High Stakes (20 page)

The woman led them down the corridor to a corner office. Carolyn Jermaine opened the door herself when the assistant knocked. The editor was older than he expected, maybe in her fifties, with a stylish bob salted with gray, beautiful skin and a keen sharp gaze. “Dylan. Nice to meet you.” Her grip was firm. She nodded to his agent. “Clive.”

“Carolyn.”

Dylan took in the wide expanse of windows overlooking Madison Avenue. A huge desk sat in front of them. She gestured to a conference table. “Can I get you two anything?”

When both men refused, she took a seat between them. On the table was his manuscript. “Let me first say I’m very impressed with your writing style.” Her hand settled on the pages. “I’ve made some notes. Your writing is clean, yet visual. Sharp but breathes with life.”

Wow. “Thank you.”

“My favorite columns are the ones on the Department of Social Services, though I wish the ending had been more, let’s say, cutting. The bullying piece was excellent.”

“Again, thank you.”

“I understand you’re doing investigations now. On the KPRAY radio station and on Rachel Scott. I’ve read those, too.”

“Well, good.”

“How are the follow-ups shaking out?”

His heart skipped a beat as he remembered being in bed with Rachel this morning. “I’m still working on them.”

She watched him for a moment. “How will your reporting end, Dylan?”

His brows rose. “I haven’t finished my research yet.”

Glancing at Clive, who nodded, she turned back to Dylan. “Can I be candid?”

“I’d rather you were.”

“If we’re to publish these columns as a book, we need a hook for them. I’m thinking we could choose the ones where the second columns tend to be…let’s say, more scathing.”

“But that won’t show the scope of my work. I like to think I’m fair to the people and places I investigate, even if they prove me wrong.”

“We can talk about including a few of those. But we’d concentrate on the ones where you’ve exposed something more sensational.”

“I see.”

Clive cleared his throat. “Tell him the rest, Carolyn.”

A prickle skittered up Dylan’s neck. Clive had said he didn’t know what she wanted to discuss.

“We were thinking that after each column you could describe the research you did. Include editorial comments.”

“I think the columns speak for themselves.”

“But you’d be willing to cooperate, right, Dylan?” Clive again.

“I can cooperate, yes.”

“I hope so.” This from Carolyn. “So, here’s what I’m thinking. Finish the columns on KPRAY and Rachel Scott. Make sure they’re strong. Indicting.”

“But as I said—”

She held up her hand. “I know. You’re fair. Again, for us to publish this book, the majority of your pieces have to show that you’re a hard hitter and can take people down.”

“Even though I don’t always take people down?”

“You want balance. I can work with that. Maybe we could do an addendum with the softer columns in it. But we’d lead with KPRAY. How they suck money out of people who can’t afford to give.”

“As I said, I’m not sure they do.”

“Then dig in that direction. Facts are always there, and they can be…massaged to fit what we want. Next, we’d have a middle section with columns you’ve already done that are hard-hitting.”

That didn’t sound too bad.

“Finally, we’d complete the book with the columns on Ms. Scott. I understand she’s exposed a lot of things about your sister and the acting president.”

Dylan froze.

“Which have angered your family enough for Mr. Wainwright to cut her out of press conferences.”

Huh. Dylan thought that was kept private. Must be, now that Clay was in the limelight more, this woman dug up his aversion to Rachel.

“I won’t skew my column on her work because she offended my family. And I thought Clive told you I won’t exploit Bailey.”

“Quite the opposite, Dylan. You’ll be defending your sister by exposing someone who endangered your nephew, did some sick reporting on Tim Jenkins and snuck into your brother’s wedding and released private shots. I believe you covered all that in a column last month.”

She had him there.

“The pièce de résistance would be a final column and notes on whatever dirt you’re digging up on her now. Think of the publicity over that. The O’Neils win again!”

Dylan didn’t say anything. After a moment, Clive did. “Is there an offer in there, Carolyn?”

Again, she focused on Dylan. “Yes, there is. If you give us what we want, we’re prepared to offer a healthy six-figure advance and to go to press within months.”

