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If anyone had asked, he'd say the sun rose and set on Carson Brooks. Thanks to him, Russ was off the streets. Not only that, he was a high school grad—one who'd gone on to Queens College, and was working his way toward the journalism degree he'd always dreamed of.
Mr. Brooks had met with him personally a month or two after he'd started working in Ruisseau's mail room. He'd told Russ what a fine job he was doing, then said he'd been reviewing Russ's application and noticed that he'd written a gripe column for his school newspaper—at least until his gripes became too raunchy to print.
Russ had steeled himself for a lecture, or worse. Instead, Mr. Brooks had asked him if he liked writing, or just griping. When Russ finished hemming and hawing, and finally spit out what he wanted his future to be, Mr. Brooks had moved him to the publicity department.
At first, Russ had been a gofer, but now he was actually helping write copy. It wasn't the same as investigative reporting, but it did teach him how to gather information and present it clearly and concisely. It was cool, it was something to put on his resume when he graduated, and he got paid for it.
Finally, things for him were looking up.
Last month everything had changed.
It started on the day he overheard that conversation, and gotten wind of what was going on. It made him furious. So, to appease himself, to hone his skills as a reporter and, most of all, to look out for Mr. Brooks, he'd started poking around.
Tonight he'd hit pay dirt. Only he wished to hell he hadn't.
Because now he had to do something with it.
Polishing off his pizza and downing his remaining Coke, Russ chucked out the paper plate and cup. Then, he headed toward the subway.
Diagonally across the street, a pair of eyes watched him with interest.
8:15 P.M.
West 73rd Street
Sabrina was bone-weary and mind-numb.
Talk about being bombarded with stimuli. After the emotional meeting with Carson, an afternoon of follow-up calls to CCTL, and an early-evening check-in at the hospital to see how Carson was doing, she'd been herded into the limo with Dylan and Stan, driven out to tour the R&D facility, then driven back to Manhattan. During the return trip, she'd been sucked into an impromptu meeting. No surprise who'd orchestrated the tour and the meeting, straight from his hospital bed, no less. Carson was intent on immersing Sabrina in Ruisseau and in defining her roles there—both her official and her unofficial ones—as soon as possible, so that Dylan could finalize the paperwork, Stan could orchestrate a nine A.M. meeting to introduce her, and both men could give her a rundown on the "who's who" and the "what's what" in advance.
Using Carson's limo for the meeting made sense. It was large, cushy, and, most of all, private. Stan began by giving her a procedural summary of what she could expect the next morning, while Dylan scribbled snippets of amendments on whatever legal documents he'd already banged out. Next, Stan piled a ton of documents in her lap—from Ruisseau's latest financial statements, to its fourth quarter projections, to the current marketing campaign for C'est Moi—advising her to familiarize herself with them as quickly as possible. He'd also given her a company directory, complete with titles, departments, and telephone extensions, suggesting she get a feel for the staff. Finally, he'd tossed her the keys to an apartment Carson had talked her into accepting, flourished a business card with his home phone number written on it, and waited while their driver pulled over and stopped on Riverside Drive. Then, he jumped out of the limo.
When she'd stared at him dazedly, trying to figure out why she was still sitting there with Dylan, while Stan was obviously leaving—sans the limo—he'd informed her that the car and driver were at her disposal, that she should feel free to go anywhere she wanted, and that she should get a good night's sleep. He'd then promptly climbed into another car—one that was waiting to take him back to work—and zoomed off.
Anywhere she wanted? What Sabrina had wanted was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and collapse.
The problem was, she couldn't collapse. Certainly not at the hotel, where her mother was waiting for her. Besides, it wasn't that she wanted to avoid Gloria. She wanted to touch base with her, to hear how things had gone with her grandparents, and to fill her in on the pivotal decisions she'd made that day. Just not at that moment. Not right away.
If only she could go somewhere for a reprieve, she'd thought wistfully. Just for a little while. Not a noisy bar or a crowded restaurant. But somewhere quiet, where her thoughts and emotions—both of which were on overdrive—could come down a peg or two. Then, she'd be ready for her nine o'clock dinner, and the issues she and her mother had to discuss.
Dylan must have read her mind, because he'd leaned forward, given the driver an address, and settled back in his seat.
The driver had brought them to what Sabrina realized was her new Manhattan residence. And, she had to admit, the cozy brownstone was the perfect medicine.
She'd explored the place from the ground floor up, climbing the three flights of stairs with newfound enthusiasm, and pausing to stroll around each level and admire her surroundings. The place was even more charming than it had looked from the street. More spacious, too, with a library and conference room on the ground floor, a living room and kitchen on the second floor, and two bedrooms and a sitting room on the third floor.
The furnishings were both tasteful and expensive, decorated throughout in sweeping shades of bone and brown, with rich parquet floors and gleaming marble bathrooms. The updated kitchen was fully stocked, and complete with every sophisticated appliance known to mankind. The living room bar was also fully stocked, boasting every top brand of liquor, and a floor-to-ceiling Subzero wine rack filled with an impressive selection of reds and whiter—the latter wines on top, the former on bottom, so as to be kept at precisely the right temperatures. As for the bedrooms, there was a large master bedroom with an adjoining bath, and an ample-sized second bedroom. Both bedrooms had thick cream-colored carpeting and magnificent cherry furniture. A vase filled with fresh flowers sat on the bureau of the master bedroom and, to Sabrina's amazement, the linens on the bed had been freshly changed, and the covers turned back. Quite a feat, given the fact that Carson had just offered her the place an hour ago. Obviously, he'd taken the necessary steps in the hopes that she'd accept. Well, those steps had worked. The entire brownstone felt homey and warm, as if it housed permanent residents, rather than occasional visitors from Ruisseau's European operations.
"Nice, huh?" Dylan asked, leaning against the master bedroom door frame and watching her reaction.
"It's lovely." Sabrina walked over to the flowers and sniffed. "Roses, jasmine, and ylang-ylang," she pronounced. "The floral essences in C'est Moi. I recognize the scents from the lab."
"Impressive sniffing."
"Impressive apartment." Sabrina turned to face Dylan, shaking her head in wonder. "Who took care of getting it ready in such record time?"
"Marie, Carson's secretary. She's as good as they come, a crackerjack assistant in every way. She's the most organized human being on the planet. Carson got word to her that he'd hired a consultant for an indefinite period of time. She took care of the rest. The food, the flowers, everything."
"She's obviously a treasure. I'd appreciate if either you or Stan would introduce me to her first thing tomorrow. I want to thank her. The personal touches are just what I needed."
