High Stakes (4 page)

“What?”

“Being Miss America all the time.” He checked his watch. “This early?”

Her smile was syrupy. “Nope. Love it.” Removing her short sheepskin coat, placing it on the back of the chair, she sat. A waiter came over and she ordered coffee. She was in the process of calming herself when he reached over and tipped her chin. “Too much makeup. You don’t need it.”

“Dear God, is that a compliment?”

He spoke, as if he was driven to. “I suppose. You gotta know you’re just as pretty without it.”

“If we can leave my appearance for a moment, I wanted to tell you I read your column today.”

“So did thousands of others. I have a following.” Lazing back, he hooked his arm over the chair, making his green sweatshirt with the Bailey’s Pub logo stretch across his chest. “What’d you think of it?”

“Solid points. Good queries. But I wonder why you’ll give KPRAY a second chance to convince you of their validity and not me.”

Springing forward, he grabbed her wrist and she gasped. “You know, I might have reconsidered it if you hadn’t pulled this last stunt.”

“Stunt?”

“Sleeping with me.”

“We made love.”

“It takes two to do that. I still don’t know what you got out of it except three orgasms.”

Oh, God, Dylan. Yes, right there. I can’t believe…

“I told you why I did it.”

“You knew you’d never have a chance to fuck me again.”

She looked at his hand vising her wrist. “You’re hurting me, Dylan.”

Letting go of her, he stood, dug in his pocket and threw some money on the table. “Then we’re even. You’ll get a second chance when hell freezes over.”

Giving her his back, he stormed out of the restaurant. She watched as he turned up the collar of his leather coat and headed south. Swallowing hard, she chose to get mad.

Deciding to help out with lunch, Dylan went to the pub. Its warm interior, the rich scent of food and the camaraderie among his family always made him feel better. The noon crowd hadn’t arrived and he found his brothers gathered around the bar, staring at something. His stomach tightened when he saw Aidan, who didn’t yet know about the segment in Rachel’s show on his wedding.

When he reached them, he put his hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy.”

Aidan turned. A rested, happy and satisfied expression claimed his face. Had Dylan ever felt that way? “How was the honeymoon?”

Hugging him first, Aidan grinned from ear to ear. “Wonderful. I’m even sappier now.” His eyes teared. “Hell, I’m gonna be a dad.”

They hadn’t had much time before he left for Hawaii to discuss C.J.’s announcement at the wedding, which poleaxed them all, even her six beautiful sisters. “You’ll finally be one of us.” There were times to bust balls and times to be genuine. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“How’s Hogan?”

“Still on February break in Paris with his mother. It killed him to miss the wedding.” Stephanie had made the arrangements for him to go to her place in France before Aidan and C.J. set a date. She refused to change her plans.

“We all missed him. He gonna be okay with her over there?”

“The jury’s out on that one.” Dylan hoped she didn’t leave his fourteen year old son alone too much. Hogan was a good kid, but he’d get in trouble, even in a foreign country, if his mother spurned him again. Sometimes, Dylan’s dislike of his ex-wife and how she handled his boy bordered on hate.

To change the subject, he pointed to what was spread over the bar. “Pictures?”

“Uh-huh. The resort in Hawaii was beautiful and just what we needed to reconnect.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Christ, boy, if you two connect any more than you already are, you’re gonna burn yourselves up.”

“Nah. You know we had a hard time after she got shot.” C.J. had been on protective duty for a foreign dignitary and had gotten hurt during an attack.

“That I do, little bro.”

Dylan nudged Pat out of the way. “Let me see the photos.”

There were about twenty of them spread out on the dark oak surface. Each one was better than the next: teal blue water, glittering sunshine, breathtaking sunsets. “Gorgeous, kiddo.”

He snuck a picture from his case. “Not as gorgeous as this one.” It was a shot of C.J., in a beautiful white sundress, tanned, her hair lightened. Her face glowed.

Liam smiled. “Holy Cow, Aidan, I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Yeah, too bad I can’t publish it anywhere.” Aidan’s photos were well received worldwide because they were so good, but he refused to capitalize on Bailey’s fame or C.J.’s history with her.

