Manhattan traffic had never looked so good.
An unknown time later, they turned onto West 76th Street, stopping in front of Dylan's apartment. He tugged her out of the squad car, unlocked his front door, and pulled her inside.
"Come on." He led her into the living room, eased her down on the sofa, and poured her a glass of wine. While she was sipping it, he went into the kitchen, emerging with a tray of crackers and cheese. "Eat," he ordered, putting the tray down in front of her.
Sabrina gave him a wan smile. "My hero." She gobbled up five or six crackers and brie, then drank a little more wine before setting her goblet on the table and sitting back with a sigh. "I'm not sure, but I think you just saved my life."
Dylan sat down beside her. "You scared the shit out of me. You looked like a ghost when you walked away from that conference table." He slid a hand beneath her hair, rubbed her neck gently. "Sabrina, you're not a superhero. You're human. Give yourself a break."
She acted on impulse, on adrenaline, on sheer gut instinct.
"Whatever you say." She scrambled to her knees and scooted closer, tugging at his tie even as she leaned up to kiss him. "You're right. I need a break. I feel like I'm about to shatter. And I need you to help me do that." She traced his lower lip with her tongue. "Make love to me."
No second invitation was necessary.
Dylan made a harsh sound, capturing her head between his hands as her lips brushed his. He took over the kiss without preliminaries, his mouth ravaging hers with three days of pent-up sexual hunger combined with the emotional overload of the past few hours. They didn't make it upstairs.
They yanked at each other's clothes, unable to get at each other fast enough. Buttons popped, fabric ripped, and still it seemed to take forever for them to be naked, to feel skin against skin.
Dylan couldn't stand it anymore, and he tore himself away from her, kicking free of the last of his clothes and leaning over her, putting one knee on the sofa and tearing her panties in two, tossing the shreds of silk aside.
"I've got to get inside you," he muttered, kissing his way down her body, making her moan and writhe as he did.
The sofa, wide and cushy or not, was too narrow to accommodate their frantic motions. Dylan solved the problem by flinging some cushions on the floor, and tumbling Sabrina onto them. "Okay?" he managed, poised over her.
"Yes... yes... just hurry." Sabrina was in no mood for slow and seductive. She needed Dylan and she needed him now.
Judging from the smoldering look in his eyes, she wasn't alone.
He moved between her thighs, propping himself on his elbows to take some of his weight. Sabrina wrapped her legs around his, arched to take him, her fingers digging into his biceps, pulling him into her.
He pushed deep, hard, stretching her and filling her. The sensation was beyond description. Every nerve ending in Sabrina's body screamed to life, everything inside her tightened, tightened.... God, he'd barely gotten inside her and she was about to come, it was so spectacular.
Too spectacular.
A heartbeat away from orgasm, Sabrina froze.
"Dylan."
His lips were buried against her throat, and he didn't answer, his breath a warm, unsteady rasp against her skin. He was pulsing inside her, as close to the edge as she was.
He withdrew slowly, then pushed all the way back in. "God." A hard shudder wracked his body. "I can't wait. You feel too good."
It took Sabrina a few seconds to speak, the pleasure was so acute. And all her energies were focused on fighting the climax that was about to peak inside her. "Dylan!" She shoved at his shoulders.
This time her tone registered. He raised his head, stared down at her with eyes that were almost black with passion. Sweat dotted his forehead, dampened the ends of his hair. "What's wrong?" He forced out the words. "Does it hurt?"
"No. No, but..." God, it would be so easy to dismiss the whole thing, to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down to her, to lose herself in this exquisite, unimaginable madness.
And if it were just the two of them, if there was nothing else at stake, she would.
"Sabrina..." Dylan's fingers were shaking as they touched her cheek. "What is it?"
"You're not wearing... a condom."
Shock dilated his pupils. "Shit." He gritted his teeth, all the veins in his neck standing out as he called upon his failing reserves. "Don't move. Don't even breathe. It'll be too much."
