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"Me, too. Believe me, pragmatism had nothing to do with why I stopped you. I could barely breathe, much less think. But I had to try—for Carson's sake."
His brows drew together. "Carson?"
She nodded. "The transplant. I've got to be ready for surgery, just in case he needs it. I can't get pregnant, not now."
Realization—and guilt—flashed across Dylan's face. "I really am a selfish bastard. I claim to be so damned devoted to Carson, and here I am forgetting what he might need more than anything else."
"You didn't forget. We were making love. It's not exactly a natural leap to think of Carson's medical condition while we're tearing each other's clothes off."
"You did."
"Barely. And just in the nick of time. One more second and..." She shivered, traced his lips with her fingertips. "You're an amazing lover. The way you make me feel defies words."
He lowered his head, kissed his way down the side of her neck. "I return the compliment. I can't get enough of you."
"M-m-m." Her eyes slid shut. "See? That explains it. You're not selfish. I'm just intoxicating. I bewitched you."
He chuckled, his breath warming her skin. "You sure as hell did. And you're welcome to keep doing so for the rest of our lives." He cupped her face, kissed her slowly, tenderly. "Are you starving?" he murmured between kisses. "Or can the linguini wait?"
"Oh, I'm starving all right." She gave him a look that was pure seduction. "What linguini?"
CHAPTER 25
7:55 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Carson's eyelids drooped. He didn't want to doze, but he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open.
He was totally wiped out. The excitement, the intensity, the activity level of the day—it had taken a lot out of him. Not that he would have changed any part of it. Not for the world. After today, he could publicly acknowledge his daughter and have her in his life.
It was okay to rest now. He'd be getting an update from Stan any minute now, letting him know how the announcement had gone over, and if Sabrina and Dylan had managed to elude the press. He wanted to know that she was safe and sound, that the cops had gotten her to Dylan's the way they promised.
His forehead creased. That was his only nagging worry. Had revealing Sabrina's identity put her at risk? Would whoever shot him somehow find out that he'd shared the formula for C'est Moi with his daughter, and go after her, too?
He'd talk to Whitman and Barton tomorrow. If they didn't see his logic and agree to a police escort for Sabrina, he'd hire a private bodyguard to watch her.
But not tonight. Tonight she'd be fine. She had the best bodyguard in the world: Dylan. And she and Dylan were well on their way to what he viewed as the ultimate and spectacular inevitable. Hell, with the way he felt about Dylan, and now Sabrina—it was a father's dream...
He must have drifted off.
He had the dream again. Relived the Monday night shooting. In slow motion, the same as always. He was standing at the window. Heard the pop. Felt the pain. Smelled the sweet odor. Saw the colors, the carpet. Heard Dylan's voice. Then, the paramedics. The blood—so much of it. Wet and sticky. Dizzy. The tingling in his limbs. Trying to breathe—inhaling that sickeningly sweet smell. Blood and carpet cleaner. And there was something else. Something he should remember, but couldn't. Whatever it was, it was just out of his grasp.
At some point he became aware that he wasn't alone.
Not in his dream. In reality. Here. Now.
He forced open his eyes. Dusk had settled over the hospital room, casting it in shadows. Someone was there. It wasn't a doctor or a nurse.
Stan? Was that Stan standing next to his IV drip, saying something to him?
Maybe not. Maybe it was part of the dream.
Because when he opened his eyes again, Stan was gone. He was alone.
He drifted off again.
And dreamed.