Liam left and came back with four bowls of stew. They sat at a table, eating heartily. Afterward, Aidan said, “So, what’d I miss?”

Hell, his brother was going to blow up when he heard. Bailey had given them all nicknames, and Aidan’s was The Peacemaker. He wouldn’t run to type today, and Dylan regretted that he’d ruin his brother’s mood.

“Rachel Scott published photos of your wedding.”

As expected, Aidan let out a string of obscenities. When Dylan explained it was his fault, Aidan managed to calm down. Though the brothers fought, when it counted, they were there for each other. “I don’t blame you. I blame that bitch.”

“I should have made her leave. But it’s water under the bridge. I saw her this morning, by the way.”

“Where?” Patrick asked.

“She called, wanted to talk to me. Jesus, she showed up at nine a.m. with war paint and hair done like she was going to the opera.”

“Let me guess,” Liam said, “She wanted a second column from you.”

“What’d you say?” Aidan asked.

“That it’d be a cold day in hell.” His cell phone rang and he checked the ID. “I have to get this. It’s my editor.”

“Hi, Herb. What’s up?” The man’s gravelly voice rumbled over the phone. “I have instructions from on high, aka Mayor Jacob’s office by way of the CEO of
CitySights
, that you’re to give Rachel Scott an investigative interview.”

“Excuse me?”

“The owners of the network want you to do for her what you do for most of your columns. Apparently, NSMBC has friends in high places. I know this concerns your family, but if you want to keep your column—the CEO’s threat, not mine—you have no choice.”

“Fuck,” he spat out after he disconnected.

“Hogan?” Liam asked. ”No, my editor. Looks like the temperature just dropped below thirty-two degrees in the underworld.” He explained his boss’s instructions.

“Are we
ever
going to get her out of our lives?” Aidan asked.

“Maybe Dylan should seduce her.” Of course Pat was joking. “Keep her quiet with sex.”

“I’ll bet she’s frigid as hell.” This from Aidan.

Liam said, “Come on, guys. Let’s not bad-mouth her. She’s got a job to do.” He smiled at Dylan. “Still, if you spent some time with her, you could keep an eye on her.”

Dylan didn’t respond. His brothers couldn’t be any more wrong. Though he hadn’t done it to control her, having sex with Rachel had no effect on her betrayal of the O’Neil family.

Sighing, he refused to let the notion hurt.

“So, beautiful, how did you snag this one?”

Rachel glanced up to see Rubin Raskin standing in her office doorway. Her space was big, airy, with two windows and had been professionally decorated in blues, greens and a hint of peach. Behind him in the large newsroom, the staff’s low murmurs and ringing phones drifted into her office.

Her colleague and the man she preceded on nightly cable-news network NSMBC alternated being a staunch supporter and, like now, somewhat sarcastic about her success. Incredibly handsome with masses of light-colored hair and nearly gray eyes, Rubin was a favorite of the audiences, who seemed to love his wit and his charm. Just like her in some ways. Though she tried not to capitalize on her looks, she knew they’d helped her rise in the media world.

“Snag what?” she asked, marshaling her defenses.

“Haven’t you heard? Your producer is in heaven. You’re getting Dylan O’Neil to follow you around for a while. The First Lady’s brother.”

“She’s not the First Lady yet. The president came through the surgery just fine.” Rachel hated that some people had declared Mark Langley as permanently incapacitated. She’d done a segment on the tasteless nomenclature.

“Whatever.” Leaning back against the doorjamb, Rubin crossed his ankles.

“When does he start?” she asked him.

“You mean you don’t know that, either?”

“No.”

They both looked up when Crane Davis came to the doorway. Nearly fifty, with gray hair and a still-fit build,
he
was always in her corner. “I got good news.”

“Raskin beat you to the punch. How’d it happen?”

Crane gave Rubin a disapproving look. “John Walsh”—the top network official—”called the mayor, who called the CEO of
CitySights
. Since the acting president of the United States was a former New York senator, the mayor wants things smoothed over between O’Neil and you.”

Inside Rachel a war battled:
Yay! she was going to see Dylan regularly
. And:
Oh, no, she was going to see Dylan regularly.
“How will it go down?” she asked as neutrally as she could.