She understood. She felt the same way. She almost screamed in frustration when he pulled out of her. Fists clenched, she waited while he crawled over to his pants and yanked out a foil packet. He could barely get the thing on, his hands were shaking so badly. But he was back in seconds, his body so taut, Sabrina could feel him vibrating.
"This is going to be barbarically quick," he ground out, already pushing into her. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head. It couldn't be quick enough for her. She was dying.
He plunged deep, and Sabrina cried out, the tension coiling too tight to bear, then unraveling in spasms that shook her to the core, and milked Dylan well past the point of no return.
He shouted her name, thrusting into her climax, meeting it with his own. His entire body convulsed, again and again, his hips pumping wildly as he came.
Recovery took longer than the act itself, both of them struggling to drag air into their lungs. The cushions hadn't survived the chaos, and were shoved haphazardly around on the floor, leaving nothing under Sabrina but the area rug. Dylan's full weight was on her, and the hardwood floor beneath the rug anchored her so he was even deeper inside her than usual.
Moving seemed too exhausting to consider.
Neither of them considered it.
Time passed.
Eventually, Dylan gathered up his strength and lifted himself off of her. He looked dazed and spent, yet there was a fine tension rippling through him that Sabrina sensed right away. She lay quietly, watching him, uncertain whether to address the issue or let him take the lead.
Neither happened.
Dylan stood up, and went into the bathroom to deal with the condom. A minute later, he emerged and walked back over to where she lay. His lids were hooded, but he looked intense, brooding, as he loomed over her.
"We need to talk," he stated flatly.
"Okay." Sabrina's muscles felt like water. She moved them gingerly, wondering if she'd be able to stand.
Dylan eliminated the problem by dropping down to his knees beside her. He cupped her face between his palms and gazed directly into her eyes. "I'm in love with you. I don't want to take it a day at a time. I don't want to do without commitments and expectations. I don't give a damn about the other pressures and demands in our lives. They'll be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. We'll deal with them—together. I want permanence. I want marriage. I want children. And I want them with you."
Sabrina just stared at him, his words penetrating her mind slowly, like a fine wine, until they registered. Then, she did something she rarely did. She burst into tears.
Covering her face with her hands, she wept, all the emotions of the day spilling out in a rush.
Dylan pressed her head against his chest, kissed her hair. "I hope that's not an answer," he murmured, his fingers trailing gently up and down her back. "Because it's not great for my ego."
Sabrina laughed through her tears. "And I hope that incredible speech wasn't your way of trying to divert me from the fact that you promised to cook me dinner. No matter how eloquent or spectacular you are, I want that linguini in white clam sauce."
"What about the chef? Do you want him, too?"
She raised her head, gazed at him through wet eyes. "You've turned my entire life upside down."
"Ditto," he said softly.
"I knew who I was. I knew where I was going. I knew what I wanted." She dragged a hand through her hair. "God, I'm such a mess. A new life, a new identity, and a man who makes me feel things I never counted on feeling."
"What t
hings, Sabrina? What is it I make you feel?"
She swallowed, hard. "You want the words."
"Damn right I want the words."
Two tears slid down her cheeks. "Dylan, it's only been a few weeks...."
"It only took a few minutes. We both know it. We both feel it. Now say it."
"Okay." She wasn't about to fight this one. It was a losing battle. She could deny it till the cows came home, but she was head-over-heels in love with this man. And he deserved to know. "I love you," she said in a quavery voice. "I don't want to take it a day at a time. I don't want to do without commitments or expectations. The truth is, if you ever look at another woman, I'll choke you."
His lips twisted into that sexy, crooked smile. "Thanks for the warning. But the risk is nil. No one exists for me but you." His expression intensified again. "What about the rest?"
"The rest?"
"Marry me. Have my children. Build a life with me."
"Dylan, I want to say yes." She struggled for a semblance of sanity. "But there's so much going on now. My life is on overdrive. I don't even know which end is up."
