High Stakes (3 page)

“Hey, Dyl,” Bailey said to him as she entered the room. “Sorry it took me so long to get them to sleep. You stirred Rory up with your wizard story.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dylan scooted over so his sister could sit next to him.

She took note of the book. “Your namesake’s poetry?”

“Uh, huh. The poor bastard.” Dylan Thomas had had problems with demon rum and killed himself with it at thirty-nine. Luckily, Dylan didn’t share the proclivity to drink, but he definitely possessed the poet’s interest in writing and, some said, talent.

Bailey dropped down close on one of the warm fabric couches, curled her legs under her and put her head on Dylan’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming with me. I can usually handle the political business, but this one has thrown me.” She turned her face into his sweater. “Not the least of which is the fact that I like Mark Langley.”

The president had finally undergone surgical clipping of the artery, a procedure where the surgeon closed off the aneurysm, removing it and grafting it with a metal mesh support.

“I know you do,
a ghra
. Any more news on his condition?”

“He’s stable. But he’s still in critical care.” Her blue eyes sparked. “Damn men. He had throbbing back pain for a while now, which is a key symptom.”

“We don’t like to admit our weaknesses, that’s for sure.”

Bailey shook her head. “What if Mark dies or is incapacitated? It’ll be such a loss for the country and he’s a good man.”

“Don’t buy trouble, Bay. The outlook for recovery’s good.” Sliding his arm around her, Dylan noticed she seemed thinner. “You taking care of yourself?”

“What do you mean?” ”You’re thin.” He rubbed a finger under her eyes. “Smudges here.”

“Thanks for the upbeat compliment.”

He pulled away. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not pregnant again, are you?”

“No, we’re done with that.” Staring down at the plush rug, she bit her lip, tough girl Bailey, who’d faced down girls in gangs without flinching. Then, she looked up at him. “If something happens to Mark, Clay will assume the permanent presidency. I’m…I’m not ready to be First Lady, Dyl. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want.”

Because, no matter how good the prognosis, Mark Langley might never be able to assume his duties, he responded, “There’s a lot of talk in the news about how good Clay is as VP and what a great president he’d make.”

“I know. I happen to not be one of his supporters for the position.” She hadn’t wanted to be Second Lady, either, but gave up a lot for the love of her life.

“Does Clay know?”

“Of course not. My feelings would sway him. We’ve talked in vague terms, but if it’s his life dream to be president, then I’m not interfering.”

Kissing the top of her head, he said quietly, “It’s your life, too.”

“I know. And I can do a lot of good as First Lady. Which I keep clinging to.”

Dylan sighed. After a rocky beginning, Clay and Bailey had the best marriage he’d ever seen. Bailey had told him that they still fought about things, but it was obvious to anyone watching them how much in love they were. In truth, sometimes Dylan envied them.

For a few seconds, they stared into the fire, which crackled and spit on the hearth.

“What are you thinking?” Bailey asked.

“How I’m jealous that you and Clay are so close. You’re so unselfish with each other.”

“I love the man to pieces. I’d do anything for him.”

“And he feels the same way. Which is why I think you should tell him about your misgivings.”

“Maybe.” She drew in a deep breath. “So, you’re jealous, huh? Why don’t you go out and find yourself a nice redhead, then? It’s time to try again. Your divorce was years ago.”

Rachel’s luxurious auburn hair filled his mind. And damn it, he felt himself blush, which was stupid. Unfortunately, Bailey caught his reaction.

“
Is
there somebody?” She sounded like she had when she was a girl trying to wring confessions out of her big brothers about their love lives.

“No, no.”

Ever intuitive, Bailey tugged him to face her. Now she was sober. “You can tell me anything, you know. And I’ll keep it to myself.”

“You’ll tell Aidan.” Those two were really close, but natural alliances had formed among all of them, and nobody seemed jealous of anyone’s relationships: Brie had an affinity for Liam, Bay and Aidan went to college together, and Dylan and Pat knew each other best.

“I won’t tell Aidan. I promise, Dyl.”

Man, he needed someone to discuss this with, and his sister had helped him through his ugly divorce. “You won’t like it, Bay.”

