High Stakes (21 page)

Liam’s blue eyes were quizzical. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Go on out.”

Triple the usual number of tables were occupied in the pub proper. Many in the crowd were firefighters, but there were new faces, and more customers streamed in the door. Since Bailey’s was an Irish establishment, they’d have lines waiting to get in for lunch and dinner later in the day. Then the real partying would begin. The business would make enough money so they could close at midnight and not encourage drinking till the wee hours.

When Sophie saw him and Liam, she got up to help. “Sit down!” Liam said. “Geez, woman. Can’t you do what you’re told for
once.”

Hank Bilotti, one of the guys who always teased Sophie, burst out laughing. “You gonna let him talk to you that way?”

With a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “Maybe,” and sat back down.

Her lieutenant, Jim Mackenzie, smiled at her. “Glad you’re eating with us, Soph. I miss you.”

Juan Torres, the rookie on the squad, who had a big crush on Sophie added, “Man, me, too. When you coming back?”

Dylan set the potatoes and eggs on each of the tables, while Liam served the meat and toast. Everything was family style for all the patrons, but it was most fun watching America’s Bravest dig in. From the coffeepot set up off to the side, Liam filled a carafe and poured the guys more brew. Dylan tuned out when everyone was served.

He glanced at the walls of the pub. Yesterday, they’d decorated the place with green and white streamers, pictures of elves and rainbows and signs of Irish sayings, which Brie had laminated.

Crossing to the bar, he dragged out his phone and copied one.
May the luck of the Irish be with you today, darlin’. (Will stay in touch.)

That made him feel more connected to Rachel. Maybe he’d text her all day with the sayings. His mood lightened, he’d started back to the tables when the front door flew open, and in walked Hannah Harper and her husband Dom, two of Sophie’s close firefighter friends. Hannah wasn’t smiling though, and through the glass behind her, Dylan saw a crowd gathered at the entrance to the pub. “Hey, Hannah. You okay?”

“I am, but you’re not gonna be.” Worry filled dark, normally mirthful eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Go look outside.”

Dylan crossed to the window. Five people carried signs. And were starting to walk back and forth in front of the entrance. “Jesus H. Christ.”

Liam joined him. “What’s going on?”

“Picketers. Of our pub.”

“What are they, English?” Liam joked.

Dylan’s hands fisted. He hated when his work affected his family. “Look at the signs.”

Three read: Leave KPRAY Alone. Unchristian Behavior in this Pub. Nonbelievers are Damned.

“Wow!”

“I’m going out there.”

Liam grabbed a coat one of the brothers had left on the bar. “Wear this.”

Cold morning air was blowing through the streets when Dylan stepped outside and faced the crowd. It was then he recognized Bill Winters, a man he’d interviewed. Dylan went up to him and started walking with the guy. “Bill, what’s going on?”

The man scowled. “You need to leave KPRAY alone.” He gestured to the pub. “If not, you shouldn’t prosper.”

“Why are you doing this? You convinced me you could afford the money you gave to KPRAY.”

“Yeah, but you made Mary Johnson cry.”

“I did?” He remembered the grandmotherly woman he’d spoken to just last week. “I only asked her about her kids.”

“They aren’t going to college, and you made her feel like she should use the money she donates for them.”

Well, he did think that.

“Listen, picketing isn’t going to solve anything.”

The door opened again, and Liam stepped out—carrying a tray with five full, steaming coffee cups. What the hell?

“Here you go, guys,” Liam said easily. “You’ll freeze to death out here.”

They eyed him suspiciously.

“And you’re welcome to come and have some breakfast—on us. Dylan can sit with you and talk this whole thing through. No need for demonstrations. Especially the Christian sign. We O’Neils are God-fearing people.”

The five picketers conferred. And just like that, his little brother defused a potentially volatile situation. They all headed back into the bar.

Rachel had never paid much attention to St. Patrick’s Day. She wasn’t Irish, and she never saw the fun in the day that so many others did. At her desk, she nibbled on some Irish soda bread and drank the tea Jeannie had brought in. And wished again she could be with Dylan to celebrate. Even for a little while. When her phone chimed, she grabbed for it. Dylan. Wishing her a happy day. How sweet.