Turning to Rubin, Crane said, “Could you give us some space, Raskin?”

Scowling, Rubin nodded and left.

Crane closed the door and sat across from her. “O’Neil will investigate you in three ways. He’s allowed to scrutinize all your previous stories for any kind of mishandlings; he gets to follow you around your job and go on assignments with you.”

“That’s not too bad.”

“There’s one more thing. He insists on being filled in on your background. By you.”

“No way.”

Crane’s eyes were clear and caring. “It’s a deal breaker and we can’t afford to break this particular deal, Rach.”

Exasperated, she leaned back in her chair. She had secrets she didn’t want anybody to know about. “What exactly does
my background
consist of?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Her phone buzzed. The intercom speaker said, “You have a phone call, Rachel.”

She knew, she
knew
who it was.

“Dylan O’Neil.”

Damn.

“Put him through,” Crane said to her, “and play nice. This is the chance you wanted. And it’ll get you places.” Crane was pulling for her to get the foreign reporter assignment and was planning to be part of her team.

When Crane left, Rachel picked up the phone. “Rachel Scott.”

“You won.” Dylan’s deep baritone came across the phone lines. Even angry, his voice skittered across her nerves.

“Not quite. I’ll go along with the first two requirements but not the last. You don’t have a right to pry into my background.”

“I check out the background of all the subjects I investigate. I’m meeting with the KPRAY people this afternoon to start the process. I’ll be digging into everything about them.”

“Into their personal lives?”

“Yeah, to see what their motivation might be.”

She got up and closed the office door Crane had left ajar, then whispered into the phone, “You didn’t sleep with those others, Dylan.”

“Nope. And believe me, I’ll never make the mistake of sleeping with the enemy again.”

She couldn’t control the little gasp that escaped her. “We’re not enemies, Dylan.”

“Yes, Miss America, we are. So, I’m free tomorrow morning. Come to my office with a list of the projects you’ve worked on. We’ll start to get to know each other then.”

She hated his autocratic tone. But she agreed, wishing like hell she hated everything else about him.

The offices of KPRAY broadcasting were in the Village, not far from the pub, which surprised Dylan as much as their modest size. Up a flight of stairs, seven private offices with several cubicles and tables filled the main area. They employed twenty workers; one met Dylan before he could wander around. “Mr. O’Neil, I’m Jamie Linton.”

He’d expected a man, maybe in a suit, maybe older. This woman looked about thirty with short red hair, freckles, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that read Come Pray with Us.

“You’re managing producer of the station?”

A hearty laugh escaped her. “Everyone is surprised. And I’m older than I look.” Perusing him, she cocked her head. “You’re exactly what I anticipated. But, of course, I’ve seen the picture with your column and then of you on TV, when you were with your sister.”

Linton led the way across the room. The faint scent of coffee filled the air, and the several people in the outer area spoke on the phone or with each other or worked quietly at their desks. He noticed Christian music played softly in the background.

Overlooking Houston Street, Linton’s office was big, with two tables, a scarred oak desk and shelves lining the walls, stuffed with books and newspapers and magazines. The entire place seemed totally disorganized, but there was probably a method in its madness.

When she took a seat at a table with some clean surface space, he followed suit. She looked him square in the eye. “So, I read your column.”

“I guessed you would.”

Picking up glasses with red frames, which lay on her desk, she put them on, then stared down at a paper, presumably
CitySights
. From his vantage point, Dylan noted portions of it were highlighted. After glancing through the column, she sat back in her chair. “I imagine you want to follow the money trail.”

“Among other things. I have to say, my gut tells me the cash flow will check out, given your Charity Navigator rating.” An okay from that national organization, which policed charities, was the crown jewel for any group.

Her light brown brows raised. “Didn’t you see their rating before you wrote the column?” Her voice held disdain.

He had to laugh. “I assure you I did due diligence before I came to any conclusions.”

Now her face lost all its innocence, or friendliness, or naiveté. “Then what do you want from us, Mr. O’Neil?”

Raising an eyebrow, he nodded to the paper in front of her. “Isn’t that highlighted in yellow?”

“No, I must have seen
red
before I got to it.”