High Stakes (19 page)

Her moan was low and soft, like a purr. And still they continued to kiss. Dylan’s mind blanked and he let himself get lost in her.

Rachel didn’t know who started the disrobing, but her hands were on the hem of his sweater, and her green cashmere one already lay on the floor. His bare chest greeted her and she buried her nose against the hard flesh with a dusting of hair on it. His skin was rough, male. She ran her lips over his pecs, neck, nipples. He squeezed her waist then tugged down her pants. She pushed up and kicked them off. He felt her thigh-high stockings and mumbled, “Holy hell. Leave them on.”

There was laughter with the tenderness and with the heat.

Then he surprised her and rolled her over again. The front clasp of her bra popped and she filled his hands. Plumping a breast, he took a nipple in his mouth and sucked, grazed it with his teeth. Her lower body thrust into him. She raked her fingernails down his sides and tugged at his jeans.

Dylan had forgotten he still had pants on. Rolling to the side, he yanked everything off but grabbed the jeans and took a condom out of his pocket.

After he slid it on, he got right down to business again, kissing her ribs, her flat stomach, the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Her skin felt like watery silk and she tasted like nectar. They’d done all this before, after Aidan’s wedding, and he remembered things about her. She liked being kissed behind her knees. His tongue on her foot made her giggle, then sigh. He contented himself with the play for several precious moments. But finally he could stand no more. Again, he knelt before her and drew each leg over his shoulders. He poised at her opening. Last time, she’d closed her eyes, but now she held his gaze, silently saying,
Look at me, Dylan. Look at me.

He smiled as he pushed into her. He was so hard he hoped he didn’t hurt her, but he was way past gentleness or retreat. She was wet and slippery, so one long thrust was all it took until he possessed her fully. “Oh, God.”

One more push and he had to move—fast, faster, really fast. Her spasms began and she called out his name, over and over, and he couldn’t hold back. He was losing consciousness, losing himself in her when his whole body tensed, then shuddered as he literally saw stars.

Dylan sprawled over her. His breathing was labored and his heart pounded in perfect rhythm against hers. Hugging him, she breathed in the scent of him, of them together. She entwined her legs with his and kept him close.

He obliged her for a few minutes, then whispered, “Too heavy,
leanbh
,” and rolled off her. But he didn’t let her go. He cradled her to his side, drew her leg over his hip and covered them with a blanket. He kissed her head, then tucked it under his chin.

Her head spun over his tender gestures after such volcanic passion. She let herself enjoy the deep, deep connection between them. But she had to know, so she asked, “Why?

A heavy sigh escaped him and she felt his chest rise and fall. “It hit me in the diner that nothing had been decided about the column, that there’s still a whole host of things against this.” He gestured around the room. “I got confused and scared, I guess.”

She nodded against his chest. “Why did you come back?”

He tipped her chin up and stared at her with still-hot eyes. “Because I wanted you and said,
fuck it
to all the reasons why I shouldn’t be with you. Like this.” He kissed her. “I had to have you again, Rach.”

She felt her eyes tear and realized then just how much she needed to hear that.

“Hey,” he said, brushing away a renegade drop. “Why this?”

“Because I wanted to be with you again, too. Ever since the first time.”

He yanked her close and buried his face in her hair. “Oh, God, woman, this side of you is gonna kill me.”

Dressed in a formfitting, aka mouth-watering, hot pink, one-piece thing, Rachel pulled the lever on a slot machine even though she could have simply pressed a button. Bells and whistles went off, joining the cacophony of noise pinging around her. The numbers in the Winner Paid column started to rise—to the tune of one hundred dollars. “Yay! I won.”

Dylan gave her a sideways glance from the seat next to her, took a second to appreciate her dark thick eyelashes, framing those beautiful eyes, which danced with mirth. “I’m almost broke, woman.” Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. “What’s your secret?”

She whispered, “I’ve been lucky ever since you walked into that elevator two days ago.”