Shocked, Dylan opened his mouth to say he wasn’t going to use Bailey like this, he wasn’t going to sell Rachel down the river. Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “I wasn’t expecting this.”

She grinned. “I imagine. We don’t offer these deals every day.”

Dylan managed to stand. “I need to talk to Clive privately.”

Carolyn scowled at him, then Clive.

Clive shrugged and stood, too. “I’ll be in touch.” Once they were outside, he added, “Let’s go into a coffee shop.”

Dylan nodded, afraid to speak yet.

The coffee shop down the street was emptying out because breakfast had been served and it wasn’t time for lunch. The scents didn’t appeal to Dylan, though. His stomach churned. Dylan vowed not to lose his temper as they stopped at a corner booth and removed their coats. A waitress came over and they both ordered coffee.

Then Clive faced him—with a smile? “So, what do you think? Pretty sweet deal.”

“Clive, are you kidding me? She wants to tailor the book to be all exposés.”

“Everybody gets edited, Dylan.”

Rachel’s exact words. Another vision hit him in the solar plexus of how she’d looked up at him when they were dancing. Her gaze had been…trusting.

“Besides, isn’t that what your column does? Expose people?”

“You know I do more than that. And she wants me to use Bailey in this whole thing, which I told you was a no-go.”

“Carolyn’s position is understandable.” The man sipped his coffee.

“I told you I wouldn’t use my sister.”

“I know you did. But you could compromise here. The scuttlebutt is out about Wainwright’s dislike of Rachel Scott. You could set the record straight. It won’t be exploitation. You’ll be clearing up the matter. The public has a right to know.”

He set his cup down hard on the table top. “The truth. The public has a right to know the truth.”

“Isn’t Carolyn’s portrayal of Scott the truth? She hurt your family. You can even the score.”

“I’m a professional, Clive. I’m not out to even any score. I want a legitimate book printed.”

Clive gave a long-suffering sigh. “Dylan, we need a hook, as Carolyn told you. Something to grab the public’s attention. Her suggestions are perfect.” Dylan studied the man before him. “Clive, was this your idea or hers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you pitch my book as it was, or did you give her the idea for the added material?”

“I might have made some suggestions after I read the manuscript. Look, agents do this all the time in the publishing business.” He arched a brow. “At least in the big leagues.”

“I see.”

“So, is it settled? Will you do this and make a name in the literary world for yourself?”

Exhausted, Rachel crawled through the door of her condo. Her fault she was so tired. She was operating in second gear, anyway, from being ill and then last night, she’d gotten little sleep. Smiling at why, she kicked off her boots, tossed her coat on the chair in the foyer and headed to the bedroom. Just as she started to unbutton her blouse, the phone rang.

Please let it be Dylan.

Fishing the cell out of her purse, she said, “Rachel Scott.”

“Hey, it’s Dylan.” Just the low baritone of his voice warmed her.

“Hi, I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day.” Dropping onto a chair in the corner, she tried not to sound scolding, but he knew she’d be anxious to hear the outcome of the meeting with Franklin House.

“Sorry, I had some things to do at the bar. You okay? You get back all right?” There was concern in his voice—and something else she couldn’t identify.

“Tired, but fine. What happened with the book?”

A huge sigh on the other end. “They offered me a deal, but I don’t like the terms.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not on the phone. And I’m at the bar, anyway. We have to finish getting ready for tomorrow.”

“Sure, okay.” She fiddled with the buttons on her shirt. “Want to come over tonight when you’re done there?”

“It’ll be too late to talk. And I have to be at the pub early tomorrow morning.”

She said softly, “We don’t have to talk, Dylan.”

“I’d kill to see you again, but not tonight.”

Wondering how much to push, she stared out the window at the barren trees. “Tomorrow night, after all the festivities?”

“Again, I can’t. There’s a tradition here. After we close, we get together. Debrief. Celebrate the day. Even Ma and Pa stay up.”

Damn, she wished she could be there with him, now and during the fun day. But she didn’t voice her feelings. His family was a touchy subject.

“I’m sorry, Rach. I’m frustrated about this, too.”

Well, that made it easier.

“How about Saturday morning, after your dance class?”

