Scent of Danger Page 4

  "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 ex
tremes despite the risk should tell you that."

  "Fine." Sabrina acknowledged his claim with a tight nod. "So you know whose sperm was half-responsible for my conception. Congratulations. Now comes the bad news. You've conducted this whole extensive, shady investigation for nothing. I'm not interested in learning the donor's name or anything about him. Not now. Not ever."

  "Yeah, I picked up on that."

  "Then why are you pursuing this?"

  "Because I have no choice."

  "There's always a choice."

  "Not in this case. A man's life depends on it. He could die. He means as much to me as if he were my father. As luck would have it, he's yours."

  "Die?" Another jolt out of left field. Sabrina's mind had been going down the corporate path, assuming that Dylan Newport was bailing out some company exec who was being blackmailed with this juicy scandal. But life and death? That steered things in a whole different direction.

  Sabrina's shoulders lifted in a baffled shrug. "Are you suggesting this man is terminally ill and thinks meeting me will help?"

  "No. He doesn't even know you exist. Nor is he in a position to find out. He's lying in ICU fighting for his life. By the way, he has a name. It's Carson Brooks. Who, as a side issue, doesn't need your money. He has millions of his own."

  Whatever Sabrina had been about to say vanished with that bombshell. Beyond pretense, beyond trying to assimilate facts, she simply stared.

  Dylan looked away, swearing quietly under his breath. "Look, Ms. Radcliffe—Sabrina—I'm not trying to tear a hole in your life. But I don't have the luxury of time, and..."

  "Carson Brooks," she interrupted, seeking some sort of clarification. "The CEO of Ruisseau. He's my father."

  "Yes."

  "You said he could die. What happened? Did he have a stroke? A heart attack?"

  "Neither. He was shot."

  This was turning into a bad detective movie. "Who shot him?"

  "We don't know. It happened last night in his office. The police are investigating. Maybe after news of the shooting is released tomorrow, we'll get some tips that will give us a clue."

  More pieces fell into place. "So that's the media-fest you were referring to that you managed to hold off until tomorrow. The networks and newspapers will be getting word of the assault."

  "Right. And that's all they're getting word of. You, your relationship to Carson—that information was given only to the police and Carson's surgeon. So you can cross slander off your list, too. Although, to be frank, having Carson Brooks for a father is something to be proud of, not to renounce. Still, your relationship won't be made public. We'll try to keep it quiet as long as we can."

  "Thank you—I think." Sabrina's head was swimming. "I'm not sure what to say." A guarded look. "Will he be all right?"

  "He's in pretty bad shape."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm also confused. Where do I fit into all this? You worked round-the-clock to find me, not to mention going out on a limb that could have cost you your law license. Why? I doubt it was to prepare me for an eventual news leak. So what is it you want?"

  From the expression on Dylan Newport's face, Sabrina knew they'd reached the moment of truth.

  "Besides his internal injuries, Carson's kidneys have shut down," he informed her. "He's on dialysis. A transplant is a real possibility. It's crucial that we find a donor match. The odds of that happening are best when the donor and the recipient are blood relations. Which you two are. In fact, you're Carson's only blood relative. So you see, Sabrina, I'm here for more than your sympathy. I'm here for your cooperation. You have to be tissue-typed. My records show that you and Carson have the same O-positive blood, but you'll need to take a confirming blood test. The next step would be—"

  "Stop." Sabrina was on her feet, reality punching her in the gut. "You came up here to get me to volunteer one of my organs to... to..."

  "To your biological father, yes." Dylan rose, too. He looked concerned, but not contrite. "I realize this is a lot to absorb, not to mention being a huge sacrifice."

  "A sacrifice?" Sabrina repeated. "I don't know this man. I never met him. He was faceless, nameless..." She broke off, reason telling her she had to be sure. "You obviously brought proof that he's my father. Show it to me."

  Dylan held up the file, then placed it carefully on the glass table behind him. "Everything is in here. Read it. I'll go grab some dinner and give you a few hours alone. We'll talk later—say, eleven o'clock?"

  Sabrina's head was spinning. "You're staying in the area?"

  "Until tomorrow. Then I'm flying back. I'm hoping you'll decide to come, too—not only to get tissue-typed, but to meet your father. Think about it, Sabrina. I know this is a shock. But you'll get past it. Carson Brooks is a brilliant, vital man. You could save him from a life that, to him, would be no life at all."