His throat got tight. She’d worked for two days, and he’d observed her, but through a whole different lens after their nights of intimacy. Yesterday, when the second witness in the bridge scandal invoked the fifth, too, he thought they’d be finished with the assignment. But last night, Rachel had done some research on the lawyer and found a photo of his wife. And today, the last day of testimony, the woman was in the hearing room, and so Rachel followed her out. Wife met up with lawyer when he moved away from the other reporters, and Rachel coaxed him into a quick interview, which she spun into a lengthy segment that ran on a loop for all the shows the rest of the day and night.

Afterward, she and Dylan had taken off to Atlantic City, only an hour away.

“This was a great idea Dylan,” she said as more whistles emitted from her machine. “I… We…” she turned to him.

He caught the look in her eyes. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Shrugging a silk-covered shoulder, she gave him a half smile. “We never did anything together before, you know, that was fun, not job related. Not fraught with tension or suspicion.”

“I must be losing my touch.” His comment was droll.

She blinked. “Oh. No, that was…” She socked his arm playfully. “Never mind.”

Getting up from his chair, he stood behind her and circled her neck with his arms. The action was way too intimate for a crowded casino, but he didn’t care. Leaning down, her French perfume filling his head, he whispered in her ear, “I love having being with you in social situations. I adored our lovemaking. And I want to do more of both.”

“You do?”

He knew why she asked the question. She wondered if this was a one-time thing again. “I do,
leanbh
.”

“What does that word mean, Dylan? You used it last night.”

“It’s an Irish, nonsexist form of
baby
, a very tender term.”

She smiled up at him over her shoulder. “I like it.”

“Come on,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s go to the nightclub for a while. We can dance there and I can hold you again.” He led her through the floor of ka-chinging machines and sporadic shouts of joy. Compared to the noise in the casino, when they entered the nightclub, they found it dim and blessedly quiet; a three-piece band in the corner played an instrumental version of “Yesterday”.

They snagged a table, ordered a bottle of red wine, which, when it arrived, went down smooth. The easy silence was unfamiliar to Dylan—he was a mover—but both enjoyed a few quiet moments.

Until her phone chimed. “I’m sorry. I have to get that.”

His buzzed next. “I guess I do, too.”

Rising, she headed to a secluded part of the room and he went out the door of the bar. “O’Neil.”

“Where the hell are you?” Pat’s tone was cranky, but Dylan felt mellow, so he didn’t jump on his older brother.

“I had a date tonight.”

“Where were you all last night, and today?”

Now he was getting pissed. “None of your business. What’s this all about?”

“We gotta decide on the menu for St. Patrick’s Day.”

“I don’t have to be in on that. I took care of the liquor and beer. Christ, Pat, you’re the one overseeing everything. You’re supposed to coordinate food with Liam.”

A long silence. For a minute, he thought his brother had hung up. Then it dawned on him. “Pat, what’s really wrong?”

“Brie’s not gonna be here on the seventeenth. She’s got a line on a new, rich customer, and Friday is the only day she can go give him an estimate. Damn it, Dylan, she always works the day here. This year, even Sophie and C.J. took off to be with us.”

Dylan thought about how he would feel if the woman in his life chose work over a day that was so special to the O’Neils. “You’re right to be mad, Pat. I would be, too.”

Though Dylan adored his sisters-in-law, he tried to be fair in his comments when one of them confided in him. He wanted Pat and Brie to stay together, but when he felt Brie was wrong, he was honest.

He could hear Pat blow out a heavy breath. “Thanks. I just, you know, wanted somebody to tell me I wasn’t bein’ crazy or unreasonable.”

“I understand.”

“Sorry I jumped on you.”

“Forget about it.”

“You, um, having fun?”

Images of Rachel made him smile: her, covered in sheets, staring sweetly up at him when he brought her coffee this morning. Kneeling before him as she loved him. Her laughter when he tickled her. “Yeah, I am. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, little brother. See you then.”

In an alcove that held a pay phone, Rachel’s instincts went on red alert when she recognized the voice at the other end of the connection. “So, babe, you snagged another good one.”

“Rubin? What…? Why are you calling me?”

“I had to use your piece on the lawyer for the transportation guy on my show tonight.”

“It ran on all the programs.”

“Did you have to fuck him to get it?”

