by Kathryn Shay
CLOSE TO YOU, Book 2
The story of Secret Service Agent CJ Ludzecky, who is assigned to the coveted Vice Presidential Protection Division, guarding the Second Lady of the United States and her two children. After overcoming a rocky start in the Service, CJ is out to prove herself big-time. There’s no room for men in her life, especially not the Second Lady’s charming, sexy, sensitive brother, Aidan O’Neil. Back-dropped by the hustle of New York City, the political world of Washington, D.C. and the pastoral scenery of the Finger Lakes, CJ tries to protect her charges, while Aidan tries to persuade her to let him into her life. The invasion of the press, a hostage situation involving the Vice President, a former gang member and a kidnapping attempt all move the story—and CJ and Aidan’s relationship—to a stunning conclusion.
TAKING THE HEAT, Book 3
Liam O’Neil simply wants to make it through the day. His son is depressed, his beloved wife died three years ago and he’s lonely! Enter, Sophie Tyler, a firefighter who lives on the edge and likes it that way. Though she carries some of her own baggage, she’s the total opposite of Liam. However, when she begins work at the family pub, they’re drawn to each. Then they fall in love. But nothing can erase the biting fear Liam—and his kids—feel about the danger Sophie is in every day. Eventually, an arsonist upsets the delicate balance of their relationship and they realize they can’t be together. Or can they?
HIGH STAKES, Book 4
Dylan O’Neil’s Achilles heel is his family. He’ll do anything to protect them. Rachel Scott, a cable newscaster, seems to offend and even hurt the O’Neils with her coverage of them. When Dylan exposes her irresponsible journalism in one of his popular columns for a local magazine, Rachel is furious and accuses him of bias and vindictiveness. Forced by the heads of both news agencies to resolve their differences, Dylan sees another side to Rachel, one with more warmth and depth than she displays to the world. And she finds him to be a caring man who safeguards those he loves. Attraction between them flares out of control, and they are drawn deeply into each other’s lives. But with the entire O’Neil clan against them, can they ever have a lasting relationship?
ALWAYS AND FOREVER, Book 5
The first of the O’Neil siblings, Patrick, has always taken his responsibilities to heart. There for his brothers and sisters to listen, console and sometimes give them a swift kick in the butt, Pat’s everybody’s ideal oldest brother. But his relationship with his wife Brie has been tumultuous from day one, and it hasn’t changed in nearly twenty years. Both bear scars from their past. But when Brie finds herself in the most terrifying situation of her life, it’s Pat she needs during and after it.
Excerpt
Take a look at the first book in The O’Neils series,
SOMEONE TO BELIEVE IN
Clay Wainwright slapped the morning’s New York Sun down onto his desk after reading the inflammatory letter to the editor. “What the hell does that woman want from me?”
“Calm down, Senator.” Usually as patient as Job, his press secretary, Mica Proust, sighed with weary exasperation.
“I’ll calm down when our little Street Angel has her wings clipped once and for all.” Hell, Bailey O’Neil was still using the name she’d gotten during the trial more than a decade ago when he’d prosecuted, and won, a case against her.
“Thorn’s coming right up.”
“Yeah, well, he won’t like this one.” Loosening his tie, Clay unbuttoned the collar of his light blue shirt. He’d already shed his suit coat; his temper had heated his body and caused his blood pressure to skyrocket.
Mica gave Clay an indulgent look, like the ones his string of nannies used to bestow on him. He didn’t particularly appreciate the comparison. “I’m continually amazed at the effect that woman has on you. You face the Senate Majority Leader down without a qualm, and I’ve seen you handle angry constituents without breaking into a sweat. But her...”
He gave the older woman a self-effacing grin. “I know. She turns me into a raving maniac. Maybe because she got off practically scot-free for Accessory After the Fact.”
“A year behind bars is not scot-free.” Slick and tidy, Jack Thornton, his chief of staff, entered Clay’s office, which was housed in the Russell Building on Capitol Hill. Thorn took a seat on one of the two leather couches in the mahogany-paneled room, propped his ankle on his knee, and shook his head. “The Street Angel’s at it again, I take it.”
While Mica filled Thorn in, Clay pushed back his chair, stood, and began to pace. He ran a frustrated hand through his thick crop of hair as he covered the carpet. When Mica finished, Clay started to rant again. “I have not lost my edge. I have not caved to politics. Who the hell does she think is, suggesting I should retire to a country home and play golf, for God’s sake?”
“More than likely she’s pissed at you now for blocking the funding for Guardian House in the Appropriations Committee. “ Thorn’s voice was neutral as he studied his notes. “And for writing those memos to the governor and her local senators about that interactive network she’s got up and running at ESCAPE.”
“ESCAPE!” Her anti–youth gang operation. “I’d close it down completely if I could”
“And she knows you’d do that.”
“It’s a menace to society. The police should deal with gang intervention. Not a social agency that coddles young criminals.”
This was an old debate, one they were all well-versed in.
Thorn said, “What happened eleven years ago also remains between you.”
