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CHAPTER 24
6:23 P.M.
Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation
You could have heard a pin drop in the conference room when Carson Brooks finished his taped statement and the screen went dark.
Someone flipped the lights back on, and Sabrina wasn't surprised to see more than a hundred pairs of eyes staring at her. The wall between the two main conference rooms had been removed, opening it into one huge room so that everyone could fit inside. The meeting was closed, a staff-only event, but Marie had faxed a brief statement to the press minutes before the meeting began, which was doubtless being delivered on business networks everywhere as breaking news. Sabrina knew what would be waiting for her outside the building tonight when she left.
That was for later. For now she had the staff—a stunned, curious throng of people watching her and waiting for her comments.
She hadn't expected to be this choked up. Carson's words hadn't been sentimental or emotional. They'd been factual. He'd simply stated that she was his daughter, that he'd only recently learned of her existence, and that he was delighted to announce her joining Ruisseau on a permanent basis as its newly appointed president, reporting directly to him. He said he suspected they'd all be reading colorful details about Sabrina's conception and her prominent family in the newspapers over the next few weeks, and he urged them to use discretion when they were grilled by the media, and compassion and consideration before bombarding their new president with questions. He concluded by saying that they were fortunate to have someone of Sabrina's caliber, quality, and professional experience as Ruisseau's president. He then asked for everyone's cooperation in making her transition a positive one, and urged everyone to join him in welcoming Sabrina to her new place at Ruisseau.
It was a carefully planned, well-executed announcement.
Carson had given Sabrina his ringing endorsement, while keeping the facts scarce to allow her to pick up the ball and run with it in whatever direction she chose. As for spin, he'd left that to the media.
So there was no explanation for why Sabrina felt emotional. Yet she did. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of a pivotal precipice—one that, once she leaped across it, would change her life forever.
The prospect was exhilarating and daunting all at once.
She wet her lips, walked to the head of the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dylan, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched her. Stan was beside him, looking sheet-white, which was no surprise, given that Detectives Whitman and Barton were hovering next to him, just inside the door. They'd explained their appearance by saying Carson had asked them to come—which Sabrina didn't doubt—but it hadn't stopped them from closeting themselves in Stan's office for half an hour, grilling him about God-knows-what.
She couldn't think about that now.
Glancing down at the sheet of paper in her hands, Sabrina abruptly folded it in two and put it aside.
"I'd prepared something to say," she told the staff. "But as I look it over, the words seem suddenly very trite. Suffice it to say that as shocked and overwhelmed as you feel, I was twice as shocked and overwhelmed. I've had time for the reality to sink in. Oh, I'm still a little overwhelmed. But I'm also honored. Honored, proud, and excited. You know what I want for this company. I told you my vision the day I came on board—some of you in person, some in a memo I distributed. If anything, a week with all of you has made me want that vision for Ruisseau even more. I intend to make it happen, with your help, and with Carson at the helm. Rather than having me talk endlessly, why don't you ask the questions that are on your minds, and I'll do my best to answer them. And don't be shy. Believe me, the press won't be."
A titter went through the room.
Sabrina spent the next hour discussing professional issues—reassuring people that their jobs would remain intact, that Ruisseau would continue on its present track and with its current objectives—and addressing more human issues—admitting that she'd been shocked and awed to find out Carson Brooks was her father, acknowledging that she still had kinks to work out before she was comfortable with the balancing act of running CCTL and being president of Ruisseau.
The last few questions were the hardest.
"Ms. Radcliffe," Claude Phelps asked, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. "What about the formula for C'est Moi—has Carson shared that with you?"
Sabrina didn't blink or avert her gaze. "I'm not going to answer that question, Claude. Because it's not mine to field. Whatever decisions our CEO chooses to make, or not to make, are his to disclose. I'll only answer questions that pertain to me, to my vision for Ruisseau, or to my philosophies as they might affect you. Any questions you have for Carson, you'll have to take up with him personally."
Claude scowled, but fell silent. Across the room, Dylan gave her a thumbs-up.
"I'll take one more question," Sabrina stipulated. She was starting to feel a little woozy. "Then we'll call it a day." A day. Right. With the media hounds waiting outside. "Yes?" She acknowledged Eve Rogers, one of Ruisseau's up-and-coming product managers, who'd stuck her hand nervously in the air.
"I may be out of line," Eve began, shifting a bit as she spoke. "But I know we're all wondering—and worrying—about Mr. Brooks's health. Could you tell us what's rumor and what's fact? Will he be all right?"
Sabrina nodded, bracing herself for where she knew this was headed. "Carson is the strongest human being I've ever met. He's going to pull through this. I'm sure you saw that much from watching him on tape. He's chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital and back to his desk. Just ask the nurses. They're drawing straws to see who's forced to go in there and deal with him in his current—intolerant, shall we say—state of mind." She smiled, as a universal chuckle echoed through the room. "By the way, no, you're not out of line. Everyone at Ruisseau cares about Carson. He regards all of you as his family. I think you know that."
"We do." The young woman stood up straighter, pushing her glasses higher on the rim of her nose. "What about his kidneys? Have they recovered, or are they still failing?"
"The doctors are being cautious on that prognosis," Sabrina replied. "Apparently, in some cases, it can take up to two months for kidney function to return. The bullet caused a lot of trauma. So it's too soon to tell."
"Meaning his kidneys aren't functioning now?"
"Right. He's had several dialysis treatments, and responded very well to them. He's playing the waiting game—not very well, as I said—the same way we are." She rolled her eyes. "Trust me. Mount Sinai will never be the same."
Another chuckle went through the room.
"Ms. Radcliffe—" Eve asked what she, and everyone else, really wanted to know. "We're aware that the hospital was searching for a compatible donor match. Since you're Mr. Brooks's natural child, I was just wondering..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked a little panicked that she'd overstepped.
