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Jesus, he thought, turning to face her. Between her pristine attire and that wide-eyed expression, she looked more like a young virgin on her wedding night than a forty-one-year-old woman who'd been his lover for nearly two decades and was practically insatiable in bed.
"What is it?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You sounded terrible on the phone. And you look worse." She sized him up for another instant, then headed over to her sideboard. "I'll make you a drink. Sit down and tell me what's going on."
"Sit down? Forget it. I can barely stand still. But I'll take the drink—a couple of them, in fact."
She poured him a shot of bourbon, and handed it to him. "One's enough. Unless you're spending the night. I don't want you driving home drunk. Can you stay?"
His brows rose as he tossed down the shot. "When have I ever been able to say no to that invitation?"
"Never," she replied frankly. "At least not till now. But tonight... something's very wrong."
"Yeah. Very wrong." He put down the glass, rubbed his forehead.
Karen watched him, more worried about his state of mind than whatever had caused it. "Stan." She walked over, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. "Whatever crisis has you so frantic, let it wait a few minutes. You need to unwind."
He made a pained sound, pulled her against him like a drowning man. "I'm not sure that's possible. I feel like a cornered rat."
"Oh, it's possible." She kissed his neck, molded herself to him until his body responded, his erection pulsing against her. "As for how you feel, I'd say you feel pretty damned good. Tense, but good. Whatever's gnawing at you, let me make it go away for a little while."
She knew what his answer would be. It always was. When it came to each other, neither of them was capable of saying no.
Stan was already unbelting her robe, pulling her toward the bedroom as he did. He pushed the garment off her shoulders, stripping off his own clothes as she lay back on the bed, waiting for him.
He took her with an intensity that bordered on violence. Afterward, he rolled away, flung an arm across his eyes, and lay there, his breathing ragged.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to be so rough."
"Don't apologize." Still breathless herself, Karen propped herself up on one elbow. "That's one thing that you, of all men, never need to do—at least not in bed. You're an incredible lover. I don't need to tell you that. And you weren't rough; you were desperate."
"Desperate. Yeah, that's a good word for it."
"Is it Carson's announcement? I saw the clips on TV. I can't imagine the news came as a surprise to you. From the hints you've been dropping, I realized something big was in the works. You must have known Sabrina Radcliffe was Carson's daughter."
"Yup, I knew," he confirmed grimly.
"So why are you so freaked out? Is it the media? Are they jumping all over you?"
"No, Karen, they don't give a rat's ass about me. It's Sabrina they're interested in."
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "What's the problem then?"
He moved his arm away from his eyes, angling his head to face her. "The problem is, the press might not find me fascinating. But the cops do."
Karen frowned. "More so than before?"
"Oh, yeah. Barton and Whitman were in my face today, and, boy, did the gloves come off."
"They came to Ruisseau just to see you?"
"No. Evidently, Carson asked them to show up for the meeting, to make sure the press didn't bug Sabrina. And to make sure no one took a shot at her, would be my guess." He blew out his breath. "Anyway, they arrived at Ruisseau a good hour before the meeting. First, they paid a surprise visit to Ferguson, who's already sweating bullets. He fell all over himself saying he knew nothing about my personal life. In his frenzy to avoid mentioning what he knew about you and me, he told them everything else."
"What's everything else?"
"Oh, the fact that I'm a workaholic, the fact that Carson's tweaking the customary chain of command by having the company president report to the CEO rather than the COO. Oh, and the fact that I'm so dedicated to my career that the only recreational activity I have is my twice-a-week target practice."
Karen digested that thoughtfully. "Okay, fine. So what? None of that's a secret. Everyone who knows you knows you're a workaholic. Carson's decision to have Sabrina report to him isn't really such a reach. She is his daughter. As for the fact that you enjoy target practice, that's common knowledge, too. Carson's certainly aware of your trips to the shooting range in Yonkers. So Roland didn't really do much harm. I know you're worried he'll cave under pressure. So why don't you just give him a bottle of Valium and send him on vacation? The police won't care if he leaves New York. He has an alibi for last Monday night."
"He might. But I don't," Stan reminded her. "None I can share without incriminating myself. As for what was and wasn't a secret, all but the workaholic part was news to Barton and Whitman. They didn't know Carson was bypassing me on the corporate ladder. And they sure as hell didn't know I'm a crackerjack shot. To them, it looks like Carson doesn't trust me, and that I kept my shooting skills a secret for some sinister reason. They came marching over to my office and closeted themselves in there for forty-five excruciating minutes." A muscle in his jaw flexed. "They brought up Russ Clark, wondered if I had any idea what dirty business dealings he might have uncovered at Ruisseau that would make someone kill him."