“That’ll work, unless there’s something in the governor’s case that I have to go into the station for or over to his state again.”

“Work always comes first, huh?”

What an odd thing to say. “A reporter has to follow the story. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? Your comments sound ominous. Your whole demeanor does.”

“I’m tired. We got almost no sleep last night.” She waited. “It was fun, Rach.”

“Just fun?”

“No, more than that. Look I gotta go. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“All right.”

Rachel disconnected, uneasy and confused. He’d left this morning with a smile on his face and joy in his heart. She was certain of that. What had happened in the interim? Was it the book deal? Or did his mood have something to do with her? All of a sudden, the euphoria of making love with Dylan the past few nights diminished like steam in a shower.

A bright, crisp sun filtered into Dylan’s bedroom window on St. Patrick’s Day morn, though he could feel the temperature had dropped again. He’d always looked forward to this holiday with his family and the revelers who visited the pub before and after the parade down Fifth Avenue. Basking in the warm rays, he decided that he’d enjoy the festivities despite what had happened with the book deal. And his still-undecided future with Rachel.

He started to think about being with her, how disappointed she’d seemed on the phone, but quelled his thoughts. Instead, he bounded out of bed, got coffee, showered, put on his green, long-sleeved pub shirt and was out the door by seven.

Humming “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” he walked into the pub kitchen fifteen minutes later.

And found Liam and Sophie in a big-time lip lock.

Feeling jealous as hell, he quipped, “Get a room, you two.”

Not letting her go, Liam glanced over at Dylan. “The rooms at my house are unfortunately filled.” He smiled down at Sophie as if she’d hung the moon. “Right, Sophie baby?” The term her firefighter crew called her, after they’d rescued her as a child. She’d grown up to become one of them.

There was something about the two of them standing there, pooled in the light coming through the window over the sink, which struck Dylan. A sureness. A security. Maybe it was their knowledge of being well loved.

When Sophie pulled away from Liam and turned, he patted her on the ass and she squealed. “Watch out, there, mister.” She grinned and headed for the door. “I’m going to see who’s here already.”

“The firefighters from your crew?” Dylan asked.

Sophie’s usual job was on Ladder 4, but she was putting in a stint at the Academy for a few months. “Yeah, it’ll be good to see them again.”

Liam frowned at her. “She’s eating with them.”

“No, I’m helping to serve.”

“No, you’re not. Go out and enjoy them, Soph. You’ll be plenty busy all day.” He winked at her and her eyes lit, her brows lifted. Hmm.

Dylan shrugged out of his leather coat and drew a mug of coffee. “Can I help?”

“You can do the rest of the toast. Breakfast is almost ready.”

“It smells terrific.” Dylan crossed to the counter by the stove and put slices of thick bread into the toaster. Then he snatched a piece of bacon. “Mmm.”

“Get a plate,” Liam told him. “There’s time to eat.” As he drew a dish out of the nearby cupboard, Dylan gave his brother a once-over. His face was relaxed and his whole body at ease. “What’s going on with you today? You never let us snitch food.”

“I’m just happy. I love today.” He gave Dylan a glance. “Kitty used to, too. Remember?”

Dylan could still see the dark-eyed beauty who was Liam’s wife before she died of cancer, dressing up every year in as much green as she could wear and laughingly enjoying the day.

“Is it hard without her again this year?”

“I’ll always have a hole in my heart because she’s gone. But Sophie fills the rest up just fine.”

Dylan took a portion of the traditional Irish breakfast: eggs, a variety of sausages and potatoes.

As he ate and Liam worked, Dylan felt the warmth of family eclipsing his anxiety from yesterday. And replacing worry over what he would do with the book, with Rachel. His phone buzzed with a text chime, and while Liam set up the trays, he glanced at his the message.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Dylan. Have fun with your family.

He could almost hear the longing in Rachel’s words. She’d never had the camaraderie, the support from a whole gang of people, as he did. No one to spend today with. Suddenly, he wished she could be here with him.

“Ready?” Liam asked.

“Yep.” He tied a towel around his waist and hefted a heavy tray. “Hey, Liam?”

His brother turned at the door. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for all you do at the pub. And for me.”