Authors: Scent of Danger
Barton took Susan's arm and urged her toward the door. He paused
to exchange glances with his partner and shrug, before leading Susan off.
The door slid shut behind them.
Detective Whitman folded her arms across her breasts. "Okay,
Mr. Brooks. What was that all about? And don't tell me you wanted to hear her
beg. That's not your style. You had an agenda. That agenda involved getting her
over to your bed. So what's the scoop?"
A corner of his mouth lifted. "You're good, Stick. Have I
mentioned that? Damned good. Remind me to call the police chief and tell him
what an asset you and your partner Stone are."
"Thanks. Now, how about an answer? You were looking for
something. Apparently, you found it. Care to share?"
"Not
looking
for it,
smelling
for it,"
Carson corrected. "Since the night I was shot, I've been reliving the
experience, in slow motion, from soup to nuts. It just wouldn't go away, not
when I was awake, not when I was asleep. And it wasn't because I was
traumatized. It was because something was bugging me. Something I couldn't put
my finger on. A smell. First, I thought it was just the carpet cleaner and my
blood. But there was something else, something that kept nagging at me but I
just couldn't place it. Each time I dozed off, I'd wake up in a drenched sweat,
with the answer just out of reach. And each time I woke up, who was always by
my bedside, cooing her little heart out to make the bad dream go away? Susan.
Now I understand why the memory was so strong. It was in my face every day
since the shooting. Literally."
He shook his head in disgust. "So much for my genius IQ and
my fantastic olfactory sense. Like everyone else, I can be as dumb as a stump.
I missed what was right in front of me simply because I wasn't really seeing
it—or, in this case, smelling it. But last night, after you all left and I was
trying to imagine Susan as the shooter, it hit me. The smell. That sickeningly
sweet smell I kept remembering. It was that foamy gunk Susan uses to puff up
her hair."
"Mousse?" Jeannie suggested with a hint of a grin.
"Yeah, right, mousse." He snorted. "I still don't
understand why companies make that stuff with fragrance. It clashes with every
perfume on the market—even C'est Moi. Lousy R&D, if you ask me. Anyway,
it's no wonder I've been bugged by that memory. Susan's practically lived in my
room since the shooting. I guess she saw my bedside as a kind of confessional—a
place to cleanse herself of her sins. It didn't work. And the hair connection
finally clicked."
"So you figured it out last night—the tie-in between the odor
you remember when you were shot and Ms. Lane's foamy hair gunk." Jeannie's
lips twitched as she echoed Carson's phraseology. "And just now, you were
looking for proof?"
"Not proof. Just corroboration. My sense of smell is all the
proof I need. But these damned tubes in my nose ruin my olfactory sense. So I
wanted to get her over here, take a deep breath, and make sure. Well, I did and
I am."
Jeannie gave an intrigued shake of her head. "You know
something, Mr. Brooks? You're good, too. Damned good. Remind me to call your
company and tell them what an asset you are."
He grinned—a worn-out, tight grin, but a grin nonetheless.
"Thanks. Just for that I'll let you in on a secret. You see these two
here?" He pointed at Dylan and Sabrina. "They're about to get the
hell out of this hospital room and head down to Tiffany's to pick out some
rings. There's going to be a wedding in the near future."
"That's great." Jeannie shook both their hands.
"Congratulations."
"Keep it under wraps for now," Carson added. "I
want to make a big, splashy announcement. Who knows? Maybe it'll send the sales
of C'est Moi soaring even higher."
"Hey," Sabrina said in mock protest. "Did we just
become a marketing tool?"
He shrugged. "You're already prime time media buzz. Let's
give the TV networks, the newspapers, and the tabloids something cheerful to
yap about. Now, get going. I'll be waiting to see that sparkling baby on your
finger."
"Yes, sir." Sabrina snapped off a salute. She paused,
studying his face. "You're sure you're okay?"
"Positive. I'll be better when you're engaged." He
arched a brow at Dylan. "Now go make an honest woman out of my
daughter."
"With pleasure." Dylan chuckled, wrapped an arm around
Sabrina's waist. Carson really was okay. He could tell. And that made him feel
like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "We're out of here.
See you soon."
"Yup." Carson watched them go, then settled back,
feeling a surprising sense of peace, despite the pain and trauma of the past
day, and the difficult recuperation that lay ahead. Somehow, everything was
going to be all right. "See ya, Detective," he dismissed Whitman,
letting her know he was ready to drift off.
"See ya, Mr. Brooks. You take care."
One eye opened. "Hey, Stick, are you married?"
Jeannie paused at the door. "No, why? Are you
proposing?"
"Nah. You'd turn me down. I'm harder to live with than you
are. What about Stone—is he single, too?"
"Nope. A great marriage, and two great kids. Why?"
"I just wanted to know how to address the invitations."
"Invitations?"
"To the wedding." A hint of a smile. "Hey, you're
the reason those two incredible kids of mine are safe and able to get on with
their lives. Same goes for me. The least we can do is invite you to the
wedding. I promise you great food and a great time."
