Hot Streak

But she wouldn't listen to his reasoning. She didn't want to hear about anyone or anything standing in the way of his aiding Egon.

Even the revelation that he had a daughter failed to evoke her interest. She and Carey had never discussed having children since she'd had no intention of ever having any. And as far as Carey having a few children here and there: surely with his reputation with women, it was inevitable. She really didn't understand his extravagant concern for one child. “If you're worried about your family, hire guards,” she casually suggested.

“I have.”

“Well then, you're free to go.”

“She's my daughter, Sylvie, do you understand? My daughter. And after ten long years, Molly and I are going to be married.”

“I'm sure they'll be fine until you return,” she retorted, not even glancing at Molly. “My plane is waiting.”

“Read my lips,” he growled, hot-tempered at her callousness. “I'm not going.”

“He'll die.”

“Maybe.”

“They'll torture him.”

He hesitated again because he knew as well as she did that they would. “Maybe.”

“I hear Rifat likes to watch when they scream,” she said, turning the screws.

“Jesus Christ, Sylvie, I'd go if I could. I can't, that's all.” And a great wave of pity washed over him. Poor Egon. In too deep this time. And Shakin didn't care how he got those prototypes.

“Dammit, you have to!” Sylvie screamed.

“Have to what?” a lazy male voice inquired from the hallway. When Bart strolled into the room carrying his birthday gift for Carrie, he found himself the cynosure of three pairs of startled eyes. “Have I interrupted something?” he drawled, taking in the splendid but irate Ms. von Mansfeld, the equally irate Mr. Fersten, and a thoroughly horrified ex-wife who had never been party to a conversation in which human torture was discussed as though one were comparing sales prices on mattresses.

“Bart, you'd better come back later,” Molly said tersely.

“I would if I could, darling,” he replied with a flash of white teeth, “but Eldora Whitney wouldn't understand if her escort for the symphony reneged.”

Up to his old tricks, Molly thought. A brief ten minutes for Carrie's birthday, and then off to more important things like escorting Minneapolis's wealthiest patroness of the arts. Eldora kept a stable of handsome young men as escorts, and she was generous with them, as well. Molly almost said, “And what accounts has she promised you?” but caught herself in time. She refused to lower herself to Bart's level. “In that case, why don't you go down to Carrie's room and visit with her there?”

After dropping the Walgreen's bag he carried on a nearby table, Bart was already halfway to Sylvie. When he spoke his eyes focused directly on her cleavage. “I don't believe we've met before. I'm Bart Cooper, Molly's ex- husband.” His glance rose and he smiled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Sylvie purred, instantly assessing the usefulness of an ex-husband to irritate Carey. Perhaps if he became incensed or resentful over a past rival, he might forget his very new sense of familial responsibility long enough to be persuaded to go after Egon. “How nice of you to come to your daughter's birthday. Carey was just telling me how fond he is of her. I'm Sylvie von Mansfeld, Carey's ex-wife. Isn't this cozy-a quartet of exes.”

“I knew you looked familiar,” Bart said, his smile cordial. “May I take this opportunity to tell you how much I've enjoyed your movies?”

“Thank you, making films is such a lark.” Their dialogue could have been from a thirties film where both leads had slick hair and continental charm.

A lark, Carey thought irritably. What the hell role was that line from? Sylvie was a temperamental, sullen, always inadequately prepared “star” who insisted on preferential treatment every step of the way. A lark, indeed. Sylvie was every director's nightmare; she required a dozen takes for every piece of dialogue over two sentences long.

“Your joie de vivre shows on the screen,” Bart complimented, his voice an octave lower for effect.

Along with everything else, Molly thought pettishly. “Bart, if you don't mind,” she said to the man dressed immaculately in white linen like some colonial planter or Colombian drug czar, “I'm sure Carrie's anxious to open your present.”

“I understand, you share fatherhood with Mr. Fersten. How delightful. One can almost envision a movie from the concept.”

“A bedroom farce-French style.” His smile was tight. “I was-I think the line is-the last to know, but hey, I'm a good-natured guy,” he smoothly lied. Sylvie's presence had altered his intention to demand some monetary settlement. Bart Cooper bitterly resented being cuckolded, especially so publically. “When Carrie's birthday rolls around, I'm the first one to remember my special girl.”

With the usual unwrapped present, this one obviously purchased at the Walgreen's down the block, Molly felt sickened by his hypocritical sweetness. Hopefully, it wasn't another Barbie doll like the last three birthday gifts he'd given Carrie, damn his indifference. She considered choking Bart until his fine white teeth turned blue. “Bart-” she reminded him, her voice low with frustration and rage.

“Am I in the way?” Bart asked.

“No,” Sylvie said placidly, clashing with Carey and Molly's sharp, emphatic, “Yes.”

“Actually, we were discussing a private matter, Bart, if you'll excuse us,” Carey said, his voice carefully modulated. Whenever he saw Bart he thought of all the misery he'd caused Molly, and it took great self-control to remain civil. He also thought of Molly living with Bart for seven years, and feelings of jealousy overwhelmed him. “Molly asked you to leave… if you don't mind,” he said, his eyes wintry as he motioned toward Carrie's room.

“In a minute,” Bart replied, and turned back to Sylvie.

“I must insist,” Carey said very quietly, struggling to maintain his composure.

Bart swiveled back slowly and lifted one dark eyebrow. “Insist? Sounds like some chivalrous knight protecting his lady.”

The air was palpable with tension.

“Oh, Carey's chivalrous all right,” Sylvie cheerfully interjected, delighted to fuel the volatile situation. Maybe the woman would toss him out if sufficiently angered. Did she know his reputation for wildness? “Remember the young princess near Munich whose husband appeared unexpectedly at your private picnic? You were particularly chivalrous that time. The husband is very old, you see,” she said, as though everyone was concerned with the details of the scandal, “and the princess likes to ride motorcycles and live dangerously. The summer afternoon temperatures didn't require many clothes, I heard,” she went on, knowing Carey hated an audience for controversy, “and, well… under the circumstances, Carey felt obliged to defend the woman. It was all very romantic. Most men would have cut and run when Ludwig's touring car turned into the clearing. Gossip ran rampant for weeks. Marie told the story best; she's a cousin of mine and so sweet. I always thought Carey showed a remarkable sense of chivalry. Ludwig wanted to beat her.”

Carey stood as if cut from stone, his dark eyes expressionless while Sylvie spoke. “Now if you're through,” he said as she concluded her recital with a smug smile, “should you hear from Egon, tell him to call me.”

“He may not live to call,” she snapped.

“I'm sorry… if you'll excuse me.” And he walked away.

Molly turned to Bart. “If you actually care to see Carrie for her birthday, you know where her room is.” Her hostility was too intense to conceal. She looked very different from the woman in electric blue, her own dress a stark contrast as though the spring blossom pink was visual evidence as well of the enormous disparity in their lives. Suddenly uncomfortable in her own living room, she turned and followed Carey.

She found him in the kitchen sprawled on one of her painted pine chairs and looking grim.

He glanced up when she came in and ran a hand through his already ruffled hair in a slow, weary gesture. Sylvie's lacerating energy had apparently drawn blood. “I'm sorry,” he said, “about the story and my unfortunate past. There's nothing else to say about Sylvie. She's a world-class bitch and that's it.”

“She's pretty nice-looking,” Molly said softly, seating herself opposite him at the kitchen table. And there's a fortune sparkling in her ears, she thought, looking at the kitchen curtains that should have