Scent of Danger

"Briefly, yes. I'll fill you in on where and when after I meet with Mr. Newport." Sabrina gestured for Dylan to accompany her into her office. "Hold all my calls," she instructed Melissa. "I'm out to everyone except my mother."

Dylan followed her into the office and shut the door behind him. "You decided to come to New York," he stated flatly, seeking the confirmation he needed.

Sabrina poured herself a glass of water, taking a few bolstering swallows before she turned to face Dylan. "Yes, I did." She set down the glass, tracing the rim with her fingertip. "I caught the business news this morning. His condition sounds iffy. I want to meet him. That's all I'm committing to for now."

"Fine," Dylan replied. It wasn't really, b

ut it was a start. Meeting Carson was the first step toward helping him.

"I've got a few loose ends to tie up," Sabrina continued, feathering her fingers through her hair in a weary gesture. "Then, I'll throw some things in a bag. Give me fifteen minutes. There's a ten forty-five flight that gets into LaGuardia at noon. Will that work?"

"Yeah, it'll work." Dylan cleared his throat. Despite his relief over her decision, he couldn't help feeling responsible for the emotional chaos he'd thrust into her life. Getting into this with her mother couldn't have been pleasant. And now—facade or not, she looked pale and faraway. "Are you okay?"

"As okay as you'd expect." Her chin came up—a clear indication that she wasn't about to lower her guard. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Newport. I hold up well under pressure. Besides, it's not me I'm concerned with. It's my family. I'm trying to think of ways to keep the press from jumping all over this."

"You could start by calling me Dylan."

As intended, his abrupt change in subject and tone came at her out of left field, rattling her facade, if not lowering it. She blinked, eyeing him warily. "And how exactly would that help?"

He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "You just said that your trip to New York, at least for the time being, is purely to meet Carson. That won't necessitate a disclosure of your biological ties to him. So, whatever media's hanging around Mount Sinai won't have the slightest idea who you are or why you're there. They'll just see you with me and assume we're friends—unless you raise a red flag by referring to me as Mr. Newport, that is."

Sabrina's brows rose. "Why do I get the feeling that the business correspondents of the world are used to seeing you with women—and not the kind the tabloids would label as friends?"

"Colleagues then," Dylan suggested, sidestepping that loaded question. "If anyone asks about you, I'll say you're a management consultant assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."

"Very smooth. Quick, too. You must be a real asset— Dylan. It's no wonder Carson Brooks hired you."

He found himself grinning. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Do that." There was a challenging light in her eyes, one Dylan suspected was an integral part of her. Verbal sparring, winning—he recognized the traits.

"I'll leave you to get your professional life in order," he said, reaching for the door. "I'll take care of the travel arrangements. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes."

"Melissa will take care of our travel plans. She knows what hotel to book for me. And I guarantee you, she's more efficient at organizing itineraries than you are."

Another attempt at retaining the upper hand.

Dylan couldn't help himself. When it came to a challenge, he was too used to rising to the bait. "I don't doubt that she is," he acknowledged smoothly. "Shall I stop at her desk on my way out? I can relay our plans and confirm that I slept alone last night." One dark brow rose. "As opposed to with you, I assume?"

A slight flush stained Sabrina's cheeks—her only overt reaction to his provocative remark. "Something like that. If I remember correctly, she said you were hot. She also said you weren't my type. She was right."

"About which?"

"The latter. Which makes me unqualified to answer the former."

Dylan's lips twitched. She was good. Very good. Carson would be proud. "Touché" He opened the door. "We'll continue this battle of wits on the plane. For now, let's call it a draw." He paused, speaking bluntly and without forethought. "You're going to like him, you know. I realize you don't want to. But you will."

CHAPTER 7

10:05 A.M.

Mt. Sinai ICU

Jeannie and Frank were frustrated.

After waiting forever for the go-ahead from Dr. Radison, they'd finally gotten in to see Carson Brooks—for a five-minute session max, given how touch-and-go his condition still was. He was wiped out from the extensive testing he'd undergone, as well as from the possible infection indicated by the increased fluids present in his chest. His voice was raspy and irritated from the endotracheal tube, and his breathing wasn't great on its own. He was weak as a kitten—hardly up for a pointed interrogation session. And whenever they asked about specific Ruisseau employees, he became agitated. Especially if the question happened to involve Dylan Newport.

In short, three of their five minutes were gone and they'd learned absolutely nothing of value.