February 15
“Sorry I’m late.” Rumpled from sleeping most of the day—God knew he had reason—Dylan O’Neil apologized to his brothers when he entered Bailey’s Irish Pub an hour after his shift started.
As he rinsed glasses, Patrick grumbled something Dylan couldn’t make out. Liam’s blue eyes were burning. Because Dylan was late? His mild-mannered brother never got this mad at something like punctuality.
“Liam, you pissed at me?” Dylan asked, a bit hurt.
“Not at you.”
God, Dylan hoped Sophie and the boys were okay. Liam was soon to marry a firefighter and they all knew her life was on the line every single day. “What happened?”
Liam nodded up to the TV, now emitting a low hum. “Our nemesis was on.”
“Already?” Nemesis did not need to be explained to an O’Neil. But The Rachel Scott Show didn’t air till eight.
“Yeah. She’s been on the other cable shows all day.”
Just then the front door of the pub opened and in stalked an entourage, with Clay Wainwright at the helm. He and Bailey planned to stay a few days after Aidan’s wedding to spend time with the family. Both of them, however, were loaded for bear.
Even the Secret Service agents bore knitted brows and were tight-lipped. Mitch Calloway, the agent in charge of Bailey’s detail, especially.
“What’s going on?” Dylan asked.
Clayton Wainwright looked every inch the vice president of the United States when he set a small laptop computer on the bar. Dylan noted, though, that his shoulders were stiff and jaw rigid. “Scott. Again. I have a news clip on here.”
Liam and Pat said together, “We saw it.”
Bailey threw up her hands. “Son of a bitch.”
That made Calloway smile a bit. The Second Lady often spurned the decorum of her position. Today her distaste for protocol was enhanced by her jeans and the Columbia sweatshirt Dylan had bought for her when he was attending college there, later in life.
“What is everybody talking about?” Dylan asked.
“Show Dyl,” Liam said. “He’s going to be the maddest.”
Clay opened the laptop’s cover, clicked on a few keys, and on-screen came the bulletin, “Now a Special Report from Rachel Scott.”
Dylan’s heartbeat escalated as the gorgeous woman appeared. She didn’t seem tired, though she should. Instead, she appeared excited and gave a sexy smile. “Everyone’s been wondering about the wedding of one of the brothers-in-law of Vice President Clay Wainwright. Yesterday, Aidan O’Neil married C.J. Ludzecky, a Secret Service agent, in a private ceremony in our own Big Apple.”
This coverage wasn’t unexpected. When Dylan had discovered Rachel in the back of the church at the wedding, he’d let her stay at the ceremony because they owed her a favor. And because he wanted to. He prepared himself for her report.
But not the pictures.
You promise, no pictures?
I promise. You can search me if you want.
He should have searched her. He shouldn’t have trusted her. With a lot of things.
Swallowing hard, he watched as a videotape played and Rachel’s sultry voice came on over the photos.
Aidan, grinning broadly at C.J.
How gorgeous his new sister-in-law was in white lace.
How C.J. shocked everybody with the announcement of her pregnancy. Damn it, that should have been a private moment.
And last, a video of the four O’Neil boys, Clay and C.J.’s brother Luke posing for a photo: “And look at these groomsmen. Have you ever seen a more handsome bunch?” The camera panned them, resting a moment too long on Dylan.
His heart began to pound in his chest.
His palms began to sweat.
And her face came on again. She winked. “It’s tough work, covering an affair like this, but somebody’s got to do it.”
When the segment ended, Clay fumed. “Can anyone tell me how the hell she gained entrance to the church?”
A young agent stepped up. Dylan didn’t know his name, so he must have been added to Clay’s detail. “We think she snuck in with the bridal party.” His face colored. The poor schmuck had probably been blinded by the Ludzecky sisters’ beauty—all seven of them.
“Nobody saw her in the back of the church?” Calloway wanted to know.
“I did.” Dylan confessed what he’d done as if it was a crime. In a way, it was, against his family. A family he’d vowed to protect because of what happened when he was only five years old.
Pat snapped a towel on the bar. “Why the hell did you let her stay?”
“Because we owed her for calling us when Sophie was in the hospital. She promised no pictures.”
She promised a lot of things.
