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"You're not the only one who's picked up on it," Dylan corrected, catching her completely by surprise. "I have, too."
Sabrina gave him a
startled look. "You never mentioned anything."
"You never brought up the subject."
She couldn't argue that point. "Fair enough. Then again, neither did you."
"Yes he did," Carson refuted. "Dylan brought it to my attention this weekend. I was wondering when you'd do the same, and stop letting personal feelings stand in the way of that corporate shark you were describing before. This is my company. Yours, too, for that matter. There's no room for stupid emotions like guilt or discomfort."
"What about a stupid emotion like insecurity? Doesn't that apply?"
"You win on that one," Carson conceded. "I'm a soft touch when it comes to Stan. It's a problem. Don't let me get away with it. When I need a swift kick in the ass, give it to me."
"With pleasure," Sabrina replied sweetly.
"Here's the story with Stan. Yeah, we go way back together. I told you he worked for that fertility specialist your mother went to at the time of the donor insemination. Stan's the one who tipped me off to what this mystery lady was looking for, and how much she was willing to pay the right sperm donor. He encouraged me to go for it. I did. And with the twenty thousand dollars Gloria paid me, I started Ruisseau. For me, that was the beginning of everything."
"So you felt indebted to Stan."
"Big time. He's a great guy, and a great friend. On top of that, he's sharp, with a good business mind. Hiring him was a no-brainer. We didn't use fancy titles like COO back then. There weren't enough of us to bother with titles, anyway. And I was never one for protocol. Hey, I wasn't exactly your typical corporate exec. I spent most of my time playing around in the lab or scribbling ideas in a notebook."
A nostalgic grin touched Carson's lips. "I was determined to make the sexiest-smelling perfumes in the business. Hell, I was twenty-two. At that age, sex is a top priority—the number one recreational activity. Although even sex didn't give me the high that building Ruisseau did. Anyway, I had some pretty tough competition. The powerhouse designers, the European perfumers—everyone was fighting to control the market on whatever scent was the rage that year. The professional woman's scent, the outdoor macho-guy's scent, the romantic evening by candlelight scent and, of course, the supreme accomplishment—to create the ultimate turn-on fragrance that set every man or woman on fire."
"C'est Moi certainly fills that bill," Sabrina murmured. "I've never smelled anything so sensual."
"Yeah, well, it took years to perfect. Then there were all our other scents—formulating them, fine-tuning them, test-marketing them, promoting them, and sometimes trashing them. Stan was right there with me through all the research, all the frustration, all the setbacks. He screwed up two marriages because of the number of hours he spent at work. He busted his ass, and I mean busted his ass. Even when something didn't come easy to him, he never balked. He just kept at it until he could master it; or, if not master it, at least be comfortable working with it. At times that's been rough."
Sabrina pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I get it. I'm reading between the lines. What you're saying is that Stan is bright, but he's not the genius you are. Few people are. But few people have to work right beside you. Stan does. And sometimes he feels the strain."
Carson nodded. "Something like that. So my guess about this past week is that he's seeing me in you all over again. It's probably throwing him for a loop. Not to mention that the cops are all over him. Apparently, they questioned both his ex-wives. Not a fun scene. So try to cut him some slack, okay?"
She frowned. "Why would Whitman and Barton question Stan's ex-wives? Is he up there on the suspect list now?"
"He was asleep in front of the TV the evening I was shot. That doesn't count as an alibi, not in their minds. And he acts like a nervous wreck around them, which makes them more suspicious."
"Yeah, well, everyone's a little testy around those two," Sabrina muttered. "I almost punched them out when they implied my mother was a suspect." An uneasy thought struck her, and she attacked it head-on. "Carson, you said I shouldn't let you be a soft touch when it comes to Stan. So I'll ask you flat out—is there any chance he is the one who shot you?"
"Nope." Carson didn't looked pissed off by her suggestion. But he did look certain of his reply. "Sentiment aside, I know Stan's innocent."
"How can you be so sure? If his insecurity runs deeper than you realize, isn't it possible that his feeling of being second-best drove him to do something drastic—even if it's something he regretted as soon as he'd done it?" She paused, rolling her eyes. "God, I sound like something out of a bad movie."
"Yeah, actually you do." A corner of Carson's mouth lifted. "I guess daughters can be as irrational and over-protective as fathers."
"I guess so."
"To answer your question, Stan's insecurities are irrelevant. He didn't do it. How do I know? Easy. Because I'm still sitting here talking to you. The gunshot wasn't fatal. If Stan had pulled the trigger, I'd be six feet under. He's a crackerjack shot."
Sabrina tensed. "Stan owns a gun?"
"Calm down. No, not anymore. But when we were in our twenties, when we lived in that first dump we shared, hell yeah, he owned a gun. It was a cheap nine millimeter by the way, not a twenty-two. Anyway, Stan was convinced we were sitting ducks for muggers and lunatic drug addicts. He drove himself crazy thinking they would break in and kill us for the pathetic wad of cash—maybe twenty or thirty bucks—that we had on us. Finally, he did something about it. He went out and took shooting lessons. He was good—damned good. I watched him at target practice a couple of times, and it was one bull's-eye after another. He bought the gun for protection, then sold it when we moved up and out."
"That was years ago," Sabrina pointed out, feeling compelled to see this notion through, no matter how crazy or farfetched. "If he hasn't held a gun in all this time, he could be rusty. That would explain a less than dead-on shot."
"Uh-uh." Carson shook his head. "He got rid of the gun, not the skill. He still drives up to a shooting range in Yonkers a couple of times a week for target practice. It's good for his ulcer; it helps him let off steam. And, before you ask, yeah, I know for a fact he hasn't lost his touch. A couple of months ago, he rode up with Susan and me to her parents' farm, and did some outdoor target practice. He was dead-on accurate every time. Trust me, Sabrina. If Stan had been the one who shot me, I'd be dead."
"Okay." Sabrina felt a surge of relief. Regardless of her concerns over Stan's behavior, she truly liked the man. And while she had a hard time picturing him as Wyatt Earp, she was pretty sure she understood the gist of who he was. The thought that she could be so wrong about someone, that he would actually shoot Carson in cold blood—well, it was something she didn't want to consider.
