by Kathryn Shay
Taking the mug, Clay lifted the drink to his lips, sipped the creamy smooth blend, and sighed. “Your grandkids?”
“No, the O’Neils’. There’s Michael, Shea, Sinead, Kathleen, Cleary, and Hogan.”
Clay grinned at the catalog of names, which sounded like an Irish school roster.
“And this here’s little Rory. The newest. The devil’s in him, for sure.”
The boy was a miniature of all the O’Neils. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Maybe four or five years old.
Clay was about to ask after another photo, one of a young teenage girl who looked vaguely reminiscent of the O’Neils but wasn’t the spitting image of them, when Bailey came up behind Bridget. “I’m here, so go rest. You’ve been on your feet all...” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of who sat before her. Her eyes—he’d forgotten how blue they were—widened. Her pretty mouth scowled as she took Clay in. She had a few more freckles than he remembered. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Bailey Ann, don’t take the name of the Lord in vain.”
Bailey heard her mother chide her, but her head was reeling with shock. Peripherally, she saw Bridget back away, and her father come into the bar area, on the opposite side.
“Bailey? Did you hear your ma, lass?”
Uh-oh. “Yeah, Pa. Sorry.”
Sensing something, as only mothers do, Mary Kate O’Neil came to her side. “And who is this fine lookin’ gentleman?”
When Bailey said nothing, Wainwright stood and held out his hand. “Clayton Wainwright.”
Her mother’s usually ruddy face turned as pale as cumulus clouds in the Irish sky. What the hell was wrong with Wainwright? He should have known better than to come here. Her parents blamed him completely for her sojourn in prison—and an Irish grudge could rival an Italian one any day.
“Woman, what is it?” Her father’s voice penetrated the haze Bailey was in. He’d crossed to them and she nodded to Wainwright. Paddy recognized the senator right away. “Come with me, Mary, my girl.” Pa escorted her mother away.
“What are you doing here?” Bailey whispered harshly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think...” He cocked his head. “Look, I didn’t commit any crime, Ms. O’Neil. You did. But I didn’t realize your parents would be at your place tonight.” He stood. “I’ll be going. I’m sorry if my coming here has upset them.”
“Not so fast, Wainwright,” came a deep baritone from behind her. Oh, geez. Patrick. The Fighter. In her presence, especially when it dealt with any male on the planet, her brothers fell into their childhood roles. “Pa’s takin’ Ma home anyway.”
Bailey sighed.
Patrick glared at Wainwright. “Hasslin’ Bailey again, Senator?”
“I’d say we’re about even on that score.”
“Yeah, well, we got different views than you.” This from Dylan, the Taunter. He flanked Bailey on the other side.
In minutes, Liam, the Manipulator, was behind Wainwright’s stool. “Come down here slummin’ for a reason, Senator?”
Wainwright looked over his shoulder and seemed startled but not afraid to see her third oldest protector.
Where the hell was Aidan the Peacemaker when she needed him? The youngest son, only a year older than Bailey, could diffuse this situation. She looked around frantically for him, and saw him flirting with a pretty redhead across the room. “Aidan!”
He glanced up grinning, took in the situation and bolted over. “What’s goin’ on, guys?”
“You know who this is?” Patrick asked.
Aidan cocked his head. “Ah, I see. You got no sense, man, comin’ down here?”
The senator remained cool and unflappable, though she noticed his jaw tightened, deepening the cleft in his chin. “I’m sorry I upset your mother,” he repeated. “I didn’t realize your parents were still involved in the pub. I just wanted to talk to your sister, and she refused to see me.”
Quickly Bailey untied the apron at her waist, scooted around her brothers, and slid under the opening at the end of the bar. “I’ll see you now.” She grabbed Wainwright by the arm. “We can go down the street for that breakfast you wanted. I’m starved.”
Three brothers spoke at once...
“Like hell!”
“Over my dead body.”
“We got business with him.”
Aidan blocked them all. “Go, B., I’ll take care of this.” He looked at Wainwright, who stood unmoving. “Now, man, unless you want your nose broken.”
Shaking his head, Wainwright slid off the stool and grabbed his jacket. Bailey dragged him to the door, and he heard behind them, “The asshole didn’t even pay for his drink.”