Staring at his words on her screen, she recalled how she dreamed about him last night. That he was angry and upset. Rachel was sure the phone call she’d received from Dylan was the real meaning of the dream. Huh. She wished she could cheer him up.

From outside her door, she heard Crane say, “Did you hear the one about the Irish priest and his brother?”

That gave her an idea. She clicked into her browser on the internet. Ten minutes later, she texted Dylan.
What do you call an Irishman who’s been dead for fifty years? Peat!

Maybe she’d send the little jokes she found online to him all day. At least it would feel like she took part in the fun in a small way.

“Rach,” someone called from the outer office. “Take a look at the local TV news.”

She switched on the set in her office. New York news had a shot of Bailey’s Irish Pub being picketed. Seriously? Poor Dylan and his brothers. She hoped this didn’t ruin their day.

By the time Dylan got back to his phone, he had three messages from Rachel. One was asking about the picketers. She’d seen it on the news. There were two jokes.

“Hey, C.J.,” he called to his sister-in-law, who was clearing tables from the breakfast crowd with Sophie. Though the parade started at eleven a.m. and would go till about four, their place would be busy for lunch, so they were resetting for the daily meal of Irish stew or corned beef and cabbage.

“Did you hear about the blond Irishwoman with five legs?”

C.J.’s head snapped up, and her pretty blue gaze narrowed on him. “Don’t start.”

“Her knickers fit her like a glove.”

She shook her head, then studied him for a minute. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Liam got those guys inside, and they were civil after they ate.”

“Does it make you more pro or con for KPRAY?”

“More pro. They were reasonable. I think the picketing was a knee-jerk reaction.” He looked her up and down. The green shirt gave no indication of her pregnancy yet. “How you feeling?”

“Fine. My stomach’s better.”

“She’s got to stay off her feet.” Aidan had come in from the kitchen with new placemats. “Here,” he said. “You do this. I’ll carry out the dishes.”

A long-suffering sigh. “All right.”

Turning his back on them, Dylan texted Rachel back.
I’m okay. Dodged the bullet with KPRAY. Keep sending me jokes. I’m teasing everybody with them. Here’s a nice Irish saying for you: May neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and Heaven accept you.

Another joke popped up a minute later. “Hey, Sophie, listen to this. “An ugly redhead came up to the bartender in Donegal’s Pub the other night and asked him what reincarnation means? He told her it’s when you die you can come back as something else. The redhead said, ‘When I die I want to come back as a dog.’ The bartender said, ‘You’re not bloody listening to me!’”

C.J. let some silverware clash to the table. “That is so sexist.”

Sophie added, “Let’s take a break and find ammunition against him on the computer.”

Aidan and Dylan guffawed. This was the way life should be.

Patrick came in from the back at eleven with a light dusting of snow on his hair and jacket. He was on the board of the parade—most people didn’t know the whole show was staffed by volunteers—and he had some things to take care of in the morning for that. Besides, he’d set up the schedule to stagger their work at the bar so everybody could have a couple of breaks.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked Dylan and Aidan, who were stacking some glasses in a crate.

“Good.” Dylan nodded to the door. “They’re lining up already for lunch. How was the parade kickoff?”

“It’s fun to see the whole thing come together. Too bad the snow started, though.”

“Was there the usual lineup?” Aidan asked him as three of them headed into the restaurant space, all carrying a crate.

“Yeah. The 69th Infantry Regiment led off.” It was followed by bands, firefighters, military and police groups, social and cultural clubs, county associations, and more, all creating a procession line of more than one-hundred-and-fifty thousand people.

“You can go back later and see some of it.” When they set all three rubber crates on the bar, Dylan slipped behind it and nodded to the other end. “Sweeney”—who’d recently closed his bar—”came over at nine. Said if we needed help, he’d even do it for free. I felt bad for him, so I hired him for the day.”

“Oh, good. The firefighters came from his bar to ours. We owe him.” Pat glanced at his watch. “Maybe I will go back to the parade sometime today. We all have to take the breaks we scheduled.”