“That woman’s only gotten worse in the last decade. Guardian needs to be stopped. The last thing we should be funding is a shelter for gang kids. The money from Stewart’s new bill should go to poor, underprivileged kids who didn’t choose a life of crime.”
“Hey,” Mica put in, “you’re preaching to the choir here.”
His press secretary glanced at his chief of staff. Thorn added, “I just found out she’s throwing her weight behind Lawson.”
“What?”
“Publicly. She told the Sun she’d be volunteering for the young councilman’s campaign bid for the Democratic primary for senator next year so he can run against you in the November election.”
“Oh, this is just great.” Clay scowled. “Get the governor on the phone.”
“Clay.” Mica spoke gently from where she’d gone to stand by the window that overlooked Delaware Avenue. “You can’t afford to antagonize him again about this. He likes Bailey O’Neil.”
“The only reason that woman has his ear is because she helped his niece when the girl was being lured into that gang.”
Clay saw Mica and Thorn exchange frowns this time.
“Okay, okay, I know. She’s done some good. She’s saved some kids. But she broke the law to do it once that we know about, and God knows how many times she’s broken it since then. She should be brought up on negative misprision.” Not reporting a crime when a person knows one has been committed was illegal.
“You already sent her to jail once.” This from Thorn.
“I don’t like your semantics. I didn’t send her to jail. She went to prison for Accessory After the Fact. For a crime against the United States of America.” He cocked his head. “If I’d needed vindication, which I don’t think I did, the kid she harbored was found guilty of the murder.”
“The whole thing only made her a martyr. Groups fought to get her out early. Even the former governor was torn.” Thorn paused. “Look Clay, you’ve got to get a handle on this public feud with O’Neil. We can’t let that old case endanger your chances of reelection. And of being considered for the vice presidential nomination.”
“That’s over a year away.”
“Close enough to watch everything you do now. In any case, your feud with O’Neil was negative publicity eleven years ago, which you overcame by concentrating on what you’d done to stop youth gangs as well as other juvenile crimes as a D.A. Then we effectively buried it in the last election. You can’t let the case resu
rface and get out of hand for the next one. You’ve got to make peace with Bailey O’Neil now.”
“Hell, it’d be easier to sell her the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“I think we should set up a meeting with her. Better, you should call her. Ask nicely for one.”
He struggled to be rational. “When am I due back in New York?”
Whipping out his Palm Pilot, Thorn clicked into Clay’s schedule. “Thursday. You have a late meeting with Homeland Security on Wednesday afternoon so you can fly out at dinnertime.” He fiddled with some buttons. “You have a window of time that morning before you do the ribbon cutting for the women’s shelter. I could have Bob set up a breakfast.”
Taking in a deep breath, Clay shook his head. “No, I’ll call her, like you said. And ask nicely.”
His phone buzzed. Mica crossed to his desk and pressed the speaker button. “The senator’s son is on line one.”
Clay’s steps halted. Jon rarely phoned him. And almost never at the office. He felt the familiar prick of loss shift through him. “We done? I’d like to take this in private.”
Thorn nodded. “Sure. “
His staff left and Clay tried to calm his escalated heartbeat. Fine commentary on your life, Wainwright, when a simple call from your son affects you like this. Dropping down in his chair, he caught sight of the picture that sat on his desk of him and Jon, taken last year when Jon went off to college. Same dark blond hair. Same light brown eyes. Same broad shoulders. But they were as different as night and day. At least now they were.
Clay picked up the phone. “Hello, Jon. “
“Dad.” The ice was still in the kid’s voice, though a bit thawed. “How are you?” Pleasantries at least. Better than the accusations the last time they’d talked...
You know, I may not even vote for you. That bill you cosponsored shortchanged the environment across the board.
That bill provided needed funds for shelters for battered women.
Yeah, the token bone, tacked on to get guys like you to vote for it.
Pushing away the bad memories, Clay asked, “How are you, son?”
“Whipped.”
“Anything new?”
“Uh-huh. I’m in charge of the fund-raiser for our Earth Environment Group.” Jon attended Bard College as an environmental engineer major. He’d gone up to school in mid-July with some other students to plan the year’s activities for their organization. Jon coughed as if he was about to do something unpleasant. “The dean asked if you could come to the event we’re sponsoring to kick off our fund drive. He thought maybe you could give a talk to the students who’ll be here for orientation and community members who would jump at the chance to hear their senator speak.”
Ah, so the kid wanted something from him. “If I can. When is it?”
Jon named a date and time. “I already checked with Bob, to see if you were free. Congress will be on recess.”
So you didn’t have to ask a favor for nothing. “Well, then, let’s set it up. Can we do something together, just you and me, while I’m there?”
A long pause, which cut to the quick. “Like what?”
“Go into the city. Have dinner. See a show.”
“I guess.”
At one time, Jon issued the invitations...Let’s catch that Knicks game...I want you there, Dad, at my debate... I need to talk about a girl...
When on earth had they lost that? During the long campaigns when Clay wasn’t home much? After all the school events and baseball games he’d missed? In the midst of the messy divorce from Jon’s mother, who, Clay suspected, badmouthed him on a regular basis?