Rubin was crass sometimes, contrary to the polished image he projected to the audience. “What the hell do you mean?”

“I juzz…” She heard a pop, like the top coming off a beer can.

“Rubin, are you drunk?”

“A little.” He snickered. “When you coming back?”

“None of your business. And don’t ever call me when you’re inebriated.” She clicked off without waiting for a response. Stymied by the unpleasant conversation, she saw Dylan come back into the bar and sit at their table, so she headed over to him. She noticed his brow was furrowed and his expression grim. “Bad news?”

“No, not exactly. Patrick called. He’d built up a head of steam about something I didn’t do for St. Patrick’s Day, but in actuality, he just wanted to talk.” ”About what?”

“It’s personal.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I guess I thought…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s not because I don’t trust you. I never share Pat’s problems with anybody, even the other guys. He’s arguing with his wife, is all.”

She nodded.

“You?”

“Hell of a thing. It was my coworker, Rubin Raskin. He was drunk. Slurring his words. He said something pretty insulting.”

“What the hell? What’d he say?”

Now she hesitated.

“Okay, Pat’s fighting with his wife about not coming to the bar for St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a family tradition to all work together the full day, and nobody misses it, except Bailey, now, because of her circumstances.”

“Sounds like fun. Not that Patrick’s fighting. The day. I’m sorry your brother’s hurting.” He picked up her hand and held it. “What’d Raskin say?

“He implied I might have gotten the interview with the lawyer this morning, well, with my body.”

“Son of a fucking bitch.”

“I can handle him.”

“This is sexual harassment by a coworker.”

“Dylan, people have been thinking I slept all the way up the ladder of my career. The nicer ones say I’m just another pretty face who uses my looks to make it.”

He angled his head. “Then I’m sorry, too. You’re so much more than that. After spending time with you, I see you in a different light.”

So, would he write his conclusion about her in a column?

She didn’t ask the question. Discussion of the subject had almost ended their trip up here when he left the diner Monday. And she wasn’t going to bring it up again.

The band began “When A Man Loves A Woman,” one of Dylan’s favorite songs. He stood and peered down at her. “Wanna dance?”

“Yes, I do.” She rose and they eased out onto the floor. He held her close and she could feel his cheek was getting scratchy now. Smell the scent of something spicy in his cologne. ”What are you thinking?” he asked.

“How you feel. And that I like sharing things with you.”

“Me, too. You’re the first person—the only person—I told about the book deal.”

Her heart soared. “I am?”

He cocked his head. “You like that?”

“I do.” She gave him a sexy smile. “And I like you, Dylan O’Neil. Very much.”

“I like you, too, Rachel Scott.” He moved on the floor, slowly, sensuously and for a few minutes, they basked in the joy of the moment.

Exiting the cab, Dylan looked up at the tall building that housed Franklin House, one of the major players in New York publishing. The bitter cold of early March had given way to more mild temperatures and Dylan hoped better weather was a good omen.

Before he could go inside, another cab pulled up and Clive Mason got out. Clive sported longish gray hair, glasses and a face that showed he’d lived some. “Hey, Dylan. Ready?”

“I hope so.”

“This could be good. I feel it in my bones.” Because those bones had represented mega bestsellers, Dylan let himself be encouraged. Initially, he’d wondered why Clive had taken him on, then admitted to himself it was probably because of Bailey, even though Dylan had made it clear he wouldn’t capitalize on her position. Still, Dylan’s name would be on the book—not a pseudonym—because these were his columns. Buyers would make the connection, but that couldn’t be helped.

Inside, chrome, steel and mirrors dominated the reception area. Clive signed in with the guard, then they took the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor. A huge suite was positioned right across from them when doors opened. Clive led him into Franklin House. Dylan, who didn’t impress easily, was a bit taken aback by the luxury of the rooms. Bookshelves filled with works by their authors lined the outer area, indicating the success of the publisher. A receptionist, dressed in a chic, gray business suit, smiled. “Hello, Clive. Mr. O’Neil?”

“Yes. Good morning.”

“Ms. Jermaine said to bring you right in.” Maybe he was her first appointment.