Aidan’s voice was soothing. “Guys, it’s not all his fault. You know that.”
Once outside and across the street, Bailey let go of the senator. The rain had stopped and the early morning was cool and misty; she shivered in her thin T-shirt.
“Here, put this on.” He slid his jacket around her shoulders. She bundled into it. It smelled male and musky. It also dwarfed her. He was a lot bigger than she remembered.
“Thanks.”
He ran a hand through thick, sandy-colored hair. “That was a lynch mob in there.”
She angled her chin. “They’re overprotective.”
“They all older?”
“Yep.”
“You must have had a hell of an adolescence. Did you ever get to date?”
“Not much.” Of course, after what happened to Moira, she didn’t really care. She nodded down the street. “There’s a diner a few doors away. Let’s go.”
He stayed where he was. “Anybody in there I need to watch my back on?”
She smiled, in spite of the circumstances. “No. They’re Greeks. They don’t even speak English.”
They walked through the narrow street in dim light, the silence broken only by the occasional honks of horns and the curses of angry cab drivers. The diner was almost deserted and Bailey led him to a table near the window. She kept his jacket on to ward off the chill. He sat across from her in the too-small chair and stared at her. It was the first time she’d seen him, even in pictures, out of a suit. He wore a designer long-sleeved red crewneck shirt with a black T-shirt underneath. A gold chain peeked out. He’d always reminded her of Dennis Quaid, and like the actor, looked pretty damned good for a man in his mid-forties.
“So, Senator, what was so urgent that you had to come down here and practically start a riot in my family’s pub?”
Clay stared across the table at the woman still wearing his jacket. With her hair pulled back off her face, she looked young and vulnerable. “I wanted to talk to you. See if we could iron some things out. I had dinner with the governor tonight and he’s concerned about our public feud, I think he called it.”
A slight smile crept across her lips. “Does this have anything to do with Eric Lawson?”
“No. I’m worried that our differences are going to hurt people.”
“Hurt you, you mean?”
“No, mostly women and children. Whom I fight for.”
“Not anymore. You vote down funding for helping teenagers all the time.”
A waitress came and poured them coffee. Neither ordered breakfast.
“I voted down funding for Guardian because I think you’re going about things the wrong way.” He added meaningfully, “Like you always have.”
“And who made you my watchdog?”
“The majority of twelve million voters in this state.”
She arched a dark brow. “Well, maybe that’ll change. Your margin wasn’t that big last time. And you may have stiff competition next year. If the Democratic primary goes as I’m hoping.”
“Did you side with Lawson simply to defeat me in the next election, Ms. O’Neil?”
“No.”
“His emphasis isn’t on women. Isn’t on homeless teens and soup kitchens.”
“Neither is yours these days. You’re more concerned with giving the poli
ce and FBI money, not with financing community agencies. You used to be someone the people could believe in.”
“I supported Clinton’s bill, Feinstein’s, bill, and Stewart’s new one to stop youth gangs. Hell, I helped Chuck draft that last one.”
Her eyes glittered with resolve, turning a darker blue. Her complexion heightened in color. “The major support in those bills is for legal institutions. You used to fight more for social services and community programs.”
“I still do, but contrary to you, I see the necessity for cops to have power.”
She ran a restless hand through her hair. “Look, Stewart’s bill does that by giving four hundred million dollars to legal institutions whereas social agencies get only one hundred mil. Isn’t that enough for you for the cops?”
“I’m worried what the social agencies will do with their portion, which, by the way, I believe is too much.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t think you belong in office.” She gave him a withering look. “I think you’ve copped out on the very reasons people elected you senator.”
He slapped the table with his hand, making the dishes dance. “I haven’t copped out! I went to Washington to make a difference at the national level.”
“You haven’t, though.”
“Of course I have.”
“Like hell,” she said, her face flushing even more. “You tied up ESCAPE’s funding, voted down clinic insurance to service these kids, and have so far blocked the special shelter for them I’ve been working like a dog to get in place. You don’t care about us.”
