High Stakes (2 page)

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?

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.

Early the next day, Dylan filed a column with
CitySights
before he left the house.

“Photojournalism or Photo Exploitation?

“What is the difference between informing the community about an issue and exploiting a group of people? A lot, I think. The former takes something with meaning and substance and exposes it. The latter is for self-profit.

“It’s no secret who my sister is. I don’t hide the fact that she’s the Second Lady. I don’t exploit her position, either. But someone does. The anchor of
The Rachel Scott Show
has dogged my family since Bailey married the senator from New York. Scott’s most recent violation of privacy is the taking of videos at my brother’s wedding. They went viral on the airwaves and internet. Duplicitous tactics were used to gain entrance to the wedding, and promises were broken. For what? Sensational journalism? I find violation of privacy a real crime against the targeted individual. Yes, I’m biased because this happened to my family, but think about how you’d feel if a private event in your life turned into a spectacle. Those moments are meant to be shared by only a few.

“With all the strife in society today, you’d think Ms. Scott could find something better to report on her program. Or isn’t she up for the task? As always, post your comments below, or send me a note at [email protected].”

After pushing send, Dylan left his half of the duplex he shared with Liam and took a cab to Bailey’s townhouse in New York. When he exited the taxi, he pulled up the collar of his long wool coat—it was frigid outside, and light snow fell like a mist. Still, a swarm of reporters crowded the sidewalk. They all shouted at once.

“Mr. O’Neil, how’s your brother-in-law feeling about being president?”

Acting president
, Dylan wanted to say, but had been told not to engage the press.

“How’s your sister handling this?”

“Do you think she’d like being First Lady?”

His gaze zeroed in on one member in the group, off to the side. Dressed in a beige coat with a dark green scarf looped around her neck—he bet it highlighted her eyes—Rachel Scott stood watching him. Her expression was neutral and he matched it. Then he dismissed her. He had more important things to deal with, and besides, he now knew the bent for betrayal that lurked beneath that pretty exterior.

Quickly, two Secret Service agents flanked him and they moved as a group to the front of the townhouse. Again, these were agents he didn’t know, since the two who’d allowed Rachel to slip by them had been dismissed. Just another thing to feel guilty about.

He found his sister in the living room, on the phone when he entered the condo.

Mitch Calloway handed him a cup of black coffee. “Thanks for coming with us, Dylan. I know she feels better having you along.”

“Goes without saying.” He took a sip of the strong brew. “Mmm, good.”

Bailey disconnected and approached them. Her pretty blue eyes were muddy with fatigue, which tugged at his heart and called forth his protective instincts. “Hey, Dyl. I appreciate you coming. Who knows when Clay will be back home?” Though Clay had called, he was still being briefed on his new role in the country and any changes that had to be made in his personal life.

“We’re family. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.”

“Was that Clay?”

“No. He’s embroiled in preparation for the swearing-in to take over as acting president.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

“How’s Langley? I saw on the morning news that he’s awake and waiting surgery.”

“Yes. But I’m not sure why there’s a delay. Abdominal aneurysms can cause death, Dyl.”

Reaching out he grabbed Bailey’s hand. It was cold. “People survive those, honey. Liam looked everything up on the internet last night.”

“I know. Mitch did a search, too, and made me read all the information.”

Before he could respond, two whirlwinds ran into the living room. “Uncle Dylan,” seven-year-old Rory shouted, throwing himself at Dylan.

On his heels was two-year-old Angel. She was the spitting image of Clay, with lighter hair and his hazel eyes. “Unca Dylan,” she mimicked her brother.

His mom, Mary Kate O’Neil, who’d stayed with Bailey last night, entered with three-month-old Tyler. In her seventies, tall and slender, his ma’s white hair highlighted the blue of her eyes. “Dylan, my boy. Nice of you to do this.”

After hugs and greetings, Mitch approached them. “Ready to go, Ms. O’Neil?”

Bailey nodded. “I wish we didn’t have to face the maddening crowd.”

“The second team is keeping them back, but reporters will yell at you just the same.” Mitch moved in closer.

“Freedom of the press,” Dylan quipped.

“Yeah,” Bailey groused. “Whoever thought
that
was a good idea?”

At least Bailey could joke. Last night, when the men in black whisked Clay away, she’d been stalwart…

“You go, Clay. The kids are asleep at the townhouse and I’m not waking them up for a midnight ride in Air Force One.” They’d sent the presidential helicopter to get Clay.

