Scent of Danger

Carson exhaled sharply. "When are you flying down?"

"When my parents either calm down or agree to join me. Right now, they've got an army of friends who want answers. The head of their damned country club even called. It's like Peyton Place revisited. It brings to mind all the reasons why I left Beacon Hill."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just get well," Gloria said quietly. "Soon. Sabrina's going to need you, and not just at work. I didn't meet Dylan Newport yet, but I intend to, the minute I get back to New York. I've been paying attention to that personal situation you hinted about..."

"And?"

"And you're definitely onto something. When Sabrina called before... let's just say that, killer day or not, she was very relieved that Dylan was with her. It was nothing she said, just her tone. The same tone I've been hearing all week. Sabrina's not the mushy type, or at least she never was till now. Something's brewing. And that something is Dylan. In which case—let's just say I'd be as thrilled as you if our daughter's heart led her to follow a traditional path."

"Like down an aisle?"

"Um-hum. And if that happens, guess who's got to be strong enough to be her escort?" Gloria sounded as if the one bright spot in her life right now was the fact that Sabrina might have found her key to happiness. "Like I said, she's going to need you. So get well soon."

"Count on it," Carson assured her. "In the meantime, when things get tough over the next few days, soothe yourself with the fact that you and I are going to have some amazing grandchildren in the not-too-distant-future."

A slight chuckle. "I'll do that."

"Stay in touch."

"I will."

Carson placed the phone back in its cradle. He stared broodingly at it, wishing like hell he could get out of this goddamned hospital bed and move life's events along— on the investigation front, on Sabrina and Dylan's courtship front. He needed to be in control, to make things happen. This whole victim routine—lying here, doing nothing—it was killing him. His fists clenched at his sides, as he fought the incredible sense of pent-up frustration and impotence.

"Hey." Susan unclenched one of his fists, and interlaced her fingers with his. "Everything will work out. You'll see."

"Yeah, I know," he replied with a scowl. "But it would work out a helluva lot faster if I were the one running the show."

"You will be. Before you know it, this whole ordeal will be over and you'll be in control again."

"That's not good enough." His scowl deepened. "Time's not on our side. I've got this bad feeling. It keeps nagging at my gut. I don't know what it means. But I don't like it."

11:35 P.M.

Yonkers, New York

The garden apartments were on the Yonkers-Tuckahoe border, a nice area in Westchester County to call home. The buildings were brick, modern, but with a homey touch. Set back from the main road, they were hidden by a line of pine trees, planted to ensure the privacy of the tenants. The apartments weren't inordinately expensive, not by today's standards, but they were tasteful, with manicured grounds, an outdoor swimming pool, and a small tennis court reserved for residents only. As for the tenants themselves, they were, by-and-large, in their thirties and forties, upwardly mobile and financially comfortable. Many of them commuted daily to Manhattan, hopping on the train and riding the short distance on Metro North to Grand Central Station.

For a single woman like Karen Shepard, who spent most of her life at the office, building a solid foundation in a solid corporation, and the rest of her time with friends or at the gym, it was a great place to live. Especially since she wanted to keep a low profile, to live somewhere where the tenants came home tired and late, and were, on the whole, too wrapped up in their own lives to pry into hers. That way, Stan could drop by and spend two or three nights a week in her bed—during both his married and his unmarried years—without anyone noticing or, quite frankly, caring.

It was a great arrangement for them both.

Except that when Stan veered into the parking lot that night, he felt anything but great.

He jumped out of his car and made his way to the double glass doors outside Karen's building. Impatiently, he pressed the bu

tton marked 3F, and paced around, waiting.

The answering buzzer sounded.

He grabbed the door, yanked it open, and tore through the lobby and up the stairs like gangbusters.

She was expecting him. He'd called her earlier this evening to say he was coming, then again from the car to let her know he was on his way. They hadn't originally made plans to see each other tonight. But after his late-day interrogation—which had thrown him so badly he'd puked up his lunch—their getting together was a necessity. And not just for sexual pleasure or mutual gain. For survival.

Karen opened the door the minute she heard Stan's footsteps, stepped aside to let him in. He blew by her, wired to the hilt. Even so, he felt that sharp jolt of sexual awareness he always felt in her presence, the same pull that had drawn them together the first time they'd met, and still made him hard the minute he saw her. Even at a time like this, when his life was in chaos and his ulcer was about to eat him alive, she got to him.

She looked sensational, as always, her honey-brown hair loose and silky, curling around her shoulders as if to embrace them. Her robe was a delicate Chinese print, belted around her slender waist, concealing every inch of that incredible skin he couldn't get enough of. Her dark eyes were filled with questions as she shut the door behind him.