Hot Streak

An hour later when Carey returned to the trailor, he received Molly's message along with a newly arrived tabloid emblazoned with headlines in twelve-point type screaming: CAREY FERSTEN'S LOVE CHILD over a series of photos showing Carrie walking home from school.

“Fucking Cerelli.”

“None other.”

“Shit.”

“Molly called to tell you she wants the photographers making a home on her doorstep removed a little sooner than immediately.”

Carey frowned. “She was mad?”

“I detected a twinge of annoyance,” Allen said.

“And she hasn't seen this yet.”

“She didn't mention it.” And Allen thought of her final comment-that Carey was notorious. Soon she'd be in that same category herself. It went with the territory. “I'd ease into the subject if I were you.”

“Diplomacy is required, then.”

“Along with a running start.”

Carey laughed. “Oh, hell, so what else is new.” But it was new. For the first time in his life he didn't walk away from an angry woman pressuring him. A novel experience.

Molly wasn't like all the other women. Those headlines and Carrie's pictures would be public property by noon tomorrow. Molly would have to marry him now… very soon. A press conference was in order to announce the date and acknowledge Carrie. “We'll have to call a press conference.”

“For-?” Allen tactfully inquired.

“Carrie's my daughter. I want to acknowledge her, and if I can talk some sense into her mother, we'll announce a wedding date.”

“The lady's reluctant?” After eight years of watching women try to entice Carey to the altar, Allen tried to disguise his astonishment.

“Not reluctant, but she wants time for Carrie and me to get to know each other.”

“The Star Inquirer moved that scenario into fast forward.”

Carey shrugged and smiled. “I'm not complaining.” He picked up the phone. “Wish me luck,” he said, “she's going to be pissed.”

“Luck, boss, although you've had plenty of practice with irate females.” And Allen knew if Carey set his mind to it, he could get most people to do what he wanted. Especially women.

“This is the only one who matters.” Carey crossed his fingers and then waved Allen out.

After making her call to the film site. Molly had explained to Carrie that some of Carey Fersten's prominence had spilled over on them. She promised to take her daughter to the beach later, after the photographers were gone. Then she waited, restlessly and disturbed, wondering if her call would be returned.

She picked up the receiver before the first shrill ring had completely died away.

“Are you all right?” Carey asked, and she could feel the warmth of his concern.

“I'm fine,” she replied, determined to remain composed. “But you heard… there're some photographers outside the gate. Can you get rid of them? Is that too much to ask?” Her initial anger had subsided in the interval between her call and his.

“I'll have some security guards hired and sent over.”

“Guards? I don't like the sound of that.”

“Just temporarily, sweetheart.” Until we hire the bodyguards, he thought, once the national scandal sheet hits the streets.

“They won't just leave if I ask them to, or if you ask them to?”

“It's a job for them, honey. They're not charitable institutions,” he said with a temperance he was far from feeling, knowing the stormy issues confronting them. Wishing he didn't have to break the news, he said, “Are you sitting down?”

“That sounds ominous,” Molly said softly.

“It's not dire, but serious. It's about Carrie.”

What could possibly be dire? Molly thought with relief. Carrie was here with her, safe and sound in her own room watching Love Connection. “She's here with me, Carey, and perfectly fine.”

Looking down at the front page article, at the bold headlines and fair, young girl pictured, Carey swore softly under his breath before saying, “I received an advance copy of the Star Inquirer today.”

“What could that have to do with Carrie? Oh, is there another one of those photos of you and some duchess? Don't worry, Carrie never reads those tabloids. And even if she did, she seems to accept your jet-set reputation without censure.”

“It's not a duchess, Molly.” His voice was deathly quiet.

“Well, whatever title, it doesn't matter, really… Carey, you're being overly concerned about something that couldn't possibly affect us, anyway.” Molly was rushing along in a breathless flurry of words because Carey was too quiet, too starkly quiet, and she hoped to fill the awful void of silence. “Even if you are depicted in one of your notorious liaisons on the Star Inquirer, I'll discount it now that we've found each other again.”

When she stopped for a moment to catch her breath, Carey said, “Carrie's on the cover, with the usual spectacular headlines.”

“What headlines?” Molly whispered, struck with a terrible premonition of doom.

He read them to her in an even, modulated tone. The world was about to be introduced to Carey Fersten's natural daughter.

“Oh, God, no,” Molly breathed, suddenly nauseous. Carrie hadn't even been told yet. And Bart, she suddenly thought, terrified. He was not a benevolent man. “Can't you do something.”

“I've already checked with our legal staff. I can't sue; it isn't libelous.”

“My God, Carey!” And for the first time she was struck solidly with the impact of full-scale public scrutiny. Carey may have lived his entire life in a goldfish bowl, but she hadn't, and it mattered fiercely that her daughter not be recognized and inspected by everyone standing in the check-out line at the supermarket.

“Honeybear, you don't know how sorry I am about this. I'd never want to hurt Carrie.” The sincerity of his words held regret and comfort, his tender diminutive a message from the heart. “Molly, are you still there?”

She murmured some unintelligible sound, unable to articulate the overwhelming torrent of thoughts flooding through her mind.

“We have to do something before the paper is released. Do you hear me? Are you all right?”

“I'm breathing,” she said. “Just barely.”

“I know it's a shock, and I'm truly sorry, but we have to deal with this immediately. Allen and I agree we should call a press conference.”

“A press conference?” He could have said a rocket launch and not been any more alarming.

“As long as everything's going to be public information by the weekend, we might as well acknowledge it in advance and arrest the titillating waves of curiosity. Allen will arrange all the details, and it'll only entail twenty minutes of your time.”

“I have to be there?”

“You don't have to say a word. Allen and I will answer all the questions. Molly?” He could barely hear her breathing over the phone.

Dizzy, her stomach upset, Molly was resting against the headboard of her bed, visualizing dozens of klieg lights, scores of rude reporters, and her life spread out for all the world to see. How had her quiet life altered so suddenly?

“Answer, or I'm coming down,” he threatened.

“I'm here.” It was the smallest possible sound fiber optics could transmit.

“I'm sorry, darling… I'm so damned sorry.”

His own mind was a jumble of unsorted chaos. He could only deal with one problem at a time: Molly and Carrie first; the film schedule second; then came revenge on the Cerellis of the world who didn't see the human lives behind the dollar signs. “The press conference,” he firmly said, “is the only way to quash all the lurid speculation. I'll