Love Story (20 page)

The group of six reached the admittance desk and were met by a man dressed in an impeccable suit. “Mr. Vice President. Ms. O’Neil. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I’m James Jones. I manage New York Memorial.”

Bailey and Clay shook hands with the administrator.
“Thank you for coming in at this hour,” the vice president said.

C.J. watched Clay slide his arm around his wife’s shoulders; Bailey leaned into him. They had to be the most demonstrative political couple she’d ever encountered in the six years she’d been with the secret service. Their open affection for each other was often a topic of discussion among the who’s who in Washington—much of it
not always kind. Since Bailey was four months pregnant, Clay was even more attentive than usual.

As they spoke with the doctor, C.J. scanned the forty-by-forty hospital reception area. The other three agents did the same, though her partner, Mitch Calloway, who headed the Second Lady’s detail, and Tim Jenkins, the special agent in charge of the vice presidential force, moved in close to the
protectees.

“I’ll show you the way.” The hospital administrator glanced at the agents, then back to the Second Couple. “All of you, I guess.”

Calloway looked over at C.J. About forty, he had shrewd brown eyes and dark hair accented by a touch of gray at the temples. Nodding to the other side of the room, he signaled her to take note. A striking redheaded woman was arguing with a...uh-oh…a
man with a camera. Damn it, how had the media gotten wind of the vice president’s midnight trek on Marine Two, the VP helicopter, from Washington to New York? And how did they get past the uniformed guards at the entrance to the hospital? True, the service hadn’t had time to do any advance work because this was an emergency. But, still…

Irked, C.J. strode across the area. When she reached
the pair, their disagreement was in full swing.

The female stood tall on her three-inch heels. Apparently she was digging them in. “I said no, Ross. We’re not intruding on them. We’re leaving right now.”

“Yes,” C.J. said, drawing herself up to her full five-eight height. “You are.”

The cameraman, a wiry wrestler-type, peered over half glasses at her. “Yeah? Who says?”

Brushing
back the tailored jacket of her black suit, C.J. exposed her semiautomatic then flashed her badge. They could guess who she was by her suit and the American flag pin on her lapel, along with her earpiece, but a little show of force never hurt. “The United States Secret Service. No media here, hotshot.” She shook her head and let her usually even temper spike. “Can’t you people be humane for once?
This is a family emergency.”

“First Amendment gives us—”

The woman stepped forward, sending a fall of auburn hair into her eyes and perfume wafting toward C.J. “I’m Rachel Scott. Our TV station, WNYC, got a tip that Vice President Wainwright and his wife had arrived in town and were headed to Memorial. But we won’t intrude. Obviously a family member is more ill than we anticipated. We’ll
be leaving.”

“Thank you. I’ll follow you out.” C.J.’s comment was neutral, as she’d been trained in responding to questions.

Don’t confirm or deny the press’s comments. Usually they’re on a fishing expedition. If you agree with them, they’ll phrase it like you said the words.
Her first boss, David Anderson, had given her good advice on all aspects of being an agent. He’d been her mentor,
until he turned on her, which still made her furious, except that it led to her working with Mitch in the D.C. field office. When Mitch had gotten into the coveted VPPD, the Vice Presidential Protective Division, he’d often called on her to substitute for agents or when extra protection was needed. After a year, one of the Second Lady’s personal agents cycled out in the customary rotation of agents,
and Bailey had asked for C.J. to join their detail permanently. That was how she’d come to such a plum position with not even a decade in the service under her belt.

Because she saw to it that the press exited through the front door without taking any detours, and turned them over to the uniformed agents standing post outside, C.J. had to find her own way to the CCU. As she traversed the corridors,
she said into her wrist unit, part of the service’s restrictive radio network, “Reporters are history. I’m on my way back.”

“Understood,” Mitch said. “We’re at the CCU with Bulldog and Bright Star.”

Code names were given to protectees, usually indicative of their personalities. Clay Wainwright was known for fighting relentlessly for the rights of others, and Bailey was a standout on the
Hill because she didn’t play politics.

The smell of
hospital
assaulted C.J. as she made the trip upstairs. Antiseptic, ripe food and something best left unidentified abused her senses. She remembered the odors. She associated them with death. For Bailey’s sake, C.J. hoped her own visceral reaction was wrong this time.

Her three colleagues, Clay and Bailey were in the corridor outside of
CCU talking to a doctor whose tag read, Edward Crane,
Chief of Cardiology
. The vice president of the most powerful country in the world commanded top people’s attention. C.J. came up next to Mitch, who threw her a quick nod.

“Mr. O’Neil is resting now. We’ve given him a sedative.” The doctor’s voice was soothing.

“We’ve run some tests to assess his condition and make a determination on
how to proceed. I’ve called in our best cardiac surgeon and his team.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “I expect them any minute.”

Again, Bailey leaned into Clay. “What’s the prognosis?”