“I hate to leave you alone. And to travel by yourself with the little ones.”

“You’ll be sequestered, anyway.” She’d given Clay a brave smile. “And I won’t be by myself. I’ll have my Secret Agents with me.” The patriarch of the O’Neil family, Paddy, still called the service by the nickname he’d given them.

“And me.” Dylan had made the decision on the spot. “I’ll come to D.C. for a while so she has family with her…”

Bailey’s face had filled with gratitude. And not a bit of surprise. Family supported one another. He’d learned that long ago.

When they headed out, the cacophony in front of the townhouse grew louder. Dylan carried Angel close to his heart, Mitch Calloway held Rory by the hand, and Bailey cuddled Tyler. She was flanked by Kip Michaels, her other agent.

Even though the crowd had increased, he found Rachel among the reporters and cursed himself for searching for her. She was snapping pictures of Bailey but lowered the camera when they reached the bulletproof vehicle. She raised her brows at him and shrugged her shoulders.

He made sure his gaze was glacial, then ducked to get into the SUV. But he carried that look of chagrin with him all the way to the vice presidential residence on Observatory Way.

Before her students arrived, Rachel stood in front of the mirror at DanceWorks, grateful that the owner rented her this space. The overhead lights shone down, creating an ethereal glow around her. She’d spent all of yesterday in mourning after reading the scathing column Dylan had written. The indictment hurt, more so because the words came from him. Damn it to hell! She didn’t want to think about him, especially after the column he’d written about her. A deep sense of loss invaded her.

You can’t lose something you never had,
she thought, remembering how her parents’ had treated her all their lives. There was much she’d never gotten from them and still felt the pain of it.

Pay attention to your warm-up.
As natural as walking, her arms drifted low in front of her body, barely touching her black, knee-length dance skirt. Palms rose in the air, thumbs turned inward, fingers supple, arms tracing an ellipse. She held the pose as she had thousands of times in the past. Then she went into first position. Her arms extended forward horizontally, hands at the level of her chest, fingers kept curved. Her shoulders remained low and her chin stayed steady.

Rachel continued to watch herself as she went through the arm and foot movements of third, fourth and fifth positions. And thoughts of Dylan returned. Not about the column, this time. About how charming he’d been on Valentine’s Day. How skilled he was in bed. How he’d made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world. Warm now with those memories, she removed the light pink sweater she wore over her black leotard. Then she began the head movements with a
téte de face,
face toward the front. When she went to
profil
, head to the right in profile, she pretended Dylan was watching her. She danced though he was miles away in Washington D.C. with his sister. She envied his family to the point of sin. She’d give anything for what they had together.

Ironically, that family was her ticket to success, as she’d narrowly defined it. If she could just get the acting president of the United States to accept her, she wouldn’t have to do things like sneak into the wedding. She’d gone after that opportunity only because her boss demanded something on the O’Neils that the public wasn’t privy to. And he’d wanted it ASAP.

In the glass, she caught sight of the first little treasure who came through the door. “Miss Rachel,” Kammy said demurely and walked to her.

Bending down, Rachel gave her a hug. “Hello, sweetie.”

“You look so beautiful, dancing.”

“Thank you.”

A second girl, then a third, then all eight of them arrived. In order to be part of this class, she’d instructed the parents that they had to provide punctual rides to the studio, send the girls up to the second-floor studio alone and either wait for them downstairs or come back in ninety minutes.

“Now, ladies, let’s form a line and start with the positions.”

They padded to the barre in their shiny, new leotards and crisp ballet shoes. As Rachel watched them, she took pleasure in the fact that at least she’d done this right.

The vice presidential residence was a fortress nestled inside the Naval Observatory grounds on Embassy Row in north Washington. Complete with alarms, motion detectors, magnetometers and closed-circuit TVs, surrounded by uniformed guards on the larger perimeter, it was the safest place for Bailey and the kids now that they were the acting first family. The Secret Service command post was across the street, but the agent equipment and the agents themselves mostly stayed on the ground level of the residence.

Dylan, Bailey and the little ones had arrived yesterday and settled in with even more Secret Service because Clay was acting president.

Tonight Dylan lounged on a couch in the library with a book propped up on his knees. Like the other rooms in the house, this one had twelve-foot ceilings and a fireplace. The shelves, which went on forever, contained bestsellers, histories and biographies, as well as tons of children’s literature, making Dylan feel at home. This was where the family spent most of their time.