“I’ve gotten homeless shelters for all teens funded. Initiated a bill for more money to be spent on single mothers and children for health care. Not to mention my work on behalf of soup kitchens for the hungry. I just happen to think your way of helping kids is counterproductive to what the police are doing. And dangerous to you. Hell, you can’t even let anybody know where ESCAPE is located, let alone the Street Angel’s real name, for fear of being hurt.”
“We’ve functioned safely this way for five years.”
“Yeah, well it’s only a matter of time before some disgruntled gang member who loses his woman seeks you out.”
Suddenly she threw back her chair, stood, and fisted her hands on her hips. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to meet with you.” She leaned over and braced her arms on the table. “Stay away from me and my family. We’ll argue this out in the newspaper.” With theatrical flourish, she stormed away.
After he dropped some money on the table, he followed her to the front of the restaurant and out the door. She got halfway down the street, then she turned and stomped her way back. He stood leaning against the outside brick wall, hands in his pockets, waiting for her. She marched up to him, her eyes blazing with blue fire, her cheeks rosy with pique. She reached to take off the jacket just as he put his hands on her shoulders.
They said simultaneously...
“Here’s your jacket.”
“Let me help.”
A rapid pop-pop sounded loudly and a flash exploded in Clay’s eyes. He grabbed Bailey to him, pivoted, and pushed her against the wall, blocking whatever it was from hurting her.
It took him a minute, as he held her close in a lover-like embrace, to realize he was shielding her from a camera.
Whose flash continued to go off.
“Hey, Senator, who’s the new squeeze?”
Clay swore under his breath. He angled his shoulders so Bailey was completely blocked from view.
She gripped his shirt as if she was scared. “What’s happening?”
Moving in even closer, his breath fanned her ear. “Nothing dangerous. I overreacted to a camera flash and probably a car backfiring.”
“Oh.” She still held on to him.
“Turn around and go into the restaurant; find the back way out. Use the kitchen if you have to. Scoot over to your family’s pub.”
“But why?”
“I’ll call you and explain. Do it now unless you want to have your face plastered all over the papers tomorrow.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he did it, but he kissed her hair. She froze, then slipped out of his grasp. He waited till she was gone before he circled around.
A small man of about thirty, wiry, and dressed in jeans and a denim jacket held a camera up. He took another picture. Clay shielded his eyes. “The Village Voice, Senator. Who’s the girl?”
“None of your business.”
“It’d be Lady Jane’s business.” Clay’s not-so-significant other was dubbed “Lady Jane” because she was a senator’s daughter and had been involved, off and on, with Clay for a number of years.
“Don’t you have something better to do...” He waited for a name.
“Hank Sellers.”
“Mr. Sellers.”
“The senator from New York’s big news.”
“How’d you know I was down here?”
“Just dumb luck, I guess.”
Clay didn’t believe that for a second. But who could have known where he was tonight? “You’re wasting your time.” He nodded to the restaurant where Bailey had gone. “Not only was that completely innocent and platonic, but even if it wasn’t, my personal life is my own.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Do what you want. I’m leaving.” He stepped into the street to hail a cab, forcing himself not to glance down to Bailey’s pub.
“Senator, wait.”
Clay turned.
“I’d like an interview.”
He glanced at his watch. “At one a.m.? That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”
The guy nodded back to the Greek restaurant. Clay got the message. If he didn’t give him something better to print, the reporter would speculate about tonight. “Tomorrow. I have a tour of the new women’s shelter on Twenty-first Street at ten. Meet me there. We’ll talk after.”
“Sure thing.”
Clay shook his head. This was all he needed. As he flagged down a cab and hopped in, he wondered what Bailey O’Neil was thinking of him now!
About the Author
A NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestselling author, Kathryn Shay has been a lifelong writer and teacher. She has written dozens of self-published original romance titles, print books with the Berkley Publishing Group and Harlequin Enterprises and mainstream women’s fiction with Bold Strokes Books. She has won many awards for her work: five RT Book Reviews awards, the Bookseller’s Best Award, Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year and several “Starred Reviews.” One of her firefighter books hit #20 on the NEW YORK TIMES list. Her novels have been serialized in COSMOPOLITAN magazine and featured in USA TODAY, THE WALL STREET JOURNAL and PEOPLE magazine. There are over ten million copies of her books in print and downloaded online. Reviewers have called her work “emotional and heart-wrenching.”
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