Hot Streak

“Don't answer,” Carey whispered, his breath warm on her mouth.

“I always answer.” And she tipped her head away.

“Why?”

“Why? Politeness, I guess.”

“Not a good reason.”

“This is Minnesota.”

“An explanation, but not a reason.”

“You're too blasй for me, darling.” But after Molly went downstairs to answer the insistent ringing, she wished she hadn't.

A dazzling woman stood in her doorway. From the shouts of the paparazzi, there was no question that this was Sylvie von Mansfeld, Carey's ex-wife. And when Molly's eyes swept back from the jostling photographers to the luscious young woman, she was appalled and amazed. The young woman, was, if possible, more opulent in person than in any of the provocatively posed ads for her movies. Above medium height, very slender, wearing tight leather pants with a matching electric-blue silk shirt, she displayed a resplendent voluptuousness that would stop men in their tracks. Gazing at her, Molly was filled with horrified admiration.

“Carey,” Sylvie demanded in only slightly accented English, abruptly curtailing Molly's astonishment, “I wish to see him.” And before Molly could reply, Sylvie had swept past her and was running lightly up the stairs.

Molly lagged behind, since she had to shut the door against the flashing cameras. She was in time, however, to see Sylvie run to Carey, throw her arms around him, and burst into tears.

Standing awkwardly stiff, Carey's eyes met Molly's over the gamin curls of his ex-wife. “Excuse us for a minute,” he said, and walked her out on the terrace.

Molly heard his low, murmuring voice. Almost immediately Sylvie's strident, rapid tone broke in, this time in German. After that, Molly lost track of even the bits of audible conversation because Carey also shifted into German. Seconds later, a harsh “No!” from Carey was decipherable. Undeterred by the powerful refusal, Sylvie forged on in a curt rush of words. And then there was more weeping.

Feeling as if she were intruding, Molly walked into the living room. But even a room away, the sound of their voices drifted in, lowering occasionally so she only heard the murmuring inflection, rising as suddenly so each word was audible although the meaning was lost to her in German.

Carey was refusing.

Sylvie was insisting, demanding, and then abruptly pleading and crying at the same time. Her great, gulping sobs carried into the living room. Steeling herself to remain seated, Molly imagined Carey's ex-wife crying in his arms. He'd lived with her for three years, had wakened in the morning with her, had smiled at her over breakfast, had spent three years being a husband to her.

Did he still have feelings for Sylvie? she wondered. Good God, she was sex goddess to half the men in the world. He had to feel the normal male attraction to her. Suddenly Molly felt like a small, nondescript sparrow next to a bird of paradise. Regardless of what Carey said about their relationship, how could she compete with memories of a glittering woman like Sylvie? And right now, she was competing with more than memories. The little sex kitten of the eighties was wetting his chest with tears, and it would take a solid block of granite to resist those hiccupy whimpers. Molly was even beginning to feel the glimmerings of pity for her. The poor woman was definitely in distress.

A few moments later, Carey and Sylvie entered the room and brief introductions were made. Molly sympathetically remarked, “I'm so sorry… can I be of any help?”

“Carey's help will be sufficient. I'm sure we don't need you intruding.”

“Watch it, Sylvie,” Carey warned, exasperated at both her rudeness and implication. “I only said I'd call him.”

“But, darling, I know you won't be able to resist the poor boy when you speak with him.” Sylvie slid her arm through Carey's and tenderly explained to Molly, “Carey's always such a dear with our family; I just knew he couldn't refuse.”

Carefully setting Sylvie a good two feet away, Carey replied, “A phone call doesn't require all this damn melodrama, Sylvie. Play your Balzac role for another audience.”

“You remembered.” She brightened with a tinsel glitter of feigned sincerity. “But of course, you always prompted me for all my roles.”

“Jesus, cut the bull, Sylvie, or I'll have to put on my boots… You know damn well your drama coach did all the prompting.”

But Molly interpreted Carey's responses as a touch too protesting.

“You always said you adored me in the Balzac play.”

“What I said, Sylvie,” and he was pronouncing the words with fastidious emphasis, his nostrils flaring slightly with his efforts to control his temper, “was I adored the Balzac play, and I liked your costumes.”

“Such a sense of humor, darling.” She swung around to Molly in a flash of electric blue silk, gleaming leather, and platinum hair. “He always loved to tease.” Her voice was a catty purr. “Have you known him long enough to notice?” she inquired with malice.

“Actually,” Molly said, “we spend so much time laughing, I've missed two payrolls and Carey's cut three scenes from his movie.”

“Ah, American humor,” Sylvie retorted without a smile. “How droll. If nothing else,” she said, insult obvious in her eyes as she surveyed Molly from head to toe, “she can amuse you, I suppose.”

“That is enough, Sylvie.”

“Darling, I meant it as a compliment. Dolly seems very pleasant. And so clever to own an entire building this large,” she added, sarcasm dripping from every word. Her own inherited empire was valued at several billion.

“She at least bought it with money she earned herself.”

“How industrious. Does she sew, as well?”

“One more word, Sylvie, and you can handle your brother's problems yourself.”

“My lips are instantly sealed, darling. Egon needs you so.”

“I'm sorry,” Carey apologized as though Sylvie didn't exist. “She's a bitch.”

“No need for an apology,” Molly replied, tense and agitated. This glamorous striking woman, glossy with sheer physical perfection, probably owned more property around the world than the acreage of Texas. She didn't seem one bit insulted at being called a bitch. Wealth must insulate one from insult. And for the very first time in her life, Molly felt intimidated. How ludicrous her scramble for the down payment money seemed in contrast to Sylvie's fortune. She found herself gazing at Sylvie's earrings, the diamonds and sapphires large enough to choke on. Without a doubt, she forlornly decided, they were worth a dozen of her factory buildings. How does one compete against that kind of wealth and glamour? Put another tuna casserole in the oven? Damn, damn, damn, she was out of her league.

But just then Carey slid his arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “I'll have her out the door in five minutes.” And when she looked up, his smile was that special one she remembered from the summer dock on Fourteen when they'd dangled their toes in the water and argued about who loved each other more. He kissed her on the cheek quickly and, turning back to Sylvie, said, “Sylvie, sit down, don't say a word, and I'll call Egon and see what the hell I can do long distance.”

“Excuse me, darling,” he said to Molly with a small, encouraging smile. Moving toward the small desk under the window, he picked up the phone and swiftly punched in the numbers. He flashed Molly another smile as he waited for the transatlantic connection, and then, in rapid Italian, asked for Egon.

His spine went rigid, and his next few sentences were crisp, staccato questions. Two deep frown lines appeared between his brows, and Molly interpreted his dismay. Slamming the receiver down, Carey said, “He's bolted.”

“You have to go after him.” Sylvie's voice revealed the command she'd spent a lifetime cultivating.

Carey's gaze swung round to her, and he hesitated a brief moment before he said, “No.”

“You have to,” she cried, rising from her chair in a swift, vehement movement. “They're after him! You know they are! They'll hurt him!”

He knew as well as Sylvie did that Rifat was behind Egon's hasty flight. He hesitated in a moment of compassion. But he couldn't go-not when Carrie and Molly needed his protection, as well. He told Sylvie as much; He was responsible for a family now.