"Sold." Jeannie perked up at the part about the great
food. As for the great time—anything was possible. Carson Brooks hung with a
very eclectic crowd—corporate execs, regular Joe's, and grown-up street kids.
Mix that with Beacon Hill snobs and high-fashion designers, and, hey, whether
or not it was a great time, it sure as hell wouldn't be boring. "I'm sure
I can speak for Frank and Linda, too. We'll all be checking our mailboxes.
When's the date so we can save it?"
"That part's still up for grabs. If you want an answer, ask
my kidneys."
April 2nd, 2:30 P.M.
West 73rd Street
Muttering a few choice curses under his breath, Carson tossed the
pile of contracts, specifications, and Internet printouts across the coffee
table in Sabrina's living room, and leaned back on the sofa.
"I don't believe this," he muttered, linking his fingers
behind his head. "And I thought running a corporation was hard? This isn't
a wedding; it's a fucking conspiracy planned by pompous, cutthroat lunatics.
Worse, they're all delusional enough to believe they're visionaries. Wedding
planners who want to color-coordinate flowers and bathroom accoutrements? What
the hell's a bathroom accoutrement, anyway—toilet paper? How about white? That
goes with everything, including your gown. And that's just the flowers and the
other artsy touches she's proposed. We've also got an orchestra that can change
gears so fast—from Sinatra to hip-hop—that I'm convinced they're on drugs, an
egocentric photographer and videographer who are like two male turkeys—I know
in my gut that in the middle of the reception they're gonna start beating the
crap out of each other fighting for center stage—a centerpiece designer who
thinks she's Michelangelo, and volatile bridesmaids who have perpetual PMS and
can't even agree on the same pair of Donna Karan panty hose. Jesus
Christ."
He reached for his bottled water, took a long, cold swig.
"Here's an idea. Let's chuck the whole wedding coordinator thing. I'll
walk you down the aisle and give you to that incredibly tolerant guy over there
who's held up through this insanity a helluva lot better than I have."
Carson pointed at Dylan, who was standing at the sideboard, enjoying his
friend's outburst. "After that, you can say a few mushy words, exchange vows
and rings, hang around long enough for one dance with your husband and one with
me, and then go upstairs for the good part. I hear the toilet paper in the
honeymoon suite is fabulous."
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, paperwork sprawled out all
around her, Sabrina burst out laughing. "You know you wouldn't have to
twist my arm to get me to go along with you. That woman's driving me nuts, too.
But we agreed to make this one concession for my grandparents. According to
them, everybody who's anybody has Lilah Wellington do their wedding. She's the
most sought-after wedding planner in the business."
"She might be sought-after. But she's certifiable."
"Eccentric," Sabrina corrected, wiping tears of laughter
from her eyes. "Just eccentric. And remember, at least she thinks the
grand ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria has the right
feel.
Otherwise, we
couldn't have the reception there."
"We
need
to have the reception there. It's got to be
somewhere big enough to hold the four hundred guests your grandparents are
probably going to come up with, plus the two hundred fifty we've put together.
I can't wait to hear the grand total."
"Seven hundred seventy-two," Gloria announced, hanging
up the phone. "That would be the grand total. My parents just finished
cutting down their list to five hundred twenty-two, thanks to the seventeen
couples who will be abroad during the last week of June. Other- wise, we'd be
topping eight hundred." Her forehead creased in concentration as she
scanned the list. Walking over to the sofa, she sank down next to Carson.
"Anyway, we can call in our final count, so the invitations will be
printed and ready for the calligrapher to address them. They'll be mailed out
in four weeks."
Carson hadn't heard a word after the first sentence. He'd whipped
around to face Gloria, his jaw dropping.
"Did you say five hundred
twenty-two people?"
"Um-hum." Gloria's lips twitched. "I'll kick in
some extra cash, if you're running low."
"Cash isn't my problem. Space is. I don't need money. I need
Shea Stadium."
"The Waldorf's equipped to handle well over a thousand
guests."
"So's the Javits Center. But this is a wedding, not a
convention."
"There, there." Gloria patted his arm in mock comfort.
"Look at the bright side of having this huge affair."
"What bright side? All I want is to see these two happily
married and figuring out how many grandchildren they're going to give us."
Gloria swallowed her grin. "To begin with—sales. Profits.
Ruisseau's, the Gloria Radcliffe fashion fine's, and CCTL's. They've
skyrocketed, thanks to all the publicity surrounding this wedding. Ever since
Dylan's Central Park proposal, both our families and companies have dominated
the social and business headlines. As a result, C'est Moi for men burst on the
scene and squashed the competition, my spring and summer lines have sold like
there's no tomorrow, and CCTL has had to double its staff to accommodate all
its new corporate clients. As for you and me, why, we're being credited with
creating and inspiring the love match of the century—Sabrina and Dylan. The
media spotlight is bright, their spin is positive—why, even my parents are
starting to like you."
Carson shot her a skeptical look. "Don't get carried away.
Your parents don't
like
me. We tolerate each other."
"Fine. You tolerate each other. That's still an
improvement."
"Yeah. When we first met, they looked at me like I was an ax
murderer. Not that I blame them. It was right after the transplant surgery. I
was the reason Sabrina went through that ordeal."
