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"You're representing a man with an alleged claim," she stated, testing the waters. "Is your client going after my mother? Because if he is, it won't work. My mother's got an amazing memory for the men she's been involved with. This hoax has been tried before—my long-lost father showing up, trying to extort money from my family—and he and his lawyer have been slapped with lawsuits so big they'd make your head spin. Although, I must say, I'm surprised that an attorney of your standing could be so easily duped. Or that you'd stoop so low and risk so much."
"Hold it." Dylan Newport shook his head. "There's no alleged claim. And I'm certainly not going after your mother, or anyone else in your family. I'm just trying to get a handle on how much of the truth you've been told."
"You tell me."
"Fine. You were conceived through donor insemination. You never met your biological father. Is that consistent with the information you've been given?"
So she'd been right. He did have the facts.
Sabrina's eyes glittered. "It is. It's also a private aspect of my life—not one I'm ashamed of, by the way, but one I don't discuss with strangers. I must say you've gone to great lengths, Mr. Newport. Prying into confidential medical records, divulging that information—you've already given me grounds to have you disbarred. Keep talking and we'll add charges of extortion and fraud to invasion of privacy. Try leaking this bogus claim to the news—and you'll be spending time in jail."
"Thanks for the warning." Dylan Newport's unflinching stare said that none of her threats were news to him. And, in spite of it, he was still pushing ahead with this.
Why?
The obvious answer was that whatever he was about to tell her was true. And damned important to the higher-ups at Ruisseau.
The pit in Sabrina's stomach became a full-fledged knot.
"Your assessment is right," he was continuing. "At least partly right. You'd get me on the invasion of privacy charge. Add emotional distress, for that matter. But you'd lose on extortion and fraud. Because I don't want money, and the claim I'm making isn't bogus. It's real. The fact that I'm willing to go to these ex
tremes despite the risk should tell you that."
"Fine." Sabrina acknowledged his claim with a tight nod. "So you know whose sperm was half-responsible for my conception. Congratulations. Now comes the bad news. You've conducted this whole extensive, shady investigation for nothing. I'm not interested in learning the donor's name or anything about him. Not now. Not ever."
"Yeah, I picked up on that."
"Then why are you pursuing this?"
"Because I have no choice."
"There's always a choice."
"Not in this case. A man's life depends on it. He could die. He means as much to me as if he were my father. As luck would have it, he's yours."
"Die?" Another jolt out of left field. Sabrina's mind had been going down the corporate path, assuming that Dylan Newport was bailing out some company exec who was being blackmailed with this juicy scandal. But life and death? That steered things in a whole different direction.
Sabrina's shoulders lifted in a baffled shrug. "Are you suggesting this man is terminally ill and thinks meeting me will help?"
"No. He doesn't even know you exist. Nor is he in a position to find out. He's lying in ICU fighting for his life. By the way, he has a name. It's Carson Brooks. Who, as a side issue, doesn't need your money. He has millions of his own."
Whatever Sabrina had been about to say vanished with that bombshell. Beyond pretense, beyond trying to assimilate facts, she simply stared.
Dylan looked away, swearing quietly under his breath. "Look, Ms. Radcliffe—Sabrina—I'm not trying to tear a hole in your life. But I don't have the luxury of time, and..."
"Carson Brooks," she interrupted, seeking some sort of clarification. "The CEO of Ruisseau. He's my father."
"Yes."
"You said he could die. What happened? Did he have a stroke? A heart attack?"
"Neither. He was shot."
This was turning into a bad detective movie. "Who shot him?"
"We don't know. It happened last night in his office. The police are investigating. Maybe after news of the shooting is released tomorrow, we'll get some tips that will give us a clue."
More pieces fell into place. "So that's the media-fest you were referring to that you managed to hold off until tomorrow. The networks and newspapers will be getting word of the assault."
