year after year, in all facets of your life.

  The one thing they hadn't done was issue any accusations. Not yet. But after fifty-five minutes, they were working their way there. In fact, judging from the more intense tone and personal direction of the interrogation these past few minutes, they were about to go for the jugular.

  Sure enough, Whitman confirmed his suspicions by starting the process. "You and Mr. Brooks go back thirty years. That's longer than any other employee—actually any other person in Carson Brooks's life."

  Give the woman a cigar, he thought. "That's true." He turned around to face her, folding his arms across his chest and resupplying his history with Carson—the safest course of action he could take. "Like I told you before, we met at City College. I was taking classes there when I wasn't doing odd jobs to pay the rent. Carson was cleaning offices, but making extra cash tutoring college freshmen."

  "I didn't need a refresher, Mr. Hager. I know how you two met." Whitman's gaze bore straight through him.

  "Yeah. It's unbelievable," Barton muttered. "I still can't get over it. A high school dropout tutoring kids who had more education than he did."

  Stan's jaw tightened. "Carson's a genius. He could have taught college-level chemistry when he was in eighth grade. And he didn't drop out of high school; he was kicked out for being a smart-ass. He got his diploma the year we met, not that he needed it. He knew more, and taught others more, than any professor ever could. He made his first million, actually several million, by age thirty. Oh, and for the record, he never lied to the kids he tutored. They knew he didn't have any formal education. But guess what? When they saw those A's on their exams, they didn't care."

  Barton crossed one leg over the other, his gaze narrowing a bit. "That was admiration you heard, not censure, Mr. Hager. Why are you so defensive? More important, why are you so jumpy? You've been a wreck since we walked in. Actually, longer. Since this investigation began."

  "You're right. I have. Look, Detective, my oldest friend's been shot. His life's hanging in the balance. That's thrown me for a loop. On top of that, I'm operating on zero sleep. When I'm not at the hospital, I'm here, pushing to run this company the way Carson would want it run. I think that's grounds to be on edge, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "So tell me, what else do you want to know?"

  "What I want, is to get back to my original question," Whitman responded, like a damned dog with a bone. "Since you know Mr. Brooks for so long, can you think of anyone from your past who might have it in for him?"

  With a half-laugh, Stan shook his head. "You're joking. We weren't exactly high-visibility types. We were dirt poor, Detective. Punks who were lucky to afford a room. We shared a hole-in-the-wall in those days—a cockroach-ridden dump in a downtown tenement that was barely big enough to hold two mattresses and a lamp. Carson didn't have a pot to piss in. Believe me, no one viewed him as a future candidate for making it big. So if you're picturing him being stalked by someone from our youth, someone who bided his time in the hopes of making a windfall, you can forget it."

  "That's not what I was picturing. But, fine. Let's play this your way. What about later? Thirty years is a long time, providing lots of opportunity to meet people and form relationships."

  "Most of that time was filled by the blood, sweat, and tears of building Ruisseau. That doesn't leave much time for forming close personal attachments. There were women, if that's what you're asking. Plenty of them. But never anyone serious. Never anyone who'd stand to gain anything if Carson were out of the way."

  "Interesting the way you keep getting back to money," Whitman noted. "There are other reasons to kill someone, you know."

  "A woman scorned, you mean." Stan tried that route, shrugging away the idea. "First of all, Carson's not the sentimental type. He doesn't do the head-over-heels-in-love thing. Never has, never will. I think that's why he never married. He's already married—to Ruisseau. He also doesn't mislead women. They know where they stand. It's Ruisseau first, sex and recreation second. So none of his ex-lovers would be home nursing a broken heart. It doesn't fit. Besides, they've all been out of the picture for a long time now. Carson and Susan have been exclusive for well over a year. She's nuts about him, and he seems very happy with her. So, no, I don't think this is a spurned-lover deal."

  "I don't remember suggesting it was." Whitman leaned forward, staring him down in a way that said she'd grown tired of his evasion tactics. "Actually, my thoughts were going in an entirely different direction. I was wonde
ring if there's anyone you can think of who might carry a grudge against Mr. Brooks? Anyone who's known him for years and has watched his success explode like wildfire—with women, with business, with pretty much everything he's touched? Anyone who might have felt cheated by that success?"

  "Anyone, Detective? Or me?" Stan went for the direct confrontation approach, slapping his palms on his desk. "Why don't you ask me straight out? Better yet, I'll save you the trouble. Do I hold a grudge? No. For what? Carson's worked for everything he has. No one handed it to him. Sure, he's got a lot going for him, but he never took the easy way out, and he never forgot his friends. Which brings me to your next question: Do I feel cheated? Nope. Carson was always incredibly generous with me. When he started Ruisseau, he took me right along with him. When the company's profits skyrocketed, so did mine.

  "Now, I'll answer the questions you're about to ask.

  Am I grateful? Yup. More than you can imagine. Have I ever wished I could trade places with Carson? You bet. He's got it all, and only a fool wouldn't wish for the same. Would I kill him to get it? Not for all the money, power, or position in the world. Oh, and one more thing. I have no desire to be CEO of Ruisseau, even if Carson asked me to be. I'm collapsing under the weight of that position right now, and it's just a temporary arrangement. I've got more than enough on my plate being the company's COO. My job's exciting, challenging, and rewarding. I like coming to work each day. I've got a seven-figure income, a retirement plan that'll keep me living in style for the rest of my life, the respect of my colleagues, and the pleasure of working with people who are also my friends. Does that about cover it?"

  "If you say so." Whitman put away her pen. "Except for one thing—you don't happen to own a gun, do you?"