Kane, Andrea (6 page)

"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."

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

Then, she reached for the phone.

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?"

"I know it's late," Sabrina replied, evading the
question. "You probably just got in from the airport. But I have to talk
to you."

No, it definitely was
not
her imagination.

Gloria's grip on the receiver tightened. "Of course. What is
it?"

A long sigh. "Would it be all right if I drove out
there?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes. I realize you're probably on your way to bed, but it's
important."

This was totally unlike Sabrina. She wasn't the dramatic type. Yet
her voice sounded unnaturally high and out of sorts. "Sabrina, are you
ill?"

"No, nothing like that. I just got hit with some news that
threw me. It affects both of us. I really need to discuss it with you, right
away. Apparently, time is of the essence."

There was no point in playing guessing games. The sooner Sabrina
got here, the better. "Fine. Are you leaving now?"

10:48 P.M.

Sabrina turned onto the cobblestone driveway, the headlights of
her Lexus RX300 illuminating her mother's front lawn. She threw the gear shift
into park and turned off the ignition, resting her forehead against the
steering wheel for one weary moment.

The long drive hadn't helped. She was still just as unsettled as
she'd been when Dylan Newport left her, maybe more so, since analyzing the
situation had forced her to confront the numerous painful consequences that
might arise.

Consequences that would vastly impact her mother, send ripples
through every facet of her life, both personal and professional.

She could just see the headlines now:
High-profile CEO Carson
Brooks revealed to be biological father of Sabrina Radcliffe, youngest member
of the rich, socialite Radcliffe family.

And once the tabloids got hold of it, they'd exploit the juicy
tidbit to death. The result would be a media extravaganza with the Radcliffes
smack in the middle of it. So much for Gloria's privacy, her carefully sculpted
way of life. As for Sabrina's grandparents—what a nightmare that would be. The
whole topic of how she'd been conceived was considered taboo in their book. Not
only wasn't it discussed, it was deemed as having never happened. After their
unsuccessful attempts to dissuade Gloria from going through with the donor insemination,
they'd dealt with it through denial, never touching on the subject of Sabrina's
father, wordlessly designating the subject as taboo among their friends and
colleagues. And given how much influence Abigail and Charles Radcliffe wielded
in the Boston country club set, they had no trouble getting anyone who was
anyone to take the hint.