Authors: Scent of Danger
She certainly hoped so. That was the look she'd gone for today.
Even her hair, which she normally wore down, she'd brushed into a loose
chignon, giving her a more vivid, businesslike appearance without being so severe
it rendered her unapproachable.
Hey, she might've left the rat race a few years back, but she
hadn't forgotten how to run.
A
bing
and an illuminated number 12 heralded Sabrina's
arrival at her destination. She sucked in her breath. Here goes, she thought.
The doors slid open.
She stepped out, making her way through the polished hallway to
the sweeping oval reception desk. It was too early for the receptionist to be
in, but a security guard, no doubt posted as a result of Carson's assault,
stood beside the double doors leading to the interior offices.
"May I help you?" he inquired.
"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe. Mr. Hager is expecting me."
He glanced at his clipboard, and gave a terse nod. "Just a
moment." Reaching over, he scooped up the phone, pressed an extension.
"Ms. Radcliffe is here." A pause. "Very good." He hung up.
"Someone will be right out."
Sabrina nodded. Placing her briefcase on the arm of a chair, she
took in her surroundings. The broad expanse of wall space was filled with
murals featuring perfume ads, touting all the different Ruisseau brands,
together with glowing testimonials to C'est Moi from various television
personalities and high-profile sports figures. In the center of the room was a
stunning, fully-enclosed glass display case, filled with an array of elegant
perfume bottles containing various Ruisseau fragrances. The bottles were
positioned just so, artistically arranged at different angles, all on a
cashmere tapestry that was draped along the full length of the display.
Very classy.
On top of the glass case sat several perfume samples—including, of
course, a bottle of C'est Moi—for visitors to experiment with while they
waited.
Shrewd marketing approach.
All in all, this room worked perfectly, setting the stage with the
elegance and sensory appeal Ruisseau was known for.
Sabrina picked up the bottle of C'est Moi, studied its sensual
lines. A bottle as sexy as its scent. Curious, she tugged off the cap, and
sprayed some perfume on her wrist. She'd seen its components, witnessed the
chemical process, even smelled the floral ingredients. But she'd never tested
the final product.
She waved her wrist around, then brought it to her nose. Wow.
Quite a sensory experience. Musky and mysterious, but ultra-feminine, lightly
floral, alluringly spicy. No wonder it was such a turn-on.
The double doors swung open, but rather than Stan or his
secretary, it was Dylan who strode out to greet her.
Sabrina set down the bottle and blinked in surprise, not only at
Dylan's presence, but at Dylan period.
No casual attire today. Unlike his usual blazer and slacks, today
Dylan was wearing an expensive Italian suit and silk tie—and wearing them well.
Funny, how she'd first thought of him as strictly a T-shirt and jeans kind of
guy. Dylan Newport was anything and everything he chose to be.
And today what he chose to be—besides more formally dressed—was a
stony-faced bulldozer, bearing down on her with ripping intensity.
"Good morning," he said curtly. "I'm glad you're
early."
Rather than being offended, Sabrina felt a pang of uneasiness. The
combination of Dylan's tone and the tight control he was obviously exerting
over himself—he wasn't being rude; he was unnerved. Something was wrong.
"Good morning," she replied, searching his face for
answers. "I thought Stan was going to..."
"Let's go to my office." He was already on his way,
urging her through the double doors, then leading her down a quiet corridor. He
reached a large corner office— his obviously, given that it boasted the brass
plate engraved, "Dylan Newport, Corporate Counsel" that he'd
described to her—and he paused in the open doorway, gesturing for her to
precede him.
The office was very Dylan: unpretentious, uncluttered, and
unstuffy. The furniture was teak, all simple lines and clean surfaces from the
desk to the sideboard. One entire wall was filled with open bookshelves stacked
with official-looking legal volumes. The room's only adornments were a few
pieces of modern pottery on the side tables in the conference area. No
expensive knick-knacks, no pretentious artwork on the walls, no intimidating
LLD diplomas. Yup, this was Dylan Newport, all the way.
