Kane, Andrea (47 page)

"Thank God."

"I'll send her in now. Oh, by the way, there are a couple of
detectives here who want to speak with you, too."

Dylan's mouth thinned into a grim line. "Let me guess.
Detectives Whitman and Barton."

"Yup. That's them."

"They'll have to wait a minute. I want to see Sabrina
first."

The doctor nodded. "Remember, I want you to sit still for a
while longer, just to be on the safe side. No sudden movements."

"I won't dance, I promise."

"Good. Let me know if you experience any lightheadedness or
nausea." With a tight smile, the doctor opened the door and stepped
outside. "Ms. Radcliffe? You can come in now." He blocked her path as
she reached the door. "He's got to take it easy. Understood?"

"Yes. Understood." Sabrina's voice was scratchy, but
audible. She strode in, relief flooding her face as she saw Dylan. She went
right to him, touching his jaw with gentle fingertips and leaning up to kiss
him. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." He scrutinized her from head to toe, at
least as much of her as he could see. She was wearing a hospital gown, which
covered a lot more of her than his shirt had. Her cheeks had a few cuts and
smudges on them, and a section of her hair was singed. A couple of scrapes and
bruises marred the skin of her forearms, and her breathing was definitely
raspy. Most of all, her eyes were teary and red, and she kept blinking, trying
to make the burning go away.

Despite it all, she was fine. Alive and fine.

And worried about him.

"Does your head hurt a lot?" she grated out, coughing
once or twice between words. "The doctor said you had a concussion. And
your chest..." Her features tightened as she studied the bandage.
"Oh, Dylan. Is it a deep gash?"

"Just a cut. But you can dote on me anyway." He glanced
down at himself. "Hmm. Naked from the waist up, injured, with an
impressive-sized bandage on my chest. Pretty damned sexy, huh? Makes me look
like James Bond."

Sabrina snickered, and promptly began to cough. "Don't make
me laugh. It hurts."

"It's that sensitive nose of yours." He traced it with
his forefinger. "Is it badly irritated?"

"It burns a little. It'll get better. And you didn't answer
my question. How's your head?"

"My head is fine. All of me is fine, now that you're
here."

"I can't believe this happened." Sabrina dragged both
hands through her hair. "Someone actually tried to kill us."

"You,"
Dylan corrected.
"Someone tried to kill you. I just got in the way of his plan."

Sabrina met Dylan's gaze. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Putting you in clanger. I had no idea..."

"Sabrina, I love you. If anything had happened to you and I
hadn't been there to stop it..." He drew a sharp breath. "Don't
apologize, okay?"

"Okay." She licked her lips. "But I will say thank
you, inadequate as that sounds. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. I've never
seen anyone move so fast in my life."

"Hey, if you've dealt with one Molotov cocktail, you've dealt
with them all."

"Obviously." With a pensive expression, Sabrina contemplated
the situation. "Whoever did this knew I was at your apartment."

Dylan shrugged. "According to what you told me about our
involvement being public knowledge, that could have been anyone."

"Not really. Knowing we're involved doesn't mean knowing I
spent tonight at your place."

"True. On the other hand, whoever did this might have trashed
your apartment first, then headed over to mine when he realized you weren't
home."

Sabrina's eyes widened. "I never thought of that."

"I'm sure Whitman and Barton did. They must know a lot more
than we do by now. We should talk to them, find out where things stand."

"I agree." Sabrina went to the door and croaked out a
few words to the nurse outside. "She'll send them in," she told
Dylan, before dissolving into another spasm of coughing.

"Sit down," Dylan ordered her. "And stop doing so
much talking. I'll take the lead for a change." He watched her strained,
shaky motions as she pulled over a chair, and he realized how much this ordeal
had thrown her, bravado or not. "Hey," he said, determined to lighten
the gravity of the moment. "Speaking of taking the lead, I have a bone to
pick with you."

"What?" Sabrina gave him a quizzical look as she sat
down.

"Earlier tonight, you threatened to fire me if I didn't make
love to you right away. That's sexual harassment. On the other hand, it's also
a major turn-on. So I've decided not to file charges. Instead, I've decided to
do whatever I have to, as often as I have to, and as fast as I have to, to keep
my job."

Sabrina's lips twitched. "I told you not to make me
laugh."

"Can I make you do other things instead?"

"Dylan..."

"Okay, I'll be good." He grinned, caught her fingers and
brought them to his lips. Kissing them gently, he sobered, watching her pale,
anxious expression. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," he promised
hoarsely. "Whoever did this is scared. That means they're vulnerable.
Whitman and Barton will find them."

"I hope so," she managed.

As if on cue, Jeannie and Frank strolled through the door.

"Never a dull moment with you two," Jeannie commented,
shaking her Q-tip head. "I haven't had a full night's sleep in two
weeks." She handed a shopping bag to Sabrina. "I picked these up when
we checked out your apartment. I thought you might want them. Your place is untouched,
by the way. No sign of anything, not even a jimmied door. Whoever did this went
straight to Mr. Newport's. They obviously knew you were there."

Sabrina glanced in the bag, recognized her clothes and underwear,
and gave Jeannie a grateful look. "Thank you so much," she grated
out. "I wasn't looking forward to going home... in a hospital gown."
Another bout of coughing.

"You sound lousy," Frank noted. He glanced at Dylan.
"What about you? Is the concussion too bad for you to fill in a few pieces
for us?"

"Nope," Dylan assured him. "This is one time I'm
looking forward to talking to you." Quietly, he filled the detectives in
on exactly what had happened. "My guess is that the same hired punk who
stabbed Russ, did this," he concluded. "Every street kid knows how to
make a Molotov cocktail. It doesn't take a rocket scientist. And by deciding to
handle it this way, whoever hired him could keep his own hands clean."