He fell silent for a moment, remembering the tension-filled
Christmas season of a few short months ago. Between Susan's conviction, his own
struggle back to health, and his harsh realization that his kidneys weren't
going to rally on their own, it had been one dark, hellish time. The thought of
relying on hemodialysis three times a week for the rest of his life—it sucked.
He wanted his life back. He
needed
his life back. Christmas and all the
joyous spirit it conveyed had been the farthest thing from his mind.
Except that Santa Claus had arrived in the form of an
extraordinary young woman who happened to be his daughter.
There was no talking Sabrina out of the transplant. She was
hell-bent on seeing it through. And she had.
Luckily, she'd been able to undergo the laparoscopic procedure,
which had kept her risks minimal, her recovery time shorter, and her incisions
minor. She'd also been able to keep the rib that the surgeon would have had to
remove had the conventional surgery been necessary. Still, she'd given up one
of her organs. She'd been in the operating room for four hours, not counting
prep time and recovery time. That was twice as long as his transplant recipient
surgery had been. As far as he was concerned, that was damned unfair. As far as
Abigail and Charles Radcliffe were concerned, it was abominable.
He understood where they were coming from. He felt for them. He
felt
with
them.
Maybe, in the long run, that's what had finally turned things
around. Maybe it was seeing how much he cared about their granddaughter that
had made them thaw a tiny bit. Maybe they'd finally realized he wasn't just an
anonymous sperm donor. Not anymore. Now he was a father.
"Hey." Sabrina scooted over on the area rug and nudged
Carson's leg. "Stop brooding. The transplant's ancient history now. You've
had my kidney for over three months. A damned fine kidney, too, if I must say
so myself. And a match made in heaven. You and I might kill each other in the
boardroom, but our kidneys are as compatible as bread and butter. Not the
slightest sign of rejection. You're doing great. I'm doing great. Sales are
doing great. My grandparents stopped worrying a long time ago. And they're so
into this wedding thing—not to mention the oohs and ahs they're getting from
their socially prominent friends—that they've forgotten all about the negative
publicity from last fall. They're really strutting their stuff. Which is why
we're going along with Lilah Wellington, and the
aura
she wants to
create for our special day." Sabrina rolled her eyes, then scooped up the
pages Carson had tossed on the coffee table. "So let's get on with our
next decision—the cake. Lilah wasn't wild about the milk chocolate mousse
filling we selected. She thinks it conflicts with our aura. She wants us to go
with dark chocolate."
Carson groaned, flinging an arm over his eyes.
"I
give
up."
"But there's good news," Dylan consoled him, strolling
over to stand behind Sabrina. "She's crazy about the tuxes we picked
out." A corner of his mouth lifted. "They're in sync with the feel of
the Waldorf."
Shifting his forearm away from his eyes, Carson gazed suspiciously
at Dylan. "How come you're dealing with this so well? When we first
started with this Wellington kook, you were bitching up a storm. Now suddenly,
you're all sweetness and light. Why?"
Dylan tugged Sabrina to her feet, wrapped an arm around her waist.
"Because then it was January. Now it's April. I'm marrying your daughter
on June 30th, which is just a few months away. After that, I'm taking her to a
beautiful, private villa in Tuscany where we'll be totally alone for two weeks,
and where the aura will be better than anything Lilah Wellington can create at
the Waldorf or anywhere else. So I can afford to be tolerant." He paused,
winking at Sabrina before he added, "You know, Carson, you can afford to
be tolerant, too."
Carson arched a brow. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"
"Because Tuscany's a beautiful and romantic place. And
because Sabrina and I will be there at just the right time."
"You lost me." Carson glanced at Gloria, who had started
to smile—a smile that broadened as she exchanged a look with Sabrina. "You
obviously know what Dylan's talking about," he observed.
"I guessed. And I'm thrilled. You will be, too. Thrilled
enough to jump through hoops for Lilah Wellington."
He snorted. "Don't hold your breath. Nothing could get me to
do that."
A dubious shrug. "If you say so."
"Okay, I'll bite." Carson eyed Dylan. "What do you
mean you'll be in Tuscany at just the right time?"
"We're arriving in Italy on July 2nd," Dylan explained.
"That's six and a half months after your transplant surgery. Which is two
weeks after the go-ahead date we got from Sabrina's nephrologist, her surgeon,
and her OB/GYN."
"Dylan's right, Carson," Sabrina concurred with a
teasing grin. "So if this wedding goes off smoothly, and my new husband
and I are feeling very relaxed and very adventurous on our honeymoon—well, who
knows? My mother might be able to start on that line of designer baby booties
right away, with us as her first customers."
Carson sucked in his breath, jerking to an upright position.
"Whose idea was the milk chocolate, anyway?" he barked, snatching the
paperwork from Sabrina's hand and poring over it. "Dark chocolate's
richer, more elegant. It's definitely got an aura. This Wellington woman knows
what she's talking about." His head snapped up, and he gazed from Sabrina
to Dylan to Gloria, scowling at their three smiling faces. "What's wrong
with all of you? Stop grinning like fools. We've got a wedding to plan."