Hot Streak

CHAPTER 27

C arey was there to greet her at the service entrance of the hotel. Taking her hand, he drew her alongside him down several corridors into an elevator, then out again and into a small room several yards from the hall scheduled for the news conference. His full entourage was assembled: attorneys; business managers; publicity people flown in the night before; assistants; gophers; and some men looking suspiciously like bodyguards. Molly's uneasiness returned; she was an outsider in a smoothly run operation familiar to all its participants, save one.

There was no opportunity to talk in the crush of people determined to ask one more question or give one more word of advice. A cup of coffee was shoved into Molly's hand, and when she shook her head, Carey looked up from the document an expensively dressed man was explaining to him and brusquely said, “Tea. I told you Ms. Darian drinks tea. Take the coffee away.” Then his eyes quickly scanned her pale face, his hand securely holding hers. “Are you all right?”

Molly nodded. In the flurry of nervous activity she couldn't tell him the truth. That she wasn't all right. She had the beginnings of a headache, and her stomach felt like a convention of butterflies.

“I'm sorry, Honeybear. This'll all be over soon.” He squeezed her hand gently and forced his attention back to the man in the Savile Row suit who was pointing out another paragraph with a briskly tapping finger.

The tea appeared within seconds. In a glass, the way she liked it, with lemon and sugar. Carey had a very good memory. She watched him calmly absorb the attorney's instructions. He asked a few brisk questions, nodded in apparent approval at the answers, and then turned to the next of several assistants who issued further instructions. The tea was warm and soothing. Molly's stomach stopped dancing, and none too soon for the door opened abruptly and a man called out, “Camera time-three minutes.”

Allen raced in. “You know what to do now,” Carey said to him. “I don't want Molly upset with personal inquiries.” He looked at Molly seriously. “If there was any way to avoid this, Honeybear,” he murmured very low so only she could hear, “I would. Lord, you're pale. If you can't get through it, let me know and we'll just end it. I'm sorry, truly sorry, Honeybear, about all this hassle.” His sincerity tugged at her heart; he seemed her young lover again, boyish, uncertain, miserable that he was hurting her.

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she saw him swallow hard when his glance met her misty blue gaze. She caught the hand he lifted to her face and said, “I understand. Don't worry about me… I'll manage.”

“Okay, Honeybear.” He smiled that heart-stopping smile. “It's you and me and twenty TV cameras.”

Tightening his grip on her hand, he turned to Allen, hovering at his shoulder, and said, “Shall we?” And the entire crowd followed them into the bright lights across the hall.

The entourage unnerved Molly; it was like a royal court. Carey seemed to take it all in stride; when you walked out in public, forty people followed in your wake. He never opened doors, he never asked twice for a drink or for food. When he wanted something, it was there. When he didn't want something, it disappeared as rapidly.

In deference to the solemn occasion, he wore a suit, a navy linen Armani, his tie perfectly knotted, his normally bare feet shod in soft black kidskin. Some attempt had been made to set his pale hair in order, but the coarse waves fell in tumbled disarray by the time they mounted the small dais at the front of the room. He had tensely run his fingers through his hair one last time before entering the room.

Molly appeared at his side, slender, white-faced, her honey-colored hair shining on her shoulders. In contrast to Carey's dark suit, the apple-blossom pink of her voile shirtwaist seemed like delicate flowers against a stormy sky. He held her close to his side, his stance almost aggressive, as if he dared the world to hurt her.

At first the questions were vague and general: Where had they met? When? How had their friendship reestablished itself? When the kid gloves were tossed aside, Allen stepped in to thwart the more blatant queries. Once or twice Carey curtly cut off discourteous questions, saying, “I won't respond to that.” But essentially his bearing was relaxed. He was at ease on the world's stage.

In twenty minutes all the necessary answers had been given, his replies couched in as general terms as possible. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Carey politely said, “for your lively interest in my affairs. Thank you and good morning.”

His dark eyes swept the crowd of reporters in dismissal, and then Molly felt his grip tighten. “Allen, the car,” he ordered, his voice cracking with authority.

“What is it?” Molly asked, disturbed by the tone of his voice.

“Stay here.” He unobtrusively motioned for his bodyguards, and three men quickly moved forward.

Oblivious to the cryptic gesture, Molly asked, “Why?”

“I'll be right back,” was all he said. “Stay put.” And he turned back to face the room. Near the rear door, not visible until the reporters had shifted positions at the end of the conference, was Rifat's ADC. Carey had seen him once at a party in Cannes. They'd exchanged banal phrases while Rifat overwhelmed the young actress in their party with his charm. Carey remembered the man's cool gaze, which didn't entirely conceal his hunter instincts. It wasn't a face one forgot. Oh fuck, oh shit. Rifat's man here in Minneapolis. His alarm set off danger signals in his brain. Molly was here, protected by his people. But Carrie was home alone, with only Lucy for company. And, spinning around, he began to run.

Glancing at his watch, Ceci walked as rapidly as possible without attracting notice, through the red-carpeted hotel lobby. In five minutes the kidnapping should be accomplished, although the sight of Fersten bolting for the back door was not reassuring. Had he spotted him? Pushing through the revolving door, faced with the possibility Carey suspected something, he sprinted for his rental car. He hesitated briefly before turning on the ignition. According to plan, after assuring himself Carey was at the press conference long enough for the men to pick up the girl, he was to proceed to the airport where Timur was waiting to fly them home. Deraille and Reha were to rendezvous there with the girl in twenty minutes. If he changed his plans now, he would miss the airport rendezvous.

Another moment of indecision, and he decided to adhere to plan. Surely Deraille and Reha would accomplish their task. She was only a young girl.