"I agree with you," Jeannie said. "So let's see
your theory through. Whoever hired the punk shot Carson Brooks, then paid
someone to stab Russ Clark when the poor kid uncovered some incriminating
information. Now, that head honcho is threatened by Ms. Radcliffe coming on as
company president, so he goes this route. It can't be coincidence that this
happened the night of Carson Brooks's big announcement."

"No, it can't," Dylan concurred. "But what's not
clicking for me is, what's the common denominator? What's going on at Ruisseau
that's significant enough to make someone go to these lengths?" His
expression darkened. "And please don't start on the inheritance bit again.
I'm the only one that scenario would fit. Even if you still believe I'd kill
Carson, you've got to realize that what happened tonight would kind of preclude
my chances of getting rich. Dead guys can't inherit."

Jeannie opened her mouth to reply, but Sabrina cut her off.
"Look," she croaked out. "You'd better not still be stuck on the
sick idea that Dylan's guilty...."

"Ms. Radcliffe, save your breath," Jeannie interrupted.
"We're not. Mr. Newport's not on our short list anymore."

"Gee, I'm flattered," Dylan said dryly. "And all I
had to do was almost die to get crossed off."

"No, we chucked your name a while ago." A corner of
Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Like lawyers, detectives have instincts. Ours are
usually right."

"Great. So where do your instincts go from here?"

Jeannie cleared her throat. "To a few different places. What
are your thoughts on Etienne Pruet?"

An odd expression crossed Dylan's face. "Why? He was in Paris
when Carson was shot."

"Yeah, because he was worried about C'est Moi's impact on his
business," Frank put in. "Which left his worried New York staff here,
angsting over whether or not their futures were on the line."

"That sounds kind of far-fetched," Sabrina rasped.
"To kill a competitor to slow the market penetration of his product?"

"No. To
stop
penetration of his product," Frank
corrected. "Remember, if your father was dead, no one else could duplicate
C'est Moi."

Dylan and Sabrina exchanged glances.

"Until now," Dylan informed the detectives. "Carson
shared the formula with Sabrina last week."

Jeannie's jaw tightened. "Who knows about that?"

"Just us." Sabrina's pause was uneasy. "Unless Stan
found out somehow."

"What makes you bring up Stan Hager's name?" Jeannie
jumped all over that one.

"I don't know." Sabrina shrugged. "He's just been
acting odd. Nervous, upset. Maybe he found out that Carson told me the formula
and that threw him for a loop."

"Or maybe it's more." Frank rubbed his chin.

Dylan's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we've got some things to work through. Stan Hager's
one of them. As soon as we've got our ducks in a row, we'll discuss them with
you. As for Pruet, we're meeting with him and his New York staff in a few
hours. We'll let you know how that goes."

Dylan had opened his mouth to pursue the subject, when the door
opened and the ER doctor stepped in. "How do you feel?" he asked
Dylan.

"Better."

"Good. Because there's a wheelchair on its way. When it
arrives, get in it. No arguments. Even though you're feeling stronger, I don't
want you walking yet."

"Walking where?" Dylan asked, his brows drawing together
in puzzlement.

"You and Ms. Radcliffe are taking an elevator ride."

"Why?"

The doctor sighed. "Apparently, the incident that took place
at your apartment tonight was reported on TV a few minutes ago. The early
edition business news broke it. They gave a brief overview of what happened.
And they described it as a close call for both of you."

"So?"

"So, Carson Brooks saw the TV clip. He's making a huge scene
in ICU. He won't stop bellowing until he sees for himself that you're both all
right. I told Dr. Radison I'd send you up there as soon as you felt up to it,
to calm him down."

Sabrina was already on her feet. "Poor Carson. He must be
frantic."

"The poor nurses," Dylan amended dryly. "They must
be rioting."

Jeannie looked like she was biting back laughter. "Yeah, well,
you'd better get your friend to simmer down. I've heard him when he's ticked
off, and it's not pleasant." She stepped aside as the wheelchair was brought
in.

"Oh, for God's sake, I don't need that," Dylan
protested.

"I say you do," the doctor contradicted him. "So
either you use it, or you don't go. In which case you'll help us hire new
nurses after the ICU staff quits."

"When you put it that way..." Dylan levered himself off
the examining table and maneuvered himself into the wheelchair. Actually, he
didn't mind being forced to comply. His head was still throbbing pretty badly.
And his chest stung like hell.

"The nurse is bringing in a hospital gown for you to put on.
She should be here any minute." The doctor turned to Sabrina. "Would
you like something to wear over your gown? I realize that parading around like
that doesn't do much for your modesty."

"I'd rather get dressed," Sabrina replied.
"Detective Whitman was kind enough to bring me some of my clothes. Not
only would I feel more comfortable, but Carson will be less upset if only one
of us looks like a patient."

"No arguments there." The poor doctor sounded as if he'd
try anything that might succeed in mollifying Carson. "And no problem.
You've been discharged, so there's no reason you can't get dressed. Go ahead
and change. You can use the room next door."

"Thank you."

After Sabrina had excused herself and stepped out, and the doctor
had vanished to attend to other patients, Dylan spoke up, maximizing the time
he had alone with the detectives.

"Two things before you go. First, any idea what the damage
was to my apartment? The fire department was there on a dime, but the fire was
burning like hell when the ambulance took us away."

"Your downstairs is a mess," Frank supplied. "The
hall's destroyed, and your living room furniture was charred to the point where
you might have to chuck it all. The rest of the ground floor isn't much better.
The good news is, your two upstairs levels are pretty much intact. They're
smoky, but that'll clear up with some fresh air and a cleaning service. The
downstairs you'll have to renovate."