  With a final penetrating stare, Dylan headed toward the door.

  "Wait." Sabrina stopped him in his tracks. "Eleven is too soon. I need more time."

  He turned back. "You want to speak with your mother." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Yes. And not on the phone. In person."

  "In person?" He frowned, giving her another of those hard, assessing looks. "You're driving to Rockport?"

  "That's where she lives," Sabrina returned tersely. She didn't bother questioning how he knew where her mother's home was. His background check had been thorough. He'd known her mother was from Beacon Hill and what she did professionally. Why wouldn't he know the rest? "I've got to see her right away. The reasons should be obvious."

  "They are. But Rockport's an hour and a half away. Are you sure you're up to driving? It's late. And you're upset."

  "I'm fine."

  He didn't press the point. "You'll spend the night there."

  "Probably. Maybe. I'm not sure." Sabrina wished he'd go away and let her think. "My mother's been in Manhattan on business all week. Her plane landed at Logan around seven. I doubt she got home before eight, and that's if the plane landed on time. She's bound to be exhausted. And this news..." Sabrina drew a shaky breath. "It's bound to throw her. So I can't give you an exact time as to when I'll be back. You'll just have to be patient."

  "Fair enough. I'll get a hotel room. I'll call your assistant with the telephone number when I have it."

  "You can stay here at the Center," Sabrina offered tonelessly. "We have more than enough room." She walked over to the glass table, tore off a Post-it, and scribbled something down. "Give this to the receptionist. She'll take care of the arrangements." She handed him the Post-it. "Whatever my decision, I'll get it to you tomorrow."

  "Fine." He cleared his throat. "If it makes any difference, for weeks now Carson's been wrestling with the idea of conducting an investigation to learn whether or not he has a child. He didn't intend to intrude on your life. He just wanted to know. It was on his mind the night he was shot. I rode with him in the ambulance. He was fully aware he might not make it. He asked one thing of me: to find you—if you existed. I planned on doing that, even if this kidney crisis hadn't come up. The difference is, you would never have had to know about it. I'm truly sorry for dumping all this on you. But I'm sorrier for Carson." He pulled open the door. "I'll be waiting for your call."

  Sabrina sat alone in the office for a long time, reading through the file and thinking.

  Then, she reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER 5

  8:25 P.M.

  Rockport, Massachusetts

  Gloria Radcliffe loved her home. The two-hundred-year-old Cape was small and charming and, even with its view of the ocean, far more modest than her current income reflected. But it was the first thing she'd bought with her own money—almost three decades ago—and it was the place she'd brought her infant daughter home to raise right after she was born.

  Her parents had been incensed. Then again, they often were when it came to her decisions. Rockport had been a poky town back then, a far cry from Beacon Hill. A beach community of
clam chowder joints, bed-and-breakfasts, and would-be artists, it was exactly where she wanted to live.

  It still was. She'd done some of her best sketches here, and that was the case to this very day. Even a week in the Big Apple, with all its glamour and excitement, couldn't detract from the simple joys of being home.

  That was especially true this time. Her excursion to New York had been more draining than she'd expected.

  She shut the door behind her, gazing around appreciatively, savoring the soft cream and taupe furnishings, and the gleaming hardwood floors. She carried her two pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage into the master bedroom, then headed for the kitchen, opting for a quick bite to eat and a hot bath before she unpacked.

  Forty minutes later, she padded out of the bathroom, tying the belt of her silk dressing robe. She sat down at the dressing table, ready to begin her ritualistic beauty regimen.

  Her make-up-free reflection looked back at her. She was fortunate, and she knew it. Mother Nature had been kind to her. She'd aged well. The general consensus was that she looked forty-five rather than sixty-one, thanks to a naturally slim figure, skin that hadn't wrinkled, and hair that—with a little help from Jean-Paul, her genius of a hairstylist—was still a lustrous honey-brown. Her good looks were something she'd once taken for granted and now appreciated fully. Not out of vanity, but out of pragmatism. In the fashion business, aging was a no-no. Being old meant being out of touch with the times and the trends. And that meant being a fashion designer who was passé.

  She'd just finished applying her moisturizer when the telephone rang.

  Frowning, she glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-five. It was unusual for anyone to be calling this late.

  She walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Mother, it's me."

  "Sabrina." Was it her imagination or did her daughter sound strained? "Is everything okay?"