Scent of Danger

Hey, she might've left the rat race a few years back, but she hadn't forgotten how to run.

A bing and an illuminated number 12 heralded Sabrina's arrival at her destination. She sucked in her breath. Here goes, she thought.

The doors slid open.

She stepped out, making her way through the polished hallway to the sweeping oval reception desk. It was too early for the receptionist to be in, but a security guard, no doubt posted as a result of Carson's assault, stood beside the double doors leading to the interior offices.

"May I help you?" he inquired.

"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe. Mr. Hager is expecting me."

He glanced at his clipboard, and gave a terse nod. "Just a moment." Reaching over, he scooped up the phone, pressed an extension. "Ms. Radcliffe is here." A pause. "Very good." He hung up. "Someone will be right out."

Sabrina nodded. Placing her briefcase on the arm of a chair, she took in her surroundings. The broad expanse of wall space was filled with murals featuring perfume ads, touting all the different Ruisseau brands, together with glowing testimonials to C'est Moi from various television personalities and high-profile sports figures. In the center of the room was a stunning, fully-enclosed glass display case, filled with an array of elegant perfume bottles containing various Ruisseau fragrances. The bottles were positioned just so, artistically arranged at different angles, all on a cashmere tapestry that was draped along the full length of the display.

Very classy.

On top of the glass case sat several perfume samples—including, of course, a bottle of C'est Moi—for visitors to experiment with while they waited.

Shrewd marketing approach.

All in all, this room worked perfectly, setting the stage with the elegance and sensory appeal Ruisseau was known for.

Sabrina picked up the bottle of C'est Moi, studied its sensual lines. A bottle as sexy as its scent. Curious, she

tugged off the cap, and sprayed some perfume on her wrist. She'd seen its components, witnessed the chemical process, even smelled the floral ingredients. But she'd never tested the final product.

She waved her wrist around, then brought it to her nose. Wow. Quite a sensory experience. Musky and mysterious, but ultra-feminine, lightly floral, alluringly spicy. No wonder it was such a turn-on.

The double doors swung open, but rather than Stan or his secretary, it was Dylan who strode out to greet her.

Sabrina set down the bottle and blinked in surprise, not only at Dylan's presence, but at Dylan period.

No casual attire today. Unlike his usual blazer and slacks, today Dylan was wearing an expensive Italian suit and silk tie—and wearing them well. Funny, how she'd first thought of him as strictly a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Dylan Newport was anything and everything he chose to be.

And today what he chose to be—besides more formally dressed—was a stony-faced bulldozer, bearing down on her with ripping intensity.

"Good morning," he said curtly. "I'm glad you're early."

Rather than being offended, Sabrina felt a pang of uneasiness. The combination of Dylan's tone and the tight control he was obviously exerting over himself—he wasn't being rude; he was unnerved. Something was wrong.

"Good morning," she replied, searching his face for answers. "I thought Stan was going to..."

"Let's go to my office." He was already on his way, urging her through the double doors, then leading her down a quiet corridor. He reached a large corner office— his obviously, given that it boasted the brass plate engraved, "Dylan Newport, Corporate Counsel" that he'd described to her—and he paused in the open doorway, gesturing for her to precede him.

The office was very Dylan: unpretentious, uncluttered, and unstuffy. The furniture was teak, all simple lines and clean surfaces from the desk to the sideboard. One entire wall was filled with open bookshelves stacked with official-looking legal volumes. The room's only adornments were a few pieces of modern pottery on the side tables in the conference area. No expensive knick-knacks, no pretentious artwork on the walls, no intimidating LLD diplomas. Yup, this was Dylan Newport, all the way.

Sabrina took a few steps into the office, dropped her briefcase and turned to face him. "Something's wrong," she stated the minute he'd shut the door. "What is it? Is it Carson?"

"No." Dylan rubbed the back of his neck, his features taut with strain. "It's Russ Clark, one of our interns. He was stabbed to death outside his apartment last night."

"Oh my God." Sabrina pressed a palm to her mouth. "What were the circumstances?"

"There weren't any. No fight, no witnesses, nothing. His watch and money clip were missing."

"So it was a robbery?"

Dylan gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Right. I'd be surprised if Russ had more than twenty dollars on him. And his watch—if I remember correctly it was about five years old and worth nothing great when it was new. The kid was twenty-one. He lived in a working class area of Queens. He was busting his ass to get through college. Carson was helping him with scholarship money. Russ worked like a beaver and never complained—long hours, weekends, he did whatever was asked of him. He was one of Carson's favorites. He had spunk. And he worshiped the ground Carson walked on. Now suddenly he's killed three days after Carson was shot." Dylan's expression was angry and pained. "Does that sound like a coincidence to you?"