Kane, Andrea (17 page)

She also looked on the verge of collapse.

"Sabrina, you're still white as a ghost," he heard
himself say. He got up, poured her a glass of water and pressed it into her
hand. "Have you eaten?"

"Um-hum." She managed a weak smile between sips.
"Not fifteen minutes ago. Cranberry juice and crackers."

"What kind of a meal is that?"

"The kind the hospital lab gives you when you start to black
out. It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm a baby when it comes to needles. Also,
my blood pressure tends to be on the low side of normal. So when it comes to
anything more than a couple of vials, I tend to get woozy."

The implication struck home, and Dylan's gaze fell to the inside
of her forearm, where a cotton ball was pressed against the crease, held in
place by a Band-Aid. "You donated blood."

She nodded. "I thought it was a good idea. As you know,
Carson and I are the same blood type. The hospital's banking my blood
specifically for him, just in case he needs it." She looked like she
wanted to say more, then thought better of it.

Dylan caught on right away. And he prayed his assumption was fact
and not a pipe dream. "Carson knows about the dialysis and the possibility
of needing a kidney transplant," he said pointedly. "So there's no
need to avoid talking about it."

"I see. Well, I'm glad I don't have to dance around the
subject. I'll just tell you both that the lab took a separate blood sample to
use for tissue-typing. We'll have the results in about a week."

"Wait a minute," Carson barked.

Sabrina's head came up, and she eyed Carson warily.

Dylan turned toward him, too, although he wasn't the least bit
surprised by his friend's response. In fact, he'd been expecting this. And if
Sabrina was expecting otherwise, if she'd anticipated some big, emotional
scene, she was about to be surprised for the second time.

Addressing the fundamentals first, exploring the benefits of
personal gain second, that was Carson's way. And given his newfound sense of
responsibility when it came to Sabrina, and the direct part he'd played in
triggering her current crisis, he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

"Yes?" Sabrina inquired.

"Let's start with your family.... Do they know about this?"
Carson's hard stare pinned her to the chair.

Sabrina wasn't rattled. Nor did she dodge the question. "I
spoke to my mother a little while ago. She'd already guessed. Now comes the
harder part. She has to tell my grandparents. After that, we'll deal with the
fallout. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Health risks—yours. Privacy invasion—also yours.
Screwing up a lot of lives, and a lot of relationships—yours again... Listen, Sabrina,
I don't like this… You're not just opting to—"

"I already have," she interrupted. "It's my choice
to make, not yours. Now, stop getting yourself all worked up, or I'll call Dr.
Radison and get him back here."

"He left the hospital, remember?"

"I have his beeper number."

"You can't use it There's no emergency."

"I'll lie."

Carson scowled. "You're a real ball-breaker, aren't
you?"

"I wonder who I take after," was her wry response. She
waved away his continuing protests. "We're getting ahead of ourselves.
This tissue-typing is more complicated than it sounds. Besides checking for
common
genes, they have to do a crossmatch test, see if your immune
system has produced any antibodies that might kill off my kidney. Until that's
determined, we won't know if I'm a compatible donor. Let's save the arguing for
afterward."

"Does that mean that if all systems are go you'll agree to be
the transplant donor?" Dylan demanded. "Have you thought that far
ahead?"

"No, she hasn't," Carson snapped out.

"Yes, I have." Sabrina ignored Carson's pointed
objection.
"If
the
test results indicate that I'm the best
match, and
if
Carson's own kidneys don't resume on their own, then he'll
get one of mine." She eased to the edge of her chair and started to get
up. "Now, if it's okay with you gentlemen, I'll head back to the Plaza
Athenée. You're right about my being a little weak. I'd rather be at my best
for this battle of wills. Let's put it on hold until tomorrow. For tonight, all
I had in mind was checking in on Carson to make sure he was holding his own.
Which I have, and he is. So I'll..." She stopped, groping at nothing as
she started to black out.

Dylan grabbed her before she fell, anchoring his arm around her
waist. "You'll head back, all right. But not before you eat a decent
meal."

"Dylan." It was Carson's command-and-control voice.
"Get her out of this damned hospital. Take her to a steak house... to
Smith & Wollensky's; it's not far from the Plaza Amende.... Order the
biggest piece of meat on the menu.... Get one for yourself, too. You've eaten
nothing but hospital crap all day.... After dinner, take Sabrina back to the
hotel.... Walk her up to her room.... Then, go home and get some sleep. You
look like a zombie." He paused to regain his strength. "Don't worry
about me.... I'm talked out.... Need to rest."

"Yeah, you do," Dylan agreed.

"And don't show up here at dawn.... Susan's already doing
that.... So are the cops, to snatch up that bullet the minute Radison gets it
out... Besides, I want you here afterward.... When they're gone... we need to
talk...."

"About Ruisseau?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be here."

"Not just you." Carson gestured from Dylan to Sabrina.
"Both of you. The three of us have things to work out... alone."

9:25 P.M.

Smith & Wollensky

Sabrina surveyed the bustling Third Avenue steak house and its
tightly packed tables. Seventy percent of those tables were filled with groups
of men, ten percent with groups of women, and twenty percent with a mixture of
both. The restaurant was filled to bursting—mostly with professionals who
worked in midtown and had stopped for business or social dinners before heading
home—yet no one seemed to mind the crowd. To the contrary, everyone was having
a rip-roaring time, laughing and stuffing their faces.