C.J. had to smile, despite the circumstances. Though she’d only been the Second Lady’s permanent shadow for a few months, she’d followed the news accounts of the woman’s whirlwind career as the wife of
the vice president. It was public knowledge that Bailey and Clay had a history; first, as a young district attorney, he’d put her in jail for harboring a criminal. After that, for almost a decade, they’d disagreed on the best way to stop youth gangs, and had battled out their different views in the newspapers. But two years ago, when they were assigned to the same task force by the governor of New
York, they’d fallen hard for each other, and thumbed their noses at the political world. From what C.J. understood, they’d fought like hell to be together. In any case, Bailey O’Neil was a perfect role model for teenage girls and women alike. C.J. truly valued her assignment protecting the Second Lady, even though there had been some nasty gossip about how she’d gotten the position.

The doctor
continued analyzing the patient’s condition. “It appears Mr. O’Neil had a major heart attack. Your brother tells us he had the classic symptoms—-chest pain, shortness of breath, discomfort in his arm. Mr. O’Neil, the son, called 911 and administered aspirin, which helped.”

“Will Pa be all right?” Bailey asked, her voice shaky.

“We won’t know that for a while. We’ve already done some tests
to determine the amount of blockage. They wore him out, and made him anxious, which is why he’s sedated. The cardiologist and his team will determine the extent of the heart trauma and a course of action when they get here.”

“What might that include?”

The doctor glanced to Clay when he asked the question. “It depends on the amount of blockage. It could mean angioplasty, or some form of
surgery. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I hate to commit, Vice President Wainwright, until the surgeon can give us his opinion.”

A woman who’d hovered behind them—she wore a hospital badge that read Janice Denny—cleared her throat. “I’ll show you to the private waiting room. The rest of your family is there, Ms. O’Neil.”

Bailey frowned. “Can I see Pa first?”

“Yes, of course.”
The doctor’s smile was sympathetic. “One person at a time is allowed into the room. He’s alone now, as your mother took a break. Try not to wake him up.”

“Hold on.” Mitch spoke with the air of a man used to being obeyed. “An agent will have to accompany Ms. O’Neil.”

“Into the CCU?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

“We didn’t have time to
do thorough advance checks on your personnel or the hospital rooms themselves. If the press downstairs knows we’re here, others could, too.”

Tim Jenkins stepped forward. His kind eyes and boyish charm were deceptive. He said with the authority of an SAIL, special agent in charge, “One of your team should go to the waiting room and check the area out while Ms. O’Neil is in with her father.
We’ll stay here with the vice president until you let us know all’s clear.”

“I want C.J. to come with me,” Bailey told them.

The Second Lady accepted the protection of the Secret Service willingly. Only the vice president was required by law to have it. On occasion Bailey let it slip in conversation that it was hard for her to have the agents around all the time. But she knew they were
needed to protect her and her children, especially because she was so high profile, due to her gang work in New York. And she did her best not to take her annoyance out on the agents. Mitch had told C.J. horror stories about presidents like L.B.J. mistreating his protectives, and even some vice presidential wives trying to dodge the service’s watch over them.

C.J. stepped forward, her face
blank. “Whatever you want, Ms. O’Neil.” Agents always addressed the protectees formally.

The doctor opened the door to the private CCU room, a privilege given to them because of the patient’s relationship to the vice president. When the doctor moved back, Bailey and C.J. stepped inside.

A man hovered by the bed—one of her Bailey’s four older brothers. This one, Aidan, had the O’Neil looks:
tall, lanky but muscular with crystal clear blue eyes and black hair, his a little long. When he saw his sister, he rushed to her and grabbed her in a bear hug hard enough to crack her ribs. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“Me, too.”

“Come on over.” He led her back to the bed.

A nurse sat in a chair in the corner. C.J. followed Bailey and stopped
a discreet distance away, while Bailey sat down at her father’s side. Machines at the head of the bed beeped and whooshed; the soft sounds of muted phones and footsteps filtered in from the corridor. Aidan settled a big masculine hand on her shoulders and C.J. avoided looking at his face.

“Hi, Pa,” Bailey whispered, lightly touching Patrick O’Neil’s limp hand. There were tears in her eyes.
“It’s me, your girl. I’m here in New York, and I’m going to stay until you get better.” Some sniffling. “I love you so much. Please, come out of this. Get better. I’m not ready for you to leave us yet.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “Clay and I are having another boy. We’re going to name him after you.” She kissed her father’s head. “Please, Pa.”

Before she lost control, even a modicum
of it, C.J. averted her gaze. She was used to quelling her personal feelings, though she’d known this trip to New York would test that skill. Ever since she’d joined the Secret Service, straining her relationship with her family and being subjected to unfair rumors among the agents, she’d hardened her heart. Getting weepy and sentimental about the situation had no place in her life now.

A NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author, Kathryn Shay has been a lifelong writer and teacher. She has written dozens of self-published original romance titles, print books with the Berkley Publishing Group and Harlequin Enterprises and mainstream women’s fiction with Bold Strokes Books. She has won five RT Book Reviews awards, four Golden Quills, four Holt Medallions,
the Bookseller’s Best Award, Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year and several “Starred Reviews.” Her novels have been serialized in COSMOPOLITAN magazine and featured in USA TODAY, THE WALL STREET JOURNAL and PEOPLE magazine. There are over five million copies of her books in print, along with hundreds of thousands downloaded online. Reviewers have call her work “emotional and heart-wrenching.”