"I do," he said in a husky, teasing voice. "Want me to show you?"
"Be serious."
"I am." He sobered, slid his palms over her shoulders. "The way we feel about each other is the only constant in all this insanity. As for the rest—planes fly from New York to Manchester in a little over an hour. Telephones and e-mails reach everywhere, all over the world, in a matter of minutes. We can live in two places, merge our two lives, do any goddamned thing we want to. We can work it out—if we want to badly enough. Say yes."
She reached up, caressed his jaw. "You have a way of making me believe anything's possible."
"Doesn't that tell you something?"
"Um-hum. It tells me that I already have my answer. And now, so will you. Yes. My answer's yes."
"Finally." He turned his lips into her palm. "I'm crazy about you. I lose my mind when we're together. I guess that means I'll be losing it for good."
Sabrina laughed softly. "Any complaints?"
"Not a one."
He was already starting to get that smoky look in his eyes. And much as Sabrina wanted to make love with him again, there was something important they needed to discuss first. Something she needed to make him understand.
"Dylan?" She rose to her knees, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held his gaze. "Before—when you were inside me—I wouldn't have stopped you. I wanted the same thing you did. It's just that..."
"You don't need to explain," he interrupted. "You're not ready. I understand. I was a careless jackass. My only excuse is that I'm so in love with you I lose all touch with reality."
"Me, too. Believe me, pragmatism had nothing to do with why I stopped you. I could barely breathe, much less think. But I had to try—for Carson's sake."
His brows drew together. "Carson?"
She nodded. "The transplant. I've got to be ready for surgery, just in case he needs it. I can't get pregnant, not now."
Realization—and guilt—flashed across Dylan's face. "I really am a selfish bastard. I claim to be so damned devoted to Carson, and here I am forgetting what he might need more than anything else."
"You didn't forget. We were making love. It's not exactly a natural leap to think of Carson's medical condition while we're tearing each other's clothes off."
"You did."
"Barely. And just in the nick of time. One more second and..." She shivered, traced his lips with her fingertips. "You're an amazing lover. The way you make me feel defies words."
He lowered his head, kissed his way down the side of her neck. "I return the compliment. I can't get enough of you."
"M-m-m." Her eyes slid shut. "See? That explains it. You're not selfish. I'm just intoxicating. I bewitched you."
He chuckled, his breath warming her skin. "You sure as hell did. And you're welcome to keep doing so for the rest of our lives." He cupped her face, kissed her slowly, tenderly. "Are you starving?" he murmured between kisses. "Or can the linguini wait?"
"Oh, I'm starving all right." She gave him a look that was pure seduction. "What linguini?"
CHAPTER 25
7:55 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Carson's eyelids drooped. He didn't want to doze, but he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open.
He was totally wiped out. The excitement, the intensity, the activity level of the day—it had taken a lot out of him. Not that he would have changed any part of it. Not for the world. After today, he could publicly acknowledge his daughter and have her in his life.
It was okay to rest now. He'd be getting an update from Stan any minute now, letting him know how the announcement had gone over, and if Sabrina and Dylan had managed to elude the press. He wanted to know that she was safe and sound, that the cops had gotten her to Dylan's the way they promised.
His forehead creased. That was his only nagging worry. Had revealing Sabrina's identity put her at risk? Would whoever shot him somehow find out that he'd shared the formula for C'est Moi with his daughter, and go after her, too?
He'd talk to Whitman and Barton tomorrow. If they didn't see his logic and agree to a police escort for Sabrina, he'd hire a private bodyguard to watch her.
But not tonight. Tonight she'd be fine. She had the best bodyguard in the world: Dylan. And she and Dylan were well on their way to what he viewed as the ultimate and spectacular inevitable. Hell, with the way he felt about Dylan, and now Sabrina—it was a father's dream...
He must have drifted off.