She and Dylan were lucky to have gotten a table. Partially because
the place was hopping, and partially because neither of them was dressed
appropriately. While most of the patrons were wearing jackets or suits, Sabrina
was wearing khakis and Dylan was wearing a sport shirt and jeans. Fortunately,
Dylan knew the maître d', who greeted him warmly, and whisked them right off to
an upstairs table.

Before she'd slid in her chair, Dylan had already confirmed that
she liked seafood, and ordered the two of them a mixed seafood appetizer. When
it came, he instructed Sabrina to wolf down at least half of it, along with two
small rolls, before taking her first sip of merlot. As a rule, she didn't take
kindly to being strong-armed. In this case, she didn't put up a fight. Dylan
was right. She already felt light-headed; drinking wine on an empty stomach
would knock her right out.

The steaks arrived, sizzling and huge, along with three side
dishes: hash browns, creamed spinach, and asparagus. It was enough to feed an
army, and Sabrina felt well up to the task.

She dived in with relish.

"This is fabulous," she pronounced a few minutes later,
swallowing another bite of filet mignon, and washing it down with merlot.
"Either the New York restaurants are even better than I remember, or I
didn't realize how hungry I was."

A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Maybe both."

"I take it you eat here often."

"Every Wednesday night at eight o'clock sharp. Carson, Stan,
and I catch up on business matters over dinner. This is our regular table. It's
a great arrangement—no ringing cell phones, no meetings, no distractions. We
get twice as much accomplished. We also get our weekly red meat fix."

"Sounds like a winning combo to me." Sabrina paused,
toying with her food. "By the way—thanks."

"For what?"

"For dinner. And for catching me before I cracked my skull on
the hospital floor."

"You're welcome on both counts." Dylan resumed eating
his sirloin with gusto. "I must admit, I've sprung for lots of dinners,
but the knight-m-shining-armor bit was new. I'm glad my reflexes were quick
enough."

"They were. As for being a first-timer, never fear. There are
two tables over there who'd love to help you practice—and perfect—your
reflexes." Sabrina couldn't believe she'd said that. It must be the wine
talking.

Dylan's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "You lost me.

The women behind us," she explained, gesturing with her
glass. "There's a table of four to my right, and a table of six to my
left. They've been salivating over you since we sat down, and openly gaping
since our appetizers arrived."

One dark brow rose. "I'm flattered you noticed."

"Don't be. They're not exactly subtle. I think the waiter's
about to trip on their tongues." Sabrina's lips curved. "I guess this
proves Melissa's right. You must be hot."

Dylan's expression remained impassive. "If that's the
criteria, then you're bordering on scalding."

Sabrina blinked. "Huh?"

"A third of the men in this room are in the process of
undressing you with their eyes. Another third are trying to decide if your bra
unhooks in the front or the back. And the last third are already fantasizing
about what positions you like best in bed, and planning how fast they can get
you there." Dylan calmly helped himself to another roll.

Laughter bubbled up in Sabrina's throat. She couldn't help it. The
images Dylan had conjured up were too priceless. As for what he'd said—well, it
had to be the most outrageous thing anyone had ever said to her. "You're
quite the cynic, aren't you?"

"Nope. Quite the realist."

"You've condemned every man in the room? Surely there must be
a few exceptions."

"Not unless they're gay or dead."

Sabrina gave an astounded shake of her head. "How do I
respond to that? Do I say thank you?"

Dylan's hand paused on his wine goblet. "I don't know. How do
you usually respond when men say you're beautiful and sexy?"

"I'm not sure you want to know."

"Try me."

Debating whether or not to do just that and to blurt out the
truth, she took another sip of merlot. She was drinking too much, too fast, and
she knew it. But it was only her second—and final—glass. She had no intentions
of getting sloshed. But the thin wire of tension inside her was about to snap.
The day had simply been too much. And if she didn't have some relief, find some
way to unwind, she'd shatter.

"Slow down," Dylan murmured, as if reading her mind.
"Drink more water and less wine."

Her brows rose. "Why? Are you afraid I'll take you back to my
hotel and have my Way with you?"

There was that lopsided grin again. And damn if Melissa wasn't
right. He was hot.
Very
hot And very earthy. As for being her type, what
was her type anyway?

She really had drunk too much wine. Time for water. She reached
for her glass.

"An interesting thought," Dylan commented.
"Intriguing as hell, too. But not terribly realistic."

"Really." Sabrina's chin came up, and she found she was
irrationally annoyed by his assessment. "Why is that?"

He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, until she
could see the tiny orange flecks in his eyes. "One, because
knights-in-shining-armor don't take advantage of women who are tipsy and at the
end of their ropes. Two, because Carson would rip my head off if I touched you.
And three, because my guess is you have a lot more experience with corporations
than you have with men. Am I right?"

Sabrina could actually feel the hot color flood her cheeks.
"It depends on what you mean by experience. I've been hit on by the best
of them."

"All of whom you shot down."

No reply.

"I guess it's time to change the subject."

"No." Sabrina shook her head. "Not until I set you
straight."

"About?"

"Whatever conclusion you've come to. It's one of two. Either
you've decided I'm an ice queen, or that I'm a raging feminist who likes
castrating men. For the record, I'm neither."

"And, for the record, I didn't think you were."

Sabrina pushed away her glass, folding her hands firmly in front
of her. "I'm not in the habit of explaining myself. I'm not even sure why
I'm doing so now, except that I just met my father for the first time, and
you're the closest person in the world to him. So maybe I care what you think
of me. Or maybe it's because you opened up to me on the plane, and I don't
think you're in the habit of doing that either. Or maybe it's just because I'm
strung out and a little drunk. It doesn't matter. I'll give it to you in a nutshell."