Hot Streak

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.

“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.

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 been replaced last year.

“Who the hell cares?” he muttered.

“Bart does,” she replied with a grin. When he heard the mischief in her voice he lifted his head and smiled wanly.

“Then he's welcome to her, with my blessing. What the hell did you ever see in-” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room, “him.” Distaste was prominent in every word. Bart was everything he despised in a man-dressed as though he were ready for a photo shoot, haircut so trim the scissor marks must still be warm on his hair, and with that phony insouciance that always prompted Carey to clench his hands into fists to keep from taking a swing and cracking the slick facade.

“I could ask you the same about Sylvie,” Molly replied, a hint of approbation in her tone, “but the answer's pretty obvious.” She was much more warmly voluptuous in person-as though the two-dimensional screen neutralized her sun-ripened, perfumed volume.

“I was not sober. I had an excuse.”

“Could we drop the subject?” Molly said with a sigh, unwilling to go into a topic they had rehashed on too many occasions. “I think we both agree we made a mistake.”

“Lord, she puts me in a vicious mood,” Carey growled, sliding lower in the chair. “When are they going to leave?”

“Now that, darling, depends on your handling of Sylvie. Normally Bart wouldn't stay more than five minutes with Carrie-if he even remembers why he came here. On the other hand,” she said contemplatively, “with anyone else but the world's sex kitten, I'd say Eldora Whitney and her millions would win out every time. However, Sylvie has her charms. Now that I think about it, you won't get me to bet on Bart leaving, one way or the other.”

“There is Egon to consider, and Sylvie, despite her myriad faults, is loyal to him.” Carey sighed, his mind in turmoil, his own loyalties strained in two directions. Molly and Carrie came first, of course, but his heart went out to Egon. He loved him, too, like one would a younger brother, and Egon was in horrendous trouble: His future was definitely in jeopardy. It was simply a matter of time before Rifat found him, and after that Sylvie could expect a ransom note with perhaps some portion of Egon's body as evidence of their sincerity.

When Rifat received the prototypes, he would profit for the next decade on every weapon manufactured. The profits in the arms industry had always been one of the great areas of capitalism. It was very much a matter of supply and demand, of pricing items to the limit of what the traffic would bear, and in many cases of selling to both parties in a conflict without scruple. The U.S. and Russia both understood the principles of free enterprise. They sold sixty-three percent of the arms manufactured in the world; and it was simply a matter of methodology to determine who was considered the number one or number two supplier of arms.

Always a sound businessman first, Rifat saw an opportunity to become involved in one of the most profitable businesses in the world. And poor Egon was the key, the man who would be used to help Rifat realize his ends. “She may not leave,” Carey quietly said, thinking aloud. “Sylvie's persistent, if nothing else.”

“Oh, she doesn't lack in the other departments, either, I assure you. Coffee? While you mutter your way through this?”

“No.”

“Tea?”

He glanced up at her with a knit brow.

“Something stronger,” she immediately suggested, her spirits pleasantly mellow now that Sylvie was definitely not a threat.

He smiled.

“Cognac?”

“Bring the bottle.”

And Molly listened while he talked about the Egon he'd met the first summer in Yugoslavia.

“He sounds very nice.”

“He is,” Carey said, chinning the rim of his half-empty glass.

“How dangerous a position is he in?”

Carey shrugged, not willing to go into detail about Rifat. The less Molly knew of his involvement the better. He'd decided in the last several minutes as he talked to bring Molly and Carrie to his father's for safety as he'd planned, and then try to find Egon before Rifat did. He had to at least try to save him, or he'd never be able to live with himself.

But he'd do it without involving Sylvie. So after finishing his second cognac, he said, “Let's see if we can throw Sylvie and Bart out and enjoy what's left of Carrie's birthday.” He wanted time, too, to discuss going north. Carrie's horse was the perfect excuse, and once there perhaps Bernadotte could help him convince Molly of the seriousness of Rifat's threat and talk her into staying.

