To her surprise, a crack of laughter escaped Dylan Newport. He gave a hard, disbelieving shake of his head, rubbing the back of his neck as if to assimilate some major discovery.
"Care to share the joke with me?"
"Sorry. It's been a pretty intense day. And there's no joke. Just some unexpected enlightenment."
"You lost me."
Her guest's amusement faded, and he leaned past Sabrina to shut the door. Then, he gestured toward a chair. "Sit down, Ms. Radcliffe. The conversation we're about to have is not going to be easy."
Normally, she'd remain standing. But something in his voice made her comply.
He pulled around another chair so he could face her, lowering himself into it. "I didn't come here to hire you."
"Then why did you come?"
He interlaced his fingers, staring at them for a moment before answering. "You know a lot about Ruisseau's success. Why is that?"
Sabrina blinked. "I'm a management consultant. My clients are companies, big and small, public and private. It's my job to know what's going on in the business world. And I'd hardly say I know a lot about Ruisseau; only what's been in every financial newspaper and on every television network in the country."
"Yeah, well, check out the early morning business news tomorrow."
She jumped on that one. "Why? Will Ruisseau be a news item? Is that why you're here? Has something major happened?"
A humorless smile. "That's the understatement of the century. It's only because we called in a few favors and because we're a private company that I managed to keep things quiet until after you and I talked."
This was getting more outrageous by the minute. "Why would you need to talk to me first, especially if you don't plan to hire CCTL? Where does my company fit into all this?"
"It doesn't. You do."
Sabrina's gaze narrowed. "How? And I want an answer, not another question."
"Fine. I'll cut to the chase. The reason I'm here is because of your father."
"My..." Sabrina broke off. After all this buildup, Dylan Newport's visit was obviously a mistake. Whoever he was looking for, it wasn't her. "You've been misinformed. My father's not alive, much less affiliated with Ruisseau."
"You're wrong, Ms. Radcliffe. He's both." A resigned frown. "I was hoping this wouldn't come completely out of left field. No such luck, I see. Were you told your father is dead, or just a nonentity?"
An odd, uneasy sensation formed in the pit of Sabrina's stomach. She'd heard this song and dance before, but never from a reputable attorney, and never with such an intricate scenario to back it up. Why would Ruisseau's corporate counsel represent a two-bit hustler when there was so much at stake?
He wouldn't.
The cerebral part of her was dying of curiosity. The instinctive part wanted to tarn around and run.
She started to get up, eyeing the file Dylan Newport pulled out of his leather case. "I repeat, you're talking to the wrong person. Now if you'll excuse me..."
"Your mother's Gloria Radcliffe," he announced, stopping Sabrina in her tracks. "She's a fashion designer from a prominent Beacon Hill family. You're her only child. You were born on June third, nineteen seventy-five, at Newton-Wellesley Hospital. You blasted your way through school and, at the ungodly age of nineteen-going-on-twenty, got your degree from the Cornell School of Hotel Management. You worked in the Ritz-Carlton's management trainee program for a year, then went back and got your MBA from Harvard. For three years, you were employed at Haig, Lowell, and Fontaine—one of Boston's most renowned management consulting firms— and you were well on your way toward becoming their youngest junior partner when, a year ago, you did a one-eighty, leaving to start the Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership. At that time, you recruited top talent from all over the country to form your staff. You're quite a success story. Still think I have the wrong person?"
Slowly, Sabrina sank back down. "Okay, what's this about? Why did you dig up my entire history? Or maybe I should ask for whom? In fact, maybe I should see some identification. You claim you're a lawyer. I'm starting to think you're a PI."
"I'm not. If I were, I'd be handling this conversation better." He pulled out his license and company ID, handing both to her. "Proof enough?"
Sabrina skimmed them, then handed them back. "Fine. You are who you say you are. That still doesn't explain..."
"How much do you know about your father?" he interrupted. "Or, more to the point, the details surrounding his becoming your father?"
The way he said that—she had a gut feeling he had facts to back up his allegations. So, obviously, did whoever had sent him. They knew exactly how she'd been conceived. Which explained the way Dylan Newport was staring at her, as if he were checking for some resemblance, something concrete to lend credibility to his client's claim.
Still, she could be wrong. This could be nothing more than another run-of-the-mill case of a con artist who assumed she was the product of a one-night-stand, and was looking for a windfall. An incredibly good con artist, if he'd convinced Dylan Newport to represent him.