Hot Streak

exact one I've always wanted. Exactly!” And Molly realized how little control “parenting” had on the power of the gene pool. Her daughter viewed the world with unrepressed enthusiasm, which she as a mother had neither bequeathed nor imbued in her. Turning to Carey with a smile, she said, “She's like you.”

Smiling back, he seemed to understand. “I know,” he said.

And when their daughter saw the documents tied with pink ribbons making her the owner of her own two- year-old Arabian horse, the birthday proceedings came to an instant standstill, only to explode a moment later.

“My own horse, my absolute own horse! Where is she? When can I see her? Who's going to teach me to ride? Mom! Look! Look!”

“A horse. How wonderful,” Molly said to her daughter, who was waving the papers in front of her face. When Carrie raced away to show them to Allen and Jess, Molly turned to Carey and said, “A horse?” in an altogether different tone of voice. “Here, in the city?”

“No, darling, it's up at my father's farm.”

“Do you still race?” She had forgotten about his love of horses.

“Occasionally,” said the only man in twenty-seven years to win the triple crown in steeplechase.

“Your dad can teach you to ride,” Jess said, “and Leon can help out.”

“Leon's my dad's trainer, Pooh,” Carey explained. “He's the best teacher in the world. And as soon as you can, we'll go up north and see your horse.”

“Mom… did you hear? When can we go?”

Allen and Carey exchanged glances.

“Whenever your Mom says the word,” Carey replied, “we'll head north.”

“Can Lucy come? It's summer vacation. Lucy, your mom will let you, won't she?” and in a quick succession of rapid fire dialogue between the young girls, it was agreed Lucy's mother might be amenable.

Molly merely smiled and said, “We'll see about going, darling.”

The rest of Carrie's presents turned out to be riding gear: boots, a jacket, jodhpurs, a silk shirt, and a small velvet hat.

Carey thanked his lucky stars he'd selected a horse for one of Carrie's gifts; it gave him an excuse for suggesting a trip north and means for taking them to safety without alarming Molly. And his daughter was proving to be a great help in his plan.

She gathered up all her riding equipment and announced, “Lucy and I are going to try all this on now, and then we're going to learn how to ride. Right, Dad?” And in her inimitable fashion, assuming the world would recognize her onward motion as its own, she added before she and Lucy ran from the room, “I can hardly wait!”

Allen looked at Carey.

Jess looked at Carey.

Molly looked at Carey.

“It was a real nice party, wasn't it?” he said with a smile.

CHAPTER 29

W hile Ceci and his team were inside their plane, reassessing their options in a mission gone bad, Sylvie von Mansfeld's private jet touched down on a nearby runway at Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. The man she'd sent ahead to locate Carey met her as she descended from the plane.

“Come along,” she said, and walked briskly toward the Mercedes limousine parked conveniently near. “You can give the address to the driver,” she added, stepping through the chauffeur-opened doorway into the car. After listening to Egon's recital of Rifat's handiwork, she had ordered a bullet-proof car, though she had little faith in such precautions. Sylvie was not only a bold woman, but a fatalist, as well. Men like Rifat didn't strike terror in her soul as they did in Egon's. She'd always been able to manipulate men, and even Shakin Rifat was a man under his formidable reputation.

When the investigator she'd hired attempted to join her in the backseat, she indicated with the merest nod that he should sit up front with the driver. When one's family owned the second-largest munitions works in the world, one learned the rudiments of authority in the nursery. And Sylvie had been born to command. “I'm in a hurry,” she said to her driver. “This man will tell you where to go.” And, leaning back into the plush seat, she crossed one leather-clad leg over the other, closed her eyes, and mentally rehearsed her dialogue with Carey.

Egon had received a phone call two days ago-a call from one of Rifat's minions, warning Egon not to leave the villa. Since then Egon had fallen off the wagon and started taking heroin again. Devious by necessity, he'd obtained the drugs without leaving the premises. Now Sylvie was here to try to talk Carey into coming back to help him. No one else could reach Egon when he was on drugs, and she knew a phone call to Carey would have been unsuccessful. He'd been adamant last time that it was his last time.

Should she plead, demand, reason? How best to approach Carey? she mused. A few years ago she would have been more certain, but he wasn't the same Carey Fersten any longer. He was serious, noticeably serious, a quality that hampered her familiar overtures. Thank God he cared for Egon. If all else failed, she'd resort to tears. Rasinsky had praised her dramatic weeping scene in the small Balzac film they'd done years ago. Now what were those lines… As she recalled first one phrase, and then another, the sentences began falling into place.

“He needs you, Carey, now more than ever. He's alone, desperately alone and in despair. If you don't care, I'm afraid this time he's going to slip away.” The words began tumbling through her mind, with the pauses for effect, the exact moment the first tears welled up into her eyes, the gulping swallow to stanch the flood of weeping.

Her eyes opened, and she smiled.

Why hadn't she remembered the Balzac play sooner?

CHAPTER 30

A llen and Jess had excused themselves and left, promising to send a car sent round at six the next morning. Although Molly hadn't been persuaded yet, Carey was hoping she'd understand the need for precautions. The girls were in Carrie's room, listening to the new disc player, while Carey and Molly sat at the dining room table, smiling at each other over the shambles of the birthday cake and discarded wrapping, feeling like serenely contented parents.

“I always knew,” Molly whispered.

“No you didn't.” A lush smile accompanied the disclaimer.

“Well, I wished for it.”

“Not as much as I.”

“She even smiles like you.”

“Like us.”

“It's us, isn't it?” Molly wiggled her hand under his to feel the warm connection.

“Till the rocks melt with the sun.” His large hand engulfed hers.

“You always liked Burns.”

“I liked you a million times more.”

“Only a million?”

He grinned. “Greedybear.”

“For you.”

“Good.”

“Good, kiss me.” And as their lips touched in a lingering silkiness, the pealing of the doorbell broke into the confines of the dining room.