With a promise to get in touch with Sylvie tomorrow, she was persuaded to leave, and Bart, practical man that he was, realized Eldora Whitney's promised account was decidedly more lucrative than an evening out with an international beauty, however enticing. Money came first with Bart. It always had.

“Do you or do you not feel a freshness in the air now that our guests have gone?” Carey asked with a wide grin.

“The stench of cauldrons bubbling has disappeared with your ex-wife's departure, and the aroma of manure is retreating now that my ex-husband has descended the staircase in his planter's suit. I almost expected an overseer or two to materialize and say, ‘Caught two more, Master, trying to escape.'”

Carey laughed. “He looked more like Tom Wolfe to me, he was so-o-o smooth. I was wondering where his orange tie and pink suede shoes were.”

“Bart would die before affecting anything so lowly as a writer's style. Really, dear, consider, would any good club allow Tom Wolfe a membership?”

“Well, love, money talks. Sylvie has only a hundred-year-old title and wears blue leather pants or sometimes nothing at all and she belongs to some rather exclusive clubs.”

“Bart doesn't have that kind of money.”

“Oops… then he's blacklisted.”

“Who's blacklisted?” Carrie asked, walking into the living room.

“Anyone with less than a million,” Carey said, amusement in his eyes.

“That's us,” his daughter cheerfully retorted.

“But not for long,” her father replied.

“Carey! Don't talk that way,” Molly protested, uncomfortable with his millions.

“Mo-ther,” her daughter responded reproachfully, “it doesn't hurt to marry someone rich. Right, Dad?”

“And hey, I'm nice.”

“There, you see, Mom.”

Molly often felt she was the naive one and her nine-year-old daughter the seer of the world. “Thank you for pointing out my error,” she said. “Should we check out Carey's bank account before we set a wedding date?”

“Don't have to, Mom, for sure he's got more than we do.”

Carey held his tongue, not about to make a verbal misstep.

Molly would have liked to make some melodramatic comment about pulling one's self up by the boot straps, her own financial independence too hard won to be dismissed next to Carey's millions. But she resisted the impulse and consoled herself with a small jab only. “Money shouldn't matter.”

Carey had no intention of discussing the disparities in their incomes. “Why don't we change the subject?” he said with a smile. “My mother always said that when my father and I disagreed.”

Molly's brows were still drawn together in a faint scowl. “Did it work?”

“She usually said, ‘Let's go for a ride,' next which always did work,” he replied in as neutral a tone as possible. He was walking a fine line here, needing to have his way about whisking them off while not giving the appearance of undue concern. “Speaking of riding,” he murmured, his glance swinging to his daughter. “How would you like to go up north tomorrow and ride your horse?”

“Oh, Mom, could we?” Carrie pleaded, instant elation bubbling in her voice. “I just know I can ride! I really know I can! Think how many Black Stallion books I've read. I can practically do everything!” Doing a little dancing skip and a hop, she put her palms together and gazed up at her mother. “Say, yes, Mom-please, please, please, please, please!”

Carey smiled at the unrestricted vitality in his young daughter. “You're going to be a great rider.” And he meant it. She had a natural fearlessness and competence, two primary components for world-class competition.

“I'll clean the kitchen for a month!” Carrie cried, “and my room too,” she added, excitement flushing her cheeks. “And I promise to practice my piano every single night!”

“I'd like to go up tomorrow, if you could,” Carey softly said, turning to Molly.

“Aw-w-right! Hear that, Mom? Two against one. Hey! Lucy!” Carrie's scream was deafening. “Let's pack!” And she was out of the room in two seconds.

“I'm not sure about this two against one,” Molly muttered. “Should we talk about this?”

“It'll just be a quick trip,” Carey lied. “She wants to go,” he cajoled. “A day or two won't hurt your business, will it? And my father's anxious to meet you and Carrie. He'd be thrilled.”

“Just for a day or so?” She debated the possibility of actually leaving her business when she never had before.

“Promise.”

“Promise, promise?”

“Absolutely.” Did a lie count when lives were at stake?