He had the dream again. Relived the Monday night shooting. In slow motion, the same as always. He was standing at the window. Heard the pop. Felt the pain. Smelled the sweet odor. Saw the colors, the carpet. Heard Dylan's voice. Then, the paramedics. The blood—so much of it. Wet and sticky. Dizzy. The tingling in his limbs. Trying to breathe—inhaling that sickeningly sweet smell. Blood and carpet cleaner. And there was something else. Something he should remember, but couldn't. Whatever it was, it was just out of his grasp.
At some point he became aware that he wasn't alone.
Not in his dream. In reality. Here. Now.
He forced open his eyes. Dusk had settled over the hospital room, casting it in shadows. Someone was there. It wasn't a doctor or a nurse.
Stan? Was that Stan standing next to his IV drip, saying something to him?
Maybe not. Maybe it was part of the dream.
Because when he opened his eyes again, Stan was gone. He was alone.
He drifted off again.
And dreamed.
"Carson?" Susan's voice dragged him back to consciousness, and he forced open his eyelids, seeing her worried face. "Are you okay?" she demanded. Her hand was cool as it stroked his face.
He realized he was sweating.
The dream. It did it to him every time.
And he realized something else. It was dark. Pitch dark. Not in his room, but outside his window. Son of a bitch. How late was it?
"Carson?" Susan repeated, her increasingly alarmed tone telling him she was freaking out because he wasn't answering. "What is it? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just groggy. What time is it?" he asked hoarsely.
"Ten-thirty."
"Ten-thirty?" The cobwebs vanished, and Carson sat bolt upright. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"
"Honey, you were exhausted." Susan still looked worried, although hearing how coherent he was seemed to bring her some measure of relief. "Here." She poured him a glass of water. "Drink this." She waited while he did. "You were having that nightmare again," she told him quietly. "It was bad this time. You were thrashing around and muttering something about smelling blood. And you asked for Stan."
He frowned, remembering. "Stan—was he here?"
Susan nodded. "He came by to tell you about the meeting. But you were pretty out of it. Dr. Radison suggested that he come back in the morning."
"Dammit. The meeting." Carson pushed back the covers
, tried to get up. "I have to know...."
"Don't." Susan stopped him, blocking his path so he couldn't get out of bed. "The meeting went fine. I can give you a recap. Stan said the staff received the news about Sabrina with great enthusiasm, and that she answered questions like a pro. No sticky moments, except when Claude wanted to know if you'd told Sabrina the formula for C'est Moi, and when a product manager asked if Sabrina had been tested as a potential kidney donor."
Carson pursed his lips. "And?"
"Stan said she handled things perfectly. She deflected Claude's question, telling him he'd have to direct any inquiries regarding decisions you've made to you personally. As for the tissue-typing, she said she was in the process of being tested and would fill the staff in when the results were conclusive and when she knew if your kidneys were going to recover on their own. And she told them to respect your privacy and stay away from the press."
"Good girl." A proud smile curved Carson's lips. "No bullshit. No embellishing. Just straight facts. Then what?"
"Then, Whitman and Barton did their job. Sabrina and Dylan got out of the building without incident, made it to the squad car. and were driven, safe and sound, to Dylan's apartment."
"How does Stan know they got there okay? Did he check in with Dylan?"
Susan sighed, visibly prepping herself for Carson's outburst. "I didn't hear that part from Stan. Detective Whitman called and told me about it herself."
"And you didn't wake me?" Carson barked. He was already reaching for the phone. "What time did Whitman call?"
"Around eight-thirty. She said to let you sleep."
"Yeah, I'll just bet she did. She didn't want me firing questions at her. Well, tough." He punched in a number. "I'm calling her cell phone. She'd better answer or... Yeah, Detective Whitman?"
At the other end of the phone, Jeannie—who was still at her desk, going over the information she and Frank had gleaned from Stan Hager today—munched on another potato chip. "Hi, Mr. Brooks. I was wondering what took you so long."