Sabrina took a few steps into the office, dropped her briefcase
and turned to face him. "Something's wrong," she stated the minute
he'd shut the door. "What is it? Is it Carson?"
"No." Dylan rubbed the back of his neck, his features
taut with strain. "It's Russ Clark, one of our interns. He was stabbed to
death outside his apartment last night."
"Oh my God." Sabrina pressed a palm to her mouth.
"What were the circumstances?"
"There weren't any. No fight, no witnesses, nothing. His
watch and money clip were missing."
"So it was a robbery?"
Dylan gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Right. I'd be surprised if
Russ had more than twenty dollars on him. And his watch—if I remember correctly
it was about five years old and worth nothing great when it was new. The kid
was twenty-one. He lived in a working class area of Queens. He was busting his
ass to get through college. Carson was helping him with scholarship money. Russ
worked like a beaver and never complained—long hours, weekends, he did whatever
was asked of him. He was one of Carson's favorites. He had spunk. And he
worshiped the ground Carson walked on. Now suddenly he's killed three days
after Carson was shot." Dylan's expression was angry and pained.
"Does that sound like a coincidence to you?"
"No, it doesn't." Sabrina's mind was racing. "So
let's say the two incidents are related. Do you think Russ knew
something?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I think." An exasperated wave
of his arm. "Of course I have no proof. But in my gut, I believe it. And I
have a feeling Whitman and Barton do, too."
"So they know about Russ's murder?"
"They've been on it since late last night. They were notified
because of Russ's employment at Ruisseau, and the possible link to Carson's
shooting. They contacted Stan right away, since Russ had no family. Stan called
me and Susan."
"Susan?" Sabrina asked, puzzled.
"Russ was one of her YouthOp kids. According to Stan, she
fell apart when he told her. And she's still a mess today. When Stan called me
with an update—which was about ten minutes ago from the car—he said that Susan
was at Carson's bedside when he got there to break the news. She held it
together, barely. Before Stan left the hospital, he got Dr. Radison to give her
a sedative. She's not going to do Carson any good if she falls apart. By the
way, that's where Stan's coming from now, which is why he wasn't here to
welcome you."
Sabrina didn't give a damn about the missing welcome. But the
reason behind it didn't sit well with her. "Dylan, maybe Stan should have
waited a while to drop this news on Carson. If he liked this kid as much as you
say, he's going to take it hard. And if he's got Susan's emotional meltdown to
deal with, too, it might cause a setback...."
"It won't. Carson won't let it. If anything, it'll make him
fight harder, because he'll be hell-bent on finding out who did this. I don't
have to tell you how protective of his staff he is. Pumping a bullet into
him
is one thing; killing one of his people is another. Believe me, Stan made
the right decision. Carson would be more pissed if we kept this news from him.
Besides, if we'd waited, he would have ended up hearing about it from the cops
or someone else. It's better that he heard it from Stan."
"So he's okay?"
"He's furious. And he's upset, probably more so than he's
letting on, at least in front of Susan. I'll get over to the hospital later and
check on him myself." Dylan looked at Sabrina and, for the first time this
morning, seemed to actually see her. "You're welcome to come with
me."
"Thanks. That would make me feel a lot better."
He gave her a quick once-over, then a longer, more leisurely
perusal, and the tension in his jaw eased a bit.
"Well?" Sabrina asked lightly. "What's the verdict?"
"Can I be honest? Or will you bring me up on harassment
charges?"
"I think I can restrain myself. Go for it."
"Okay then. You look incredible. Beauty and power combined. A
drop-dead gorgeous corporate dynamo. Even I'm intimidated."
Her lips twitched. "Liar. Nothing intimidates you. But I
appreciate the vote of confidence."
