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?”