Because he wanted badly to mend their fences, he said with enthusiasm, “Okay, then, we’re on. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, me, too. It’ll be a great fund-raiser.”
Not what he meant, and his son knew it. Clay wondered if Jon distanced him on purpose. Angered by the thought, he tapped a pencil on his desk, and let the frost creep into his own voice. “I’ll talk to you before then. “
He put down the phone, thinking of a time when conversations had ended with I love you. Because the fact that they no longer automatically said those words hurt, he tried to focus on something else. Absently, he picked up the paper and stared again at the editorial page. Now Bailey O’Neil was aligning herself with the man who was after Clay’s seat in Congress.
Hell, he didn’t want to lock horns with her again. Grabbing his phone again, he said to his assistant, “Joanie, get me Bailey O’Neil in New York, would you? I think we have her work phone on file.” Gripping the receiver before the call was punched through, he said aloud, “Okay, sweetheart, time for another round.”
Clay leaned against a storefront on MacDougal Street, under an overhang to avoid the rain which drummed on the small roof, and folded his arms over his chest. He had no idea why he was here, at midnight on a miserable Friday in July, scoping out the pub across the street. After his dinner with the governor, he’d been comfortably ensconced in his brownstone on the Upper East Side and had just talked to Jane. She’d not been happy that he was out of Washington tonight, and missing the birthday party she’d thrown for her father, the senator from Virginia. Jane had left the shindig to call Clay and whine.
God, he hated whining. His ex-wife had been a whiner. He suspected Jon bore the brunt of that now.
After Clay had hung up with Jane, he’d tried to work, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Bailey O’Neil. The governor had talked about her and Clay’s open feud, expressing his own chagrin at being caught between them. He explicitly said he thought she and Clay should bury the hatchet. It irked him that he’d felt defensive about their relationship. Hadn’t he tried to meet with her? She’d flatly refused to see him when he’d made an overture.
During their discussion, the governor had also mentioned that her brothers owned Bailey’s Irish Pub in the Village. On a whim, Clay had gone to the restaurant’s website. Sure enough, the owners were listed as O’Neils: Patrick, Dylan, Liam, and Aidan. The senior Paddy O’Neil had turned over the business to his four sons and was semiretired. No mention of a daughter, though.
For privacy because of her job? No, that wouldn’t be. Only the governor and a select few knew the Street Angel was Bailey O’Neil. She kept her identity hidden for her safety. Damn it, did the woman know the danger she was in? If she’d deigned to see him, he would have reminded her. But, of course, she’d refused.
So, after he’d Googled the pub, Clay had hopped in a cab and come here. What were the chances of her being at her family’s place this late on a Friday night? Still, when the rain let up, he pushed away from the storefront and headed across the street, dodging cars, which seemed to honk willy nilly in this city, avoiding the spray of water from their tires. It was unseasonably cool, and he turned up the collar of his jacket.
The door to the pub was heavy as he pulled it open. He took time to appreciate the intricately carved oak before he stepped inside, where the lilting sound of Irish music filled the air. Scents from the kitchen made his mouth water; on the tables he saw steaming bowls of stew and crusty bread, which accounted for the smells. He stayed in the corner, in the shadows, and stared across the room. Five men and one woman stood in front of a piano, which was being played by an older woman. The males were all versions of one another, as if somebody had painted the same person at various ages of their lives: thick black hair, strong features, big eyes. The woman with them—the woman with the crystal-clear alto voice singing about the green hills of Ireland—also sported the same features, but this time the artist changed brushes and painted her with delicate, feminine strokes. A skein of inky hair rioted down her back.
Bailey O’Neil. Looking a little older than the last time he’d seen her, but not much. Her fresh-faced innocence amazed him once again.
All of them wore black pants and green shirts with an insignia on the left chest. They finished their song and the room erupted into applause, accompanied by raucous pounding on the t
ables. Clay hadn’t noticed how crowded the pub was. One strapping young buck threw back his chair, stalked to the singers, and picked Bailey up. He kissed her on the mouth and swung her around. She whispered something in his ear and he laughed. Clay scanned the room, saw there were no unoccupied tables, but a stool at the bar was available.
He crossed to it and sat down, easing off his light jacket and draping it over the backrest to dry. The dark oak bar was U-shaped and hand-carved like the door. It was, literally, a work of art. The bartender, an older woman, hustled over to him, wiping her eyes. She’d been watching the singers. “Sorry, sir. I’ve a soft spot in me heart for that song. What’ll ya have?”
“A Guinness.”
“Build ya one right away, I will.”
The woman busied herself at the tap. Clay, still in the shadows, watched Bailey chat with the others, and then head for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll relieve you in a sec, Bridget. Let me just check on Rory.”
“No hurry, darlin’.”
As Clay waited—building a Guinness took a while—he scanned the interior. Tables scattered throughout. Thick planked floor. Subdued lighting. And posters everywhere. Of Ireland, houses, events sponsored by the establishment. There were photos, too. Right next to him on the adjacent wall was a corkboard of pictures. Little kids—a lot of them. “Them’s the grandkids,” Bridget said as she brought his beer and plunked it down on the bar. Some of the foam dribbled down the side of the glass.