“Why?”

He picked up a stuffed pillow and squeezed it with nervous energy.

“Just spit it out.”

“I slept with Rachel Scott.”
”What?”

“I knew you’d be mad.” Rachel had been partially responsible for Rory’s kidnapping last year when she disclosed the second family’s whereabouts at Keuka Lake. And there were many other things she’d done to hurt those he loved.

“I’m not mad. Just…shocked, I guess. You’ve gone after her the most for everything she’s done to us. You wrote columns against her. The last one was pretty bad.”

“I was pissed as hell. I’m even more furious now.”

“Oh, Dyl. She… Jesus Christ, she aired the footage on the wedding
after
you were with her that night?”

“Son of a bitch.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“What were you thinking?”

“Well, first I’d had a few Jamesons on the rocks at the wedding, but I wasn’t drunk, so I can’t use that as an excuse. I’d seen her at the church, as you know. I was feeling sentimental after the wedding and…called her. Went over.” He shrugged. “When she said she wanted the same thing…” His voice trailed off.

“I know what you mean about weddings. Clay and I had the best…” She cut herself off. Looks like he wasn’t the only one who had great sex after Aidan’s nuptials. “Sorry. Okay, let’s analyze this. She’s gorgeous. You always liked a challenge in women. And she does have red hair.” The fetish of all the O’Neil men, though Aidan had married a blonde. “Why do you think
she
did it, when she knew what she was planning the next day?”

“She says she wanted to. And knew, after showing the video on TV, she’d never get another chance. Fuck it, Bay, I even believed that.”

“Why? You’re usually more cynical about women.”

“I have no idea. She’s gotten into my head. I think for longer than I’ve admitted.”

They heard the front door open and male voices. Clay first. “Some private time…” One of the agents. “All right, I understand…”

Bailey leaned over and whispered to Dylan, “Don’t tell him, either.”

“What, you think I’m nuts?” Clay had a vendetta going with Rachel that he was adamant about.

They both stood.

His brother-in-law entered the room and stopped halfway to the couch. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing.” Bailey circled Dylan, flung herself at Clay and said, “Come and sit with us.”

After kissing Bailey, Clay shook Dylan’s hand and dropped down wearily in a leather chair. “Get me a drink, woman.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Please.”

Later that night, Clay pulled back the covers on their bed and smiled down at his wife. The room was cool and dim, but he could still see Bailey’s face. “You look tired.”

“So do you.” Bailey patted the bed. “Stretch out and we can talk.”

He climbed in and pulled up the covers. “Kids okay?”

“Rory asks me and the agents where you are all the time, what you’re doing. Dylan tried a simple explanation but Rory didn’t really get it.” She smiled. “Angel wants Daddy to put her to bed.”

“My sweetie.” Crooking his arm and resting his head on his hand, he brushed his thumb over her lips. “And how’s Mom?” ”Sad about Mark. Tell me what you didn’t say in front of Dylan.”

“He’s extremely weak, though the press secretary isn’t divulging that. He’s hooked up to a urinary catheter, has a tube in his nose and is on a strong blood thinner. Truthfully, he looks like hell. What is it your mother says? Like death warmed over.”

“Liam and Mitch found some research that said recovery from this surgery is likely, as long as the aneurysm doesn’t burst, which his didn’t.”

“Thankfully. But he’ll be out of commission at least two to three months.”

Bailey’s face shadowed. He caught the nuance because he was watching her for her reaction.

“I’ll be acting president until then.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t ready for this.”

“We’re never ready for tragedy.”

“How about you? Are you up for being First Lady for a while?”

She gave him a phony smile. “Of course. You’ll do your patriotic duty. I’m on board for that.”

“What if Mark doesn’t fully recover? Or chooses not to run again? Are you on board for that, too?”

“Yes.” She moved in closer and he could smell the bath lotion she used. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Honey, you need to tell me what
you
want.”

“I want you to be happy.”

He stared down at his wife. She was lying through her teeth. Bailey hadn’t wanted to be a senator’s wife, or the Second Lady. Clay knew in his gut that she wouldn’t ever choose to be the president’s wife.

