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Carson forced a half-grin. "I've been better.... But I'll live... I think." A raspy breath. "You ordered me to... if I remember right."
Dylan's features relaxed. "You remember right."
"Where the hell have you been?... It's been... a day... maybe more...."
"You gave me some orders, too." Dylan pulled up a chair, sank down beside the bed. "I've been busting my tail to carry them out. No easy feat, I might add."
Carson's brows drew together. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the person you asked me to locate." Seeing Carson glance around, Dylan added, "Don't worry. We're alone."
Physical discomfort became secondary, as Carson studied Dylan's expression. "Well?" he demanded.
"I'd pass you a cigar, but there's no smoking in ICU."
That was the answer he'd been looking for. "I have a kid," he realized in awe. "Damn... A kid."
A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "She's far from a kid. Actually, she's a knockout. She looks a lot like you, only better. More feminine and minus the scars. She's smart, too, and successful. Even you'll be impressed."
"She," Carson repeated. "I have... a daughter." It was the strangest feeling, one he couldn't quite describe. "Tell me... about her."
"I'll do one better. I'll introduce the two of you."
Carson stared. "Now?"
"Can you think of a better time?"
The way Dylan phrased that... Suspicion clouded the picture, and Carson's gaze flickered to the various contraptions he was hooked up to. "You tell me… Am I out of time?... Is that it?... Am I losing this fight?..."
"Not a chance."
"Then why did she agree to come?... How did you find her?... Who...?" Winded, he broke off, suddenly and painfully aware how much he was taxing himself.
"Try to be quiet and listen for a minute. I know it's against your nature, but try," Dylan advised wryly. "That way you can save your strength for your daughter. Stan helped me dig up the information I needed. Once I got the basic specs—her name, her address—the rest was easy. She lives in Auburn, just outside Manchester, New Hampshire. I flew up there last night and told her about you. She wants to meet you. She's waiting outside. I'm sure she can answer the rest of your questions better than I can. Okay?"
"Did she already know... about me?"
"Not who you were, no. But that her father was a sperm donor, yes."
"She took... the news okay?"
As always, Dylan was straight with him—no sugar-coating, no bullshit. "She was shocked. She came around. It's a sticky situation. She's strong and gutsy, but she's also very tight with her family. Her mother's in a high-profile industry, and her grandparents epitomize Boston high society. A scandal wouldn't be welcome."
Carson frowned. "I remember... the woman was from Beacon Hill... that's all I ever knew.... Who is she?..."
"Her name's Gloria Radcliffe. She's an upscale fashion designer. Fairly well known, too. She must be— Susan's already bought half her fall line. She's in the lounge right now chewing your daughter's ear off about how much she loves Gloria's designs."
That didn't sit well with Carson. "You told Susan about...?"
"Nope," Dylan assured him quickly. "I gave her the same story I gave the press—that Ms. Radcliffe is a management consultant assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."
"Nice story." Carson eyed his friend. "Management consultant?... Can she pull it off?"
"No problem there. She can pull it off fine, since that's just what she is. A pretty sought-after one, too. You should see her list of clients."
It was ludicrous and unjustified, this surge of pride that rushed through him. He'd contributed nothing to this young woman, except his genes. He hadn't raised her, had never even met her. But still... hell, she was his daughter.
"So, are you ready for your introduction?" Dylan asked.
