Scent of Danger

"Sabrina—wait."

The imperative tone of his voice stopped her in her tracks, and she turned slowly to face him.

"I lost control a few minutes ago," he stated flatly. "I wanted you so much I was blind with it, oblivious to everything except getting you in that bed. I would have chucked aside all the rules. I would have blocked out all the complications. I would have done anything to get inside you. That's never happened to me before. Not in thirty-five years. It

blows my mind that it could happen in an instant, with a woman who's so off-limits, it's not even funny—a woman I met two days ago under the worst possible circumstances. It blows my mind more that I can't wait for it to happen again—and it will, unless you've got a hell of a lot more willpower than I do. So, like I said, I'm glad you 're fine. But I'm not."

Sabrina wished Dylan's words didn't make her feel so damned good. But they did. She knew the wine had loosened his tongue. But she also knew the explanation was genuine. The fact that he was not only as caught up in the chemistry between them as she was, but as startled by its intensity—and as unable to ignore or erase it—made the turmoil she was experiencing a whole lot more bearable.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Dylan demanded.

"Something honest, you mean?" She gave him a half-smile. "Fair enough. Here goes. Maybe I'm not that fine. I'm not sure what I am. I haven't had a coherent thought in the past half hour. When I do, I'm sure I'll be as freaked out as you are by what all this means, the complications it's going to create or worsen. But right now, all I can manage is to walk out of here, get into that limo, and try to behave like a normal, rational human being—one who didn't just lose all sense of reason and act so out of character it's incomprehensible. I've got to put what just happened between us away while I deal with my mother and then educate myself about Ruisseau."

Her smile faded, and she gave voice to a truth she knew Dylan would understand—one that was rooted in a sentiment the two of them shared. "Tomorrow morning when I walk into that office, I've got to come off like gangbusters. Nothing less. Carson's counting on me. And I refuse to disappoint him."

"You won't. If I'm sure of anything, it's that." Dylan's half-laugh was filled with irony rather than humor. "Bizarre, isn't it? I'd never have believed I'd say that, much less feel confident that it's true. But after watching you when you're with him, seeing the way you two connect, and then listening to what you told me tonight..." Pausing, Dylan cleared his throat, then finished his thought with simple, fervent directness. "I said you were lucky to have Carson as a father. I'm beginning to think he's equally lucky to have you as a daughter."

To Sabrina's astonishment, she felt tears burn behind her eyes. She made no move to disguise them, distinctly aware that she was breaking one of her own cardinal rules, one she'd learned early on in her career: Never let your vulnerability show; never reveal a glimpse of your soft underbelly. Adhering to that rule now seemed, somehow, trite and unworthy—both to Carson and to Dylan.

She swallowed, her voice a little choked as she replied. "You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that." She gave Dylan the candor he deserved. "Especially now, when I'm scared to death about what lies ahead. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. And don't be scared." Dylan watched the play of emotions on her face, and his gaze darkened. Sabrina knew in her gut that he was wrestling with the desire to cross over and pull her into his arms. She also knew that if he did, she'd have to fight like hell not to give in. She'd want to. She already wanted to. But if she did, all the complications they'd alluded to would come crashing in on them without ever having been assessed.

In the end, he stayed where he was, although the sparks flying between them were electric. "Take dinner in your stride," he advised quietly. "As for tomorrow..." He raised his empty goblet in a toast. "There's no doubt about the way your Ruisseau debut will play out. You're going to knock 'em dead."

9:30 P.M.

Middle Village, Queens

As he trudged home to his tiny apartment, Russ asked himself for the hundredth time what his best course of action was. Going to the cops was out. Mr. Brooks was very loyal. He'd want to handle this himself first. Besides, Russ didn't have the proof in his hands. Taking it would have been too risky. As it was, he'd stayed two hours later than usual. He'd dug through the accounting files as fast as he could. What he'd really wanted was to access the computer, where he'd probably find a whole lot more, but he didn't know the department's password and he didn't have time to fiddle around guessing.

It didn't matter. He'd seen enough. Too much. He knew that being a good investigative reporter meant having thick skin, but that wouldn't work. Not this time. It just felt too personal.

He turned down a side street, head bent as he wrestled with his choices. Mr. Brooks was still really bad off in the hospital. He wanted to go to him directly, but he couldn't. The next logical choice was Mr. Newport. He could go to him first thing tomorrow, tell him everything. Then, it would up to Mr. Newport to make the decision. That approach sucked, too, because Mr. Newport had enough to deal with. He and Mr. Brooks went way back. And he was really messed up about Mr. Brooks getting shot. Still, he, of all people, would know what to do. And he'd want to know.

But, boy, was this a mess. And once it was out—well, the shit was really going to hit the fan.

Russ never saw the figure huddled in the alley near his apartment.

There was the slightest rustle as it stepped out of the shadows and came up behind him. There was no forewarning, only a stark sense of realization and a blind, searing pain as the blade plunged into his back.

He crumpled and fell to the pavement.

The assailant rifled his pockets, took the money clip and the Seiko watch, even though neither were worth the trouble. But it had to look like a burglary.

Leaving Russ in a growing pool of blood, the figure vanished into the night.

CHAPTER 16

9:35 P.M.

Plaza Athenée

Sabrina hurried through the lobby. Shrugging out of her jacket, she paused to tell the concierge she'd be checking out of the hotel this evening and to make the necessary arrangements. She then went straight to the lounge, mentally rehearsing what she would—and wouldn't—share with her mother tonight.

The "wouldn't" was Dylan. It was too soon, there were too many if s, and she was too confused.

For now, she'd stick to the facts. There was more than enough drama in those.