Dylan released a sharp breath. "Sabrina, I'm sorry if I came
at you like a Mack truck when you first walked in. I'm just infuriated and
frustrated. Russ was just a kid. I want to find whoever did this to him and
choke the bastard to death."
"Don't apologize. It's a horrible tragedy. I feel sick and I
never even met Russ." She pursed her lips. "The only thing I'm hoping
is that if the two crimes are connected—and I agree with you that they are—that
it leaves twice as much room for error. Whoever did this isn't a pro.
Somewhere, somehow, the tiniest shred of evidence exists. And Whitman and
Barton will find it."
"If they don't,
I
will," Dylan muttered. "I
can't take much more of this sit tight and be patient crap. I'm not the passive
type."
"No kidding." Sabrina frowned. "Don't do anything
stupid, Dylan. We're talking about a murderer, not a street brawler."
"I realize that." He raked a hand through his hair,
clearly trying to get himself together. "Let's change the subject." A
quick glance at his watch. "We have about a half hour before the meeting.
I can answer any preliminary questions you came up with after reading through
that mound of material Stan gave you. If any of the questions is out of my
league, we can pull Stan aside before going into the conference room."
Sabrina's shoulders lifted in a composed shrug. "That won't
be necessary. The material Stan gave me was comprehensive. Any specifics I need
I'll get from each department head. And whatever additional questions crop up
as we go along, I'll jump right in and ask for clarification."
"Good." Dylan gestured toward the sideboard, where a steaming
carafe sat. "Want some coffee? I'm warning you ahead of time, it's leaded.
There's decaf in the coffee room for the less intrepid. We can take a walk down
there now, if you'd like."
"Nope." An adamant shake of her head. "I'm in
desperate need of the leaded kind. I didn't get much sleep last night."
Dylan shot her a quizzical look as he went over, poured two mugs
of coffee. "Did you move into your new place?"
"Um-hum. All done. I soaked in my first hot bath reading
Ruisseau's fourth quarter projections. And I snuggled in my new bed analyzing
Ruisseau's financial statements and marketing campaign. Quite a first night in
my new home. It was as close to heaven as it gets."
Laughter rumbled in Dylan's chest. "It sounds great. No
wonder you need this." He handed her a mug, motioning for her to have a
seat in his conference area.
"No complaints," she assured him, nodding her thanks as
she sank down in a cozy tufted chair. "All-nighters go with the territory.
Besides, in all seriousness, the apartment really is beautiful—not to mention
much roomier and more comfortable than a hotel room." She sipped at her
coffee. "You mentioned that you live three blocks away."
"Sure do. 341 West 76th Street."
"Is your place similar to mine?"
"In a lot of ways, yeah." Dylan dropped into the
opposite chair. "It's a brownstone, too, although the layout's a little
different. I'm also a little further west than you are, so I'm close to
Riverside Drive and Riverside Park, which is great for when I want to clear my
head with a morning run."
"That's right. The park. I'll have to remember that."
Sabrina sighed. "I've been skipping my early morning yoga routine.
Probably because Melissa's not here to play Jiminy Cricket. Although I'm not
even sure that having a relentless conscience like Melissa would help. I need
to be able to clear my mind to get the benefits of yoga. And these days—I
can't."
"No surprise there." Dylan leaned forward, eyeing her
speculatively. "Was last night's dinner with your mother very
difficult?"
"Actually, no." Sabrina was touched by the genuine
concern in Dylan's tone. Was this the same man who'd said he had trouble
mustering sympathy for her? "Other than the fact that Detectives Whitman
and Barton were with her when I arrived. That was awkward."
"You're kidding. They actually came to her hotel to
interrogate her the minute she checked in?"
"No, nothing that tacky. It was my mother who called them.
She knew they had questions for her. She had a chunk of time to kill before I
met her for dinner. So she used that time to meet with them."
"And?"
"And they got their answers, including an alibi. After that, they
left us to enjoy our dinner."