Someone To Believe In (5 page)

This time he laughed. Deep and from his
belly. It was a really sexy sound.

She smiled.

“I feel like I’m playing Peeping Tom,” Aidan
whispered. “What’s goin’ on?”

Bailey shook her head. “Hush.”

“Me?” Clayton asked.

“No, Aidan.”

“Your address...”

“Should I give him my address?” she asked
Aidan.

“What are his intentions?”

“My brother wants to know your intentions?”
Jeez, was she flirting? With uptight, staid Clayton Wainwright? She
remembered what he looked like tonight in the red crewneck rimmed
by the black T-shirt and readjusted her assessment.

“My intentions?” Again the husky laugh.

Bailey tossed back her head, trying to clear
it. “Never mind. I live on St. Patrick’s Place. Number twenty-four,
apartment 3A.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. It’s about three blocks from the pub.
Come to the front door. Ring the bell, I live upstairs.”

“Is your house green?”

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Be right there.”

She clicked off and shrugged. “He’s coming
here.”

“So I gathered. Want me to wait?”

“Aidan, I meet face-to-face with gang kids
sometimes.”

He shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

She pulled out her keys. “I’m plenty safe
with the senator from New York.”

“Sounded to me like you were flirting.”

“God forbid.” Standing on tiptoes, she kissed
his cheek. “Go home, A.”

“Okay, B.” He kissed her back. “Be
careful.”

“Always.”

Inside, Bailey climbed the stairs thinking
about “Clay.” Once she reached the top and opened the door, she
resisted the urge to pick up her house—toys lay scattered around,
there were a few dishes in the sink, but no dirty underwear or
dried food were in evidence, so she didn’t bother. Instead, she
went to the stove and made coffee. For him? Of course not. She was
planning to spend some time on the ‘net tonight. She’d been
researching shelters for the one she wanted to open for gang
kids—the shelter Senator Wainwright kept trying to block. Angry
all over again, she crossed to her computer, which was nestled in
a nook in the corner of the kitchen, and called up her proposal.
Damn it, she was going to get this off the ground, no matter
what.

Engrossed, she startled when the doorbell
rang. Grabbing his phone, she was out of the apartment and down the
stairs in minutes. She found him on the stoop. His hair was
windblown and looked...good. He held a brown bag in his hand.

“Hi.” He smiled. “Interesting
neighborhood.”

She smiled back. The little section of New
York was full of Irish culture—stores, churches, and immigrant
families galore. People said it reminded them of Ireland, where
Bailey longed, someday, to go.

“The cabbie gave me a running commentary as I
came over. I could barely understand his brogue.”

“Pretty different from a town house by
Central Park.”

She made the comment intentionally. She
wanted to distance this guy.
Bailey, this
is Clay
. She wasn’t going to fall for his buddy
business.

“I don’t live on Central Park.”

“Whatever.” She held out the cell.
“Here.”

“Thanks.” He looked over at her. “My
coat?”

“Damn, it’s upstairs.” Before she could dodge
away, he grasped her arm.

“Invite me up. I want to talk to you. And I
don’t bite.”

“Only metaphorically.” She glanced
meaningfully at his grip on her, and he dropped his hand. “You’ve
taken several chunks out of my hide in the papers and in
Congress.”

“As have you mine.”

She sighed.

“I should tell you what was going on tonight.
And I’d still like to bury the hatchet. It’s what I wanted when I
asked you to breakfast.”

“If I’d gone to breakfast with you,” she said
with exasperation, “this whole bizarre night wouldn’t have
happened.”

His smile was cocky. “Remember that next
time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

He grumbled something about stubborn women as
he followed her up the steps. Once inside, he scanned the
area.

She turned and examined the living room,
where they stood, trying to see it from his point of view. She
hadn’t spent much money on the decor—she hadn’t had any to
invest—but she’d spent time.

He said, “I guess you like Broadway.”

The walls of this room, as well as all the
others, were graced by posters of various plays, playbills, and
some pictures of the original stars.

