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.”