Torn, he thought of extending the conversation. But why? If Mark died, Clay would have no choice in leading the country. So, instead of more talk, he turned onto his back and pulled her over him. “I love you, Bay. So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Which was true. And that would cause her to do what she didn’t want to do. What she’d been doing for years. He had to stop thinking about that or he’d go crazy. So he cupped her head and brought her mouth to his.

CitySights

“KPRAY or KPREY?

“While driving back to New York today, I heard yet another radio station offering ‘free religious music’ with no commercials. Instead, each break in the show is accompanied by testimonials and a request for money, which will in turn keep the station running. The ostensible purpose is to bring the word of God to believers and enhance their spiritual experiences. Over one hundred donations are made per day by ordinary people who have found or will find God through the station. As an ancillary business, they offer specials, such as providing a toy and note to children whose parents are incarcerated. The normal request to listeners is forty dollars per month. And herein the problem lies.

“As a lifelong Catholic, I believe in God. I do not believe God wants us to proselytize through a radio station like this. We have churches to fill this role. We have social agencies that need money to provide to those less fortunate, regardless of creed. Instead of the forty dollars a month that is ubiquitously asked for to fund the show, isn’t it better to donate to organizations that directly help individuals who, for instance, need milk and diapers for their babies?

“The program contends it converts people and inspires them to commit to a belief system and make a pact with God. My question is: who sets up this belief system (i.e. God will return to earth, raise up the righteous and condemn the ‘lost’ to hell)? The answer is—the station’s belief system, which this writer doesn’t agree with.

“‘People don’t have to support the station,’ you might say. ‘They have free will and choose to do this,’ the board of directors might contend. My retort is that people seeking respite from their misery are preyed upon by these types of radio shows. And I don’t think that’s right.

“As always, post your comments below, or send me a note at [email protected]. And, a note to KPRAY: schedule some time with me and I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself.”

Every morning, Rachel sat in the back of her townhouse, in the breakfast nook, and scanned the newspapers. Daily news would affect her evening show. She preferred hard copies because she could speed-read easier. Unfortunately, today, six days after the wedding, she was unable to keep herself from going to
CitySights
online. She knew Dylan had been in D.C. with his sister, and the vision of him cuddling little Angel to his chest as he breached the throng of reporters outside the Wainwright townhouse remained with her. As did the way he’d touched her, the Irish sentiments he murmured when he was inside her. Though she’d come to realize that sleeping with him was more than foolish, knowing that the very next day she’d betray him, she couldn’t forget what had happened. And all this despite the diatribe he wrote against her before he left.

Finding his column, sipping her coffee, she stared at the photo next to his words. His hair was stylishly messy, and those blue, blue eyes grabbed her attention. Too bad the photo didn’t show his wide shoulders, his muscular biceps. He’d sell a lot more subscriptions.

As she read, her blood pressure spiked. Why in hell would he give a radio station that he obviously disliked a second chance, but when she’d asked for one, that day she’d visited his office and before anything happened between them, he refused to investigate
her
further? And he hadn’t offered a second one to her after his recent scathing column about her, either.

Damn, him. She picked up her phone. And texted…

I know you’re back. I want to see you.

She waited. Not long…

You got nerve, doll. No way in hell.

I’ll come to the bar when you’re working and you know it will upset your family.

A longer wait…

You’re a bitch. A restaurant near here, Lincoln’s, for coffee. If you’re not there in fifteen minutes, I’m leaving.

Shocked, Rachel sat back and breathed out heavily. Wow, she hadn’t expected him to agree. At least she’d dressed and done her hair and makeup after a yoga class this morning, so she flew out the door in five minutes, shivered in the cold morning and grabbed a cab; thankfully, she arrived at Lincoln’s on time. She saw him sitting at a window table, working on his phone.

Entering the small and homey establishment with the scents of coffee and fresh dough permeating the air, she made her way to him. When she reached the table, he looked up. At first, he just stared. Again, his hair was tousled as if he hadn’t combed it, and a dark—and damn sexy—beard shadowed his jaw. Then he gave that smile of his, which could be sweet and tender or mean and sarcastic. Today it was the latter. “Doesn’t it get old?”