“Yeah, I do. I save what I can to go to the
theater.”

He grinned. “What’s your favorite show?”

“Phantom of the
Opera
, of course. Isn’t it everybody’s?”

“Not mine.” He said no more.

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Barnum
.”

“I never saw that one. It came out what,
twenty-five years ago?”

“Hmm. I was still in college. My father and I
went on one of our few excursions alone together. I can still see
the elephant on stage. We were in the balcony and a tightrope
walker used the ledge as his rope. It was phenomenal.”

“No net?”

“Nope.” He looked around. “Are there posters
in the other rooms?”

“Uh-huh.”

Rory’s small bedroom had a huge
stand-up cutout from
Seussical
in his room. Bailey was scrimping to be able to afford
tickets to the play.

She grabbed the senator’s jacket off the edge
of the couch. “Here’s your coat.”

He studied her, then held up the bag. “I
brought you a peace offering.”

“Senator, I’m not asking you to stay. We
aren’t going to get chummy, here.”

“It’s ice cream.”

Her favorite treat in the world.

“Pistachio and chocolate.”

“You don’t play fair.”

“Don’t you want to know about tonight?”

Sighing, she shook her head. “All
right, for a bit.” Turning, she led him into the kitchen. He
scanned all the posters there: ones from
Evita
,
A Chorus
Line
, and
Beauty and the
Beast
. “Sit.” She pointed to the table.

He crossed to it, pulled out a chair and
stared down. He picked something up; it was Rory’s New York Yankees
sweatshirt. Wainwright glanced around the kitchen. His gaze was
quizzical. “What are those toys doing here?”

“They’re my son’s.”

“You have a son?”

“Uh-huh. Four years old.” She got out bowls
and spoons and approached the table.

“You have a son?” he repeated, as if she’d
told him she’d recently walked on the moon.

“A lot of women do, Senator.”

“Then what the hell are you doing risking
your life every day with those gang kids?” She pivoted in time to
see him run a hand through his hair and scowl deeply. “What about a
husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Man, if you were mine, I’d tie you to the
bed before I’d let you do what you do.”

“Which is precisely why I never married.” The
words were out before she could stop them.

“Hmm.”

“He asked,” she said defensively. “But I
couldn’t reconcile my job with a relationship.”

“I can see why.” He shook his head and took a
seat, though now more than ever she wanted him to leave. “Can’t be
you were in love with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t have been able to let him go if
you loved him.”

“It wasn’t just that. I cared about him. I
might have married him for Rory’s sake. But I’m Catholic, and
knowing it might not work out, I couldn’t risk a divorce; even
Dylan’s legal separation almost killed my mother.”

“Are you for real?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your reputation doesn’t fit with who you
are.”

“Frankly, yours doesn’t either. At least not
the way I’ve seen you tonight.” She set the bowl in front of him.
“Look, I don’t know how we got on this. Tell me about what happened
tonight.”

His light brown eyes narrowed. They were a
really nice shade, like warm honey, or brandy. “All right. Sit,
first.”

She did, though she didn’t like his
peremptory attitude. He was a man used to being obeyed.

“That was a newspaper reporter.
From
The Village Voice
.” While
he told her the story, he opened the bag and drew out Godiva ice
cream. “Your choice.”

She picked pistachio. “From the
Voice
? Fuck.”

He cocked his head.

“Don’t start on me about my language. My
brothers have a fit over my potty mouth. I try to give swearing up
for Lent.”

His chuckle, again, was warming. “You’re
something else.”

Charming
was
the word that came to mind. And Clay was astounded that he could
even have that thought about a woman who’d been a thorn in his side
for years.

Since you put her in jail.

“What did the reporter want? Other than
to know who your new
squeeze
was?” She opened the pint of ice cream. He did the same and
forgoing the bowls, they dug in.

“He was probably looking for dirt. In
exchange for that, I agreed to give him an interview.”

“What kind of dirt?”

“Women. Drugs. Kiddy porn. Anything that
might taint my reputation.”