Dylan’s gaze transferred to the computer. Clay had frozen the clip on her at the end of the segment. Bright green eyes stared out at him. They flashed with…satisfaction. Her skeins of auburn hair floated around her shoulders and down her back, like a cloak.
Dylan’s stomach turned queasy. Because the last time he’d seen those satisfied eyes they’d been filled with sexual contentment. And all that hair had covered her pillow as he braced himself over her.
Christ, how did he tell his brothers and Clay that he’d slept with the enemy the night of Aidan’s wedding?
oOo
“And that’s it for The Rachel Scott Show. I’m Rachel Scott and I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She smiled. It was phony, but the audience wouldn’t be able to tell. “Who knows what I’ll have for you then.”
As soon as the cameraman signaled they were offline, she removed her lapel mic, nodded to her staff and said, “Good show.”
“Great one, Rachel,” her producer called from the side.
Because the recording had been aired on other shows all day, tonight’s revelation wasn’t a scoop. But Rachel had been afraid some black market video would hit the airwaves with the same coverage if she waited until evening. These things had a way of being stolen or accidentally released by innocent attendees grabbing a photo.
“Super footage in that first segment,” a female staffer quipped and the others laughed.
Feigning amusement, she chuckled and headed for her dressing room, anxious to get out of the salmon-colored dress she loved but felt uncomfortable in tonight. A text came on her phone from her boss, John Walsh.
Great reporting. I expect to see more of this.
She held the compliment close to her heart to keep from thinking about what she’d actually done today. The word betrayal stuck in her throat like a cotton sock.
When she opened her door, she froze. She knew he’d come tonight, but not this soon. She’d even left instructions with reception to bring him here. Volatile Dylan O’Neil wouldn’t sit on the issue. He lounged in a chair, casual and sexy in jeans, a shirt and a navy pea coat, which made his eyes the color of dark blue velvet. “Good show,” he said silkily.
You are so lovely, he’d murmured when he undressed her last night. You take my breath away. He’d been sincere then. Not sarcastic. Not angry, like now.
She’d already decided how to play this. “Thanks.” Her intent to keep eye contact didn’t work, though. She had to glance away.
“Can’t face me head on, sweetheart?” Again the mocking tone.
Last night his words had been genuine. Ah, sweetheart, this is so good…
Sick of men pushing her around, she spoke what was in her heart. “You came to me, Dylan. You called me after you had a few drinks and asked to come to my townhouse.”
“Silly me.” His mask slipped and she saw a vulnerable man who’d been deceived. “You didn’t have to fuck me when you knew you were gonna do this.”
Crossing to the chair, she sat down because, suddenly, her knees were weak. Regardless, she had to look at him for this. “I know. I wanted to.”
He came to stand in front of her. Tipped her chin, without a whit of tenderness.
You’re so gentle, Dylan. I never expected that.
Not always. I didn’t think I would be with you.
“What the hell does that mean, you wanted to? Christ, you could have spared me the fallout of what you did today.”
Again, she confessed the truth. “I knew that I’d never get another chance to be with you.” God, she hated the hoarseness in her voice. “And, as I said, I wanted to be with you.”
In truth, she’d paced the floor, waiting for him to arrive after he’d called her, trying to talk herself out of what she knew she was going to do if he asked. And he had asked.
I know this is stupid. But I’ve been thinking about you in that green dress all day, all tonight. And I’m Irish. He’d shrugged those wonderful, broad shoulders. I get sentimental at weddings.
What do you want, Dylan?
He’d been achingly honest. You.
Now his gaze was brutal. “You know, don’t you, that this is gonna backfire. Clay was already pissed at you. Wasn’t it stupid to make him even angrier?”
“Thanks to you, he’s not allowing me coverage of his activities, anyway. How much worse can it get?”
“You honestly think this’ll get you a job overseas?”
Her boss had said she had to prove she was tough, wily, could sneak in and out of tight places. What better way to show him she was up to the task than slipping by the Secret Service? Getting footage no other reporter could obtain. Unfortunately, she’d confessed to Dylan last year her longing to be a foreign correspondent with the network.
Reaching down, he grasped her arm and drew her to her feet. His scent, still in her head from all those hours in bed, weakened her. He was taller than her by several inches. “Answer me.”
“I still want a job in the field. One’s opening sooner than expected. I have to prove I can play with the big boys.”
