Scent of Danger

West 73rd Street

Muttering a few choice curses under his breath, Carson tossed the pile of contracts, specifications, and Internet printouts across the coffee table in Sabrina's living room, and leaned back on the sofa.

"I don't believe this," he muttered, linking his fingers behind his head. "And I thought running a corporation was hard? This isn't a wedding; it's a fucking conspiracy planned by pompous, cutthroat lunatics. Worse, they're all delusional enough to believe they're visionaries. Wedding planners who want to color-coordinate flowers and bathroom accoutrements? What the hell's a bathroom accoutrement, anyway—toilet paper? How about white? That goes with everything, including your gown. And that's just the flowers and the other artsy touches she's proposed. We've also got an orchestra that can change gears so fast—from Sinatra to hip-hop—that I'm convinced they're on drugs, an egocentric photographer and videographer who are like two male turkeys—I know in my gut that in the middle of the reception they're gonna start beating the crap out of each other fighting for center stage—a centerpiece designer who thinks she's Michelangelo, and volatile bridesmaids who have perpetual PMS and can't even agree on the same pair of Donna Karan panty hose. Jesus Christ."

He reached for his bottled water, took a long, cold swig. "Here's an idea. Let's chuck the whole wedding coordinator thing. I'll walk you down the aisle and give you to that incredibly tolerant guy over there who's held up through this insanity a helluva lot better than I have." Carson pointed at Dylan, who was standing at the sideboard, enjoying his friend's outburst. "After that, you can say a few mushy words, exchange vows and rings, hang around long enough for one dance with your husband and one with me, and then go upstairs for the good part. I hear the toilet paper in the honeymoon suite is fabulous."

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, paperwork sprawled out all around her, Sabrina burst out laughing. "You know you wouldn't have to twist my arm to get me to go along with you. That woman's driving me nuts, too. But we agreed to make this one concession for my grandparents. According to them, everybody who's anybody has Lilah Wellington do their wedding. She's the most sought-after wedding planner in the business."

"She might be sought-after. But she's certifiable."

"Eccentric," Sabrina corrected, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Just eccentric. And remember, at least she thinks the grand ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria has the right feel. Otherwise, we couldn't have the reception there."

"We need to have the reception there. It's got to be somewhere big enough to hold the four hundred guests your grandparents are probably going to come up with, plus the two hundred fifty we've put together. I can't wait to hear the grand total."

"Seven hundred seventy-two," Gloria announced, hanging up the phone. "That would be the grand total. My parents just finished cutting down their list to five hundred twenty-two, thanks to the seventeen couples who will be abroad during the last week of June. Other- wise, we'd be topping eight hundred." Her forehead creased in concentration as she scanned the list. Walking over to the sofa, she sank down next to Carson. "Anyway, we can call in our final count, so the invitations will be printed and ready for the calligrapher to address them. They'll be mailed out in four weeks."

Carson hadn't heard a word after the first sentence. He'd whipped around to face Gloria, his jaw dropping. "Did you say five hundred twenty-two people?"

"Um-hum." Gloria's lips twitched. "I'll kick in some extra cash, if you're running low."

"Cash isn't my problem. Space is. I don't need money. I need Shea Stadium."

"The Waldorf's equipped to handle well over a thousand guests."

"So's the Javits Center. But this is a wedding, not a convention."

"There, there." Gloria patted his arm in mock comfort. "Look at the bright side of having this huge affair."

"What bright side? All I want is to see these two happily married and figuring out how many grandchildren they're going to give us."

Gloria swallowed her grin. "To begin with—sales. Profits. Ruisseau's, the Gloria Radcliffe fashion fine's, and CCTL's. They've skyrocketed, thanks to all the publicity surrounding this wedding. Ever since Dylan's Central Park proposal, both our families and companies have dominated the social and business headlines. As a result, C'est Moi for men burst on the scene and squashed the competition, my spring and summer lines have sold like there's no tomorrow, and CCTL has had to double its staff to accommodate all its new corporate clients. As for you and me, why, we're being credited with creating and inspiring the love match of the century—Sabrina and Dylan. The media spotlight is bright, their spin is positive—why, even my parents are starting to like you."

Carson shot her a skeptical look. "Don't get carried away. Your parents don't like me. We tolerate each other."

"Fine. You tolerate each other. That's still an improvement."

"Yeah. When we first met, they looked at me like I was an ax murderer. Not that I blame them. It was right after the transplant surgery. I was the reason Sabrina went through that ordeal."

He fell silent for a moment, remembering the tension-filled Christmas season of a few short months ago. Between Susan's conviction, his own struggle back to health, and his harsh realization that his kidneys weren't going to rally on their own, it had been one dark, hellish time. The thought of relying on hemodialysis three times a week for the rest of his life—it sucked. He wanted his life back. He needed his life back. Christmas and all the joyous spirit it conveyed had been the farthest thing from his mind.

Except that Santa Claus had arrived in the form of an extraordinary young woman who happened to be his daughter.

There was no talking Sabrina out of the transplant. She was hell-bent on seeing it through. And she had.

Luckily, she'd been able to undergo the laparoscopic procedure, which had kept her risks minimal, her recovery time shorter, and her incisions minor. She'd also been able to keep the rib that the surgeon would have had to remove had the conventional surgery been necessary. Still, she'd given up one of her organs. She'd been in the operating room for four hours, not counting prep time and recovery time. That was twice as long as his transplant recipient surgery had been. As far as he was concerned, that was damned unfair. As far as Abigail and Charles Radcliffe were concerned, it was abominable.

He understood where they were coming from. He felt for them. He felt with them.

Maybe, in the long run, that's what had finally turned things around. Maybe it was seeing how much he cared about their granddaughter that had made them thaw a tiny bit. Maybe they'd finally realized he wasn't just an anonymous sperm donor. Not anymore. Now he was a father.

"Hey." Sabrina scooted over on the area rug and nudged Carson's leg. "Stop brooding. The transplant's ancient history now. You've had my kidney for over three months. A damned fine kidney, too, if I must say so myself. And a match made in heaven. You and I might kill each other in the boardroom, but our kidneys are as compatible as bread and butter. Not the slightest sign of rejection. You're doing great. I'm doing great. Sales are doing great. My grandparents stopped worrying a long time ago. And they're so into this wedding thing—not to mention the oohs and ahs they're getting from their socially prominent friends—that they've forgotten all about the negative publicity from last fall. They're really strutting their stuff. Which is why we're going along with Lilah Wellington, and the aura she wants to create for our special day." Sabrina rol

led her eyes, then scooped up the pages Carson had tossed on the coffee table. "So let's get on with our next decision—the cake. Lilah wasn't wild about the milk chocolate mousse filling we selected. She thinks it conflicts with our aura. She wants us to go with dark chocolate."

Carson groaned, flinging an arm over his eyes. "I give up."

"But there's good news," Dylan consoled him, strolling over to stand behind Sabrina. "She's crazy about the tuxes we picked out." A corner of his mouth lifted. "They're in sync with the feel of the Waldorf."