She scowled. “Despite how much I dislike your
politics, I don’t remember anything like that being even hinted at
about you.

“All the more reason to catch me doing
something I shouldn’t.”

“Ah, like Rush Limbaugh’s drug addiction. If
he hadn’t been so conservative, it wouldn’t have been such a big
deal.”

Startled that she understood so quickly—Jane
still couldn’t get it—he smiled at her.

Biting into a spoonful, she licked her lips.
They were full, and unpainted. “Did he, um, find out who I
was?”

“What? Oh, no.”

“That’d be news, wouldn’t it? That we were
together.”

“Good news, I think. I’d like to end this
feud.”

“Then back off on ESCAPE.”

“Bailey, I can’t. It’s not healthy. For
kids...” He scanned the room. “Or for you.”

“Lord save me from protective men. You sound
like my brothers. “

“I knew there had to be something redeeming
about them.”

She grinned, despite her resolve not to like
him, he guessed. “They have a lot of good traits. They’re truly men
you can count on, believe in. But their over-protectiveness is not
one of their better traits. That aside, I know I’m affecting the
lives of kids. For the better. I have documentation.”

He remembered her trial, where the stories of
kids she’d helped reform, even at twenty-five, were impressive. He
lazed back. This was what he wanted. A chance to talk to her.
Debate with her privately. But in some ways, he was disappointed at
the shift in the conversation. He liked learning about her private
life. He liked seeing her face light when she talked about her
family, her son, her friends. “I know you’ve done some good,
Bailey. The governor throws it up in my face all the time. But you
give the wrong message to these kids. Gangs can only be stopped by
zero tolerance and increasing legal prosecution.”

She licked her spoon then set it down. “Gangs
can only be stopped by giving kids alternatives to joining, or
helping them find ways to get out.”

His own spoon clattered to the table. He said
heatedly, “Your shelter would provide a haven for those who commit
crimes, who are involved in a myriad of illegal activities.”

“These kids need support, not
punishment.”

“We have to send a message that we won’t
tolerate crime.”

“I—” The phone rang.

Frowning, he checked his watch. “Who’d be
calling at this hour?”

“I’m sure it’s Aidan. Though maybe Patrick.
Rory’s there. I hope he’s all right.” Motherly concern transformed
her face. She seemed vulnerable and...and very lovely. She bounded
off the chair and snatched up the phone. “Hello.” Her stiff posture
relaxed. “Oh, hi, A. Yeah. He came over.” She waited. “Um, yeah,
he’s still here. What?” She giggled and shot Clay a teasing look.
“Aidan wants to know if you can find out for him where Julianne
Moore lives.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get right on it.”

“What’s with guys and redheads?” she asked
into the phone. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” A pause. A very
sentimental smile. “No, I’ m fine. Quit worrying. Yeah, good.
Sure, about ten. See you then.” She smiled at the phone after she
hung up. “They have their uses.”

“Who?”

“My brothers. He’s picking up Rory at
Patrick’s and keeping him for a while so I can sleep in. I have a
late shift at work tomorrow night.”

Without thinking, Clay said, “Let me come.
See what you do.”

“What?”

“Let me come to work with you. It’s Saturday.
I have some things scheduled during the day, but let me spend time
at ESCAPE and see how you operate.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

Leaning against the counter, she studied him
shrewdly, no longer seeming vulnerable. “Well for one thing,
ESCAPE’s headquarters are a secret.”

“West Fifty-third. About twenty minutes from
here by subway.”

“How do you know that?”

He gave her a withering look. “Please.”

She sat down again across from him, but
didn’t speak, just watched him. Her intense gaze, the set of her
delicate features, did something to him.

Finally he said, “I could learn something
from visiting you. If you’re so sure you’re doing the right thing,
then I might come to a better understanding of what ESCAPE does. We
might even make a truce.” Which he doubted. But he could probably
get even more ammunition to shut her down. That thought didn’t sit
well, though; he felt guilty dissembling. Especially since she
wasn’t at all what he had expected. And he kind of liked her.
“Bailey?”