The laugh that escaped him was so ugly she cringed. Last night, his chuckles had been sexier than hell. “You certainly got a chance to do that with me. If I’d known you were faking it, I would’ve acted the part.” He moved in close enough and she could see the sweat on his brow. “I might’ve even been rough with you. I’ll bet your kind of woman likes that.”
“I loved what we did together.” It just slipped out, hoarse and meaningful.
“Fool me once, darlin’…” He backed away. “Remember what I said at the church? That the truce was over?”
She could only nod.
“The battle just escalated to all-out war.” With that, he pivoted and walked out of the small room.
Rachel sank onto the chair, willing herself to be calm. To not react. She’d shown weakness last night, which had made covertly taking the videos worse, and if she couldn’t tolerate even Dylan’s anger, how was she going to react when terrorists were bombing the streets behind her as she reported the news?
oOo
Patrick watched a calm-looking Dylan walk into the pub. But Pat had always been able to see the emotion buried beneath the cool front his brother put on for everybody. He and Dylan often shot the shit late into the night after the pub closed, so they knew more about each other than the rest of the siblings did. Pat had told Dyl all of his secrets. Except one.
Dylan plopped down on a stool.
“I assume you went to see her.”
“Yeah. Get me a beer, will you?” When Pat served the brew, Dylan said, “Did Bailey and Clay leave?”
“No, they’re in the corner, sharin’ an intimate dinner with four agents watching them like hawks. I don’t know how the lass handles it so well.”
“I’ll go over in a minute.” Thoughtfully, Dylan sipped the drink. “I talked to Scott. Not that it helped.”
“What the hell’s the matter with her? Doesn’t she get it? She’s diggin’ her hole with Clay even deeper.”
“She gets it. She’s after a foreign correspondent’s job and thinks—oh, hell, I don’t know—that getting scoops on Clay is gonna help her. And she can’t do it any other way, since he’s ostracized her.”
“Overseas?”
Dylan snorted. “Believe it or not, Miss America wants to be the next Richard Engel.”
“Bullshit. She might break a nail when rebels revolt.”
Despite his obvious anger, Dylan laughed. “Yeah, I can’t see her dodging bullets either.”
Pat studied him. “How do you know all this?”
“She came to see me when CitySights published the full transcript of her show on Sophie. It just slipped out.”
Scott had done a terrible disservice to Liam’s woman and all female firefighters when an interview with Sophie was edited to make her look like fluff. And negative about her fellow male firefighters.
Pat shook his head. “She’s an idiot.”
“Maybe. Stuff is brewing beneath that gorgeous exterior.”
“She isn’t so pretty to me anymore.”
“Yeah. Speaking of pretty, how’s Brie?”
Feeling his heartbeat stumble, Pat tried to be fair. “Her business is growing.” His wife had expanded Inplaceinc, an outfit that organized people’s homes for them, to the Hamptons. “But she hired staff and is home more than I thought she’d be.”
Pat glanced at his sister again; now she was waving Dylan to come to the table. Dylan tracked his gaze.
“I’ll go fill them in.”
Turning to look down the bar, Pat said to Bridget, their part-time bartender, “Man the helm, hon,” and followed Dylan to a somewhat concealed corner. Just as they reached his family, the front door to the pub flew open. Clay’s Secret Service Agents leaped in front of the table and pushed Pat and Dylan behind them. Quickly, they formed a wall in front of the vice president and Bailey.
Mitch Calloway blew out a heavy breath when the intruders strode closer. “Shit, it’s the good guys.” Four agents in severe black suits reached them. Mitch asked, “What’s wrong?”
The first man said, “President Langley just collapsed.”
Pat saw Clay stand and angle his way in front of the agents. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, sir. The president has an aneurysm. He passed out at dinner with the King of Jordan.”
“Oh, my God. How is he?”
“He’s alive but incapacitated. He’ll need surgery. You’re required to come with us to a secure location where you’ll be briefed on protocol.”
Holy Christ, Pat thought, the president’s condition must be life threatening. And if Mark Langley died, Clay would become president of the United States.
o0o
For notification of Kathryn’s new work and information about her books, be sure to sign up for her newsletter at http://on.fb.me/1bLS0bN.
If you liked TAKING THE HEAT, you might want to post a review of it at Smashwords.