Scent of Danger

"Is your place similar to mine?"

"In a lot of ways, yeah." Dylan dropped into the opposite chair. "It's a brownstone, too, although the layout's a little different. I'm also a little further west than you are, so I'm close to Riverside Drive and Riverside Park, which is great for when I want to clear my head with a morning run."

"That's right. The park. I'll have to remember that." Sabrina sighed. "I've been skipping my early morning yoga routine. Probably because Melissa's not here to play Jiminy Cricket. Although I'm not even sure that having a relentless conscience like Melissa would help. I need to be able to clear my mind to get the benefits of yoga. And these days—I can't."

"No surprise there." Dylan leaned forward, eyeing her speculatively. "Was last night's dinner with yo

ur mother very difficult?"

"Actually, no." Sabrina was touched by the genuine concern in Dylan's tone. Was this the same man who'd said he had trouble mustering sympathy for her? "Other than the fact that Detectives Whitman and Barton were with her when I arrived. That was awkward."

"You're kidding. They actually came to her hotel to interrogate her the minute she checked in?"

"No, nothing that tacky. It was my mother who called them. She knew they had questions for her. She had a chunk of time to kill before I met her for dinner. So she used that time to meet with them."

"And?"

"And they got their answers, including an alibi. After that, they left us to enjoy our dinner."

"Good. So how did she react to your latest news?"

"She was very supportive, even more so than I expected. She encouraged me to get to know Carson, and she was excited about my taking on the presidency of Ruisseau." A troubled frown. "Of course, my grandparents are another story. I still have their reaction to contend with."

Dylan's forehead creased, more in puzzlement than in censure. "If status means so much to them, wouldn't your becoming president of a successful, high-profile company like Ruisseau make them happy?"

"If that's all that was involved, yes, they'd be thrilled. The problem is that that part of the equation is the result, not the entirety. First, the media would have to sink their teeth into the guts of the story—the donor insemination, the whole who-found-out-what-and-when, the how-do-you-feel-about-this angle. There'll be mikes shoved in my grandparents' faces, tabloid reporters hanging around their house, embarrassing them in front of their friends." Abruptly, Sabrina realized how inane this explanation must sound to Dylan, and she paused, studying his expression.

He was watching her intently. But whether he was assimilating or appalled, she wasn't sure.

"Before you judge my grandparents, hear me out, and try to keep an open mind," she requested. "Yes, they're snobs. I won't argue that. They're also well into their eighties. If donor insemination sounded extreme to them twenty-eight years ago, you can imagine how they feel about it now. As for the scandal, they're not as strong as they used to be. Being hounded by reporters, having their lives disrupted, it's going to be hard on them. My only prayer is that their health isn't affected. And speaking of health, that's the biggest factor here— me. I'm my grandparents' soft spot. It's been that way since I was born. They love me deeply. The prospect of my facing surgery, giving up one of my organs... they'll be frantic, prisoners to their worst fears. All they'll be able to focus on are the possible complications, the what-if's. And, yes, I feel guilty for putting them through that."

Dylan took a swallow of coffee, and Sabrina could see that his wheels were turning.

"I never thought about it from that perspective," he said at last. "I'm not exactly experienced with various levels of family commitment. I understand loyalty and caring. But the rest—sensitivity to fears and weaknesses—that's all new to me."

"Probably because Carson doesn't have any."

"None that he lets anyone see," Dylan corrected. "At least until now. He's changed this past week. Partly because of his close brush with death, and partly because you came into bis life."

"That goes both ways. I've changed, too. So, for that matter, have you. Your open-mindedness about my grandparents just now proves it." Sabrina weighed her next words carefully. "You undersell yourself. You're a lot more sensitive than you think."

"Sensitive?" Dylan looked amused. "Somehow that's not a trait I'd ascribe to myself."

"Let's say you're learning. Who knows? There might be hope for you yet."

He flashed her that lopsided smile. "Is that a professional evaluation?"

"Yup."

"You're going to be hard-pressed getting the rest of the world to believe you." His own quip caused a kind of pained resentment to tighten his features, and he finished his thought aloud, more to himself than to her. "Especially our detective friends. They think I'm a prime suspect for cold-blooded murder."

If Dylan expected her to be shocked by his revelation, he was about to find out otherwise.

"Maybe they used to think that," Sabrina informed him. "Not anymore. Not if I got through to them. Which I think I did. I didn't mince words. I was pretty damned persuasive. Between that, and the fact that I'd have no reason to lie, I think they'll change their tune. Or at least they'll give credence to my opinion."

"What are you talking about?" Dylan demanded, with a baffled stare. "Got through to them about what?"

Sabrina took another sip of coffee, offhandedly replying, "When they questioned me the other day, they dropped a few pointed comments implying they had then-eye on you. I forced the details out of them by reminding them I was Carson Brooks's daughter and had every right to know the status of the investigation. When I got my answer, I blasted them."