Aidan turned the jukebox on, and soft Irish music drifted into the air. It made Pat smile, then he noticed Dylan studying him. “You okay?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, better now.”

Aidan had sauntered over and caught his remark to Dylan. He gave Pat a long look. “What else you do this morning, big bro?”

Pat could feel his face color. “None of your business.”

“He got laid,” Aidan said to no one in particular.

“I wouldn’t pick on my sex life if I were you, Romeo.”

“Touché.”

Aidan walked back to the tables and Pat turned to Dylan. “Brie phoned me on her way to the Hamptons. She heard about the picketing on the car radio.”

His brother raked a hand through his hair. “Hell, everybody caught it.”

Dylan filled him in on the short-lived protest.

“Glad they left.” Pat started to the bar’s opening.

“Wait a sec. You really get laid this morning?”

“Dyl…”

“No, I’m just asking because you called me Wednesday about fighting with Brie.”

Glancing around the pub to make sure Aidan wasn’t paying attention, Pat dropped down on a stool, and Dylan put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He wrapped cold hands around it. “Jesus, we fight like cats and dogs and then tear the covers off the bed.”

“Ha!” Dylan braced his hands on the bar. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I know, but we have to find a way to get along better outside of the bedroom.”

“Sorry. I realize that.” Dylan glanced at his phone, which was on the bar’s surface. “So, Pat, how do you confuse an Irishman?”

Yeah, some Irish humor would put his head on straight. “I give.”

“Put two shovels against a wall and tell him to take his pick…”

Pat laughed out loud.

“There, that’s good to see. Now try to enjoy our favorite day.”

A little while later, after another text came in, Aidan asked, “Where you getting all these jokes?”

“Another Irish friend.”

“A lass?” Pat grinned. “A redhead?”

“Nobody important. Look, we only have five more minutes till the lunch doors open. We’d better finish up.”

Pat made his way behind the bar, wondering why Dylan had changed the subject so fast.

As she rang the doorbell, Rachel’s heart beat in her chest at a clip. Despite the cold weather, her hands were clammy. He’d texted her a half hour ago.

Any chance you can get away for a late lunch? I don’t have time for our big talk. But I have an hour for…whatever

She texted back,
Absolutely.

His response:
My place. Three o’clock.

After the second buzz, Dylan yanked open the door and dragged her inside. He drew her into the living room off to the left. She’d never seen his place but took in the fireplace, already lit, and blankets on the floor in front of it. He shoved off her coat, lifted the sweater over her head and hastily removed the rest of her clothing. His pants, the only thing he wore, took seconds to peel off.

“In a hurry?” she asked, chuckling.

He grasped her arms gently and rubbed up and down. “Fifteen minutes over, fifteen back. That only leaves me a half hour to have you.”

His word choice made her body tighten. From the time he’d called, she’d gotten aroused just thinking about the sculpted muscles of his chest and his incredible scent. Tugging her to the floor, he covered her body with his and claimed her mouth. His was insistent, pressing hard, then nipping her lips with his teeth.

She slid her hand lower to grasp hold of him. He was hard and pulsing. He must have been thinking about her, too. When his mouth moved to her breast, she said, “Yes, Dylan,” and squirmed as he suckled her.

After mere seconds, she yanked him up. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Me, either, love.” He slid back to his butt, spread his legs, then pulled her over his thighs; on her knees, she straddled him. “I like this best,” he whispered as he positioned her. “I get to see all of you.”

His gaze locked with hers; he lifted her up and entered her slowly. She had to close her eyes with the fullness of him, his hardness, until his possession was complete. When she looked at him again, he was smiling. He drew back and thrust into her. Once, twice, then both of them went over the edge. Light collided with pure sensation as he emptied himself into her.

Afterward, they cuddled side by side under one of the blankets, staring at the fire. A little breathless, she murmured, “I’d say we got that done in time.”

Laughing, he held her close to his heart. “That we did, darlin’.”

Letting herself enjoy the total alignment of their bodies, she nuzzled his neck, sweaty now from exertion. Then she drew back. “Why did you call me?”

Brushing her hair from her face—it was damp—threading his fingers through it, he said simply, “I got lonely.”

She rolled her eyes.