High Stakes (8 page)

Tears clouded Kammy’s eyes, but she stood, probably hoping Rachel didn’t see them.

But she had. And they made her vow she’d find a way to keep Kammy in class and help her to get to the studio safely.

The gym at a high school in Brooklyn was stifling, as usual. To add to Rachel’s discomfort was the man sitting so close to her in the crowded bleachers that they rubbed hips. But she’d figured this was an easy way to acquaint Dylan with her life—a good part of her life—and not have to be alone with him while she did it. The kiss the other night in the car still haunted her dreams. And waking hours.

“What number is she?” Dylan asked over the buzz of excitement and the slap of balls on the court.

“Thirty-four.”

He scanned the floor. “She looks just like you!”

Rachel couldn’t help smiling. “She does, right down to the same color eyes. But Rebecca and Mike have light eyes, too.”

“She got your beautiful red hair.”

Warmed by the compliment, Rachel said haughtily, “Auburn.”Letting her gaze focus on the girls who were warming up for their game in this midwinter tournament, she tried to ignore Dylan, but it was impossible. He’d put on some new aftershave and it teased her nostrils.

Dylan waited, watching the girls take foul shots, before he asked, “Do you always come to her basketball games?”

“I try. Oh, look, there’s Rebecca.” Her sister was making her way down the side of the court with her son, Ronny.

“Now,
she
looks like she can’t be related to you.” Smaller in stature, with dark brown hair, Rebecca and Rachel bore no resemblance to each other. But they were best friends and confidantes. Though she hadn’t told her sister about Dylan. Truthfully, Rachel didn’t know what to say. She waved to them. “Becca, up here. We saved you seats.”

Smiling when she saw Rachel, Rebecca did a double take—because of Dylan?—then climbed the steps and slid into the row with Rachel on her left and Ronny on her right. Ron leaned over his mother. “Hi, Aunt Rachel.”

“What’s this ‘hi’ stuff? You too embarrassed to give me a kiss in front of your friends?”

The boy turned beet red. Dylan looked around Rachel from the other side. “Don’t let her make you do it, son. You’ll never live it down.”

Ronny nodded vigorously and settled for squeezing his aunt’s hand.

Rebecca took a bead on Dylan. “And you are?”

“Dylan O’Neil.”

“Oh, Lord, Rach, look out for those Irishmen.”

“You should know. You married one.”

Dylan asked, “Your husband’s Irish?”

“Yeah.” Rebecca nodded to the floor. “Mike Murray. He’s on the court.”

Leaning in, not too close, Rachel added, “He coaches the team and teaches Phys. Ed. here at the high school.”

She could tell Dylan was surprised. As were her very disappointed parents when Rebecca-who-had-done-everything-right hadn’t married another doctor and instead had chosen a more middle class lifestyle in Brooklyn.

The whistle blew, and the kids trotted to courtside. An announcer with a booming voice introduced the opposing team, then the starting five from the home school. “And last but not least, our point guard for the Spartans, Rachel Murray.”

Glancing over, she saw Dylan’s dark brows rise. “You didn’t tell me you have a namesake.”

Rachel whispered, “I haven’t told you everything.”

This time, he leaned in so there was no air between them. “Not yet, doll. But you will.”

For some reason, the notion didn’t scare her as much as it should.

Dylan turned his attention to the game. Rachel Two snatched the ball after the tip at midcourt and started down the floor. She dribbled like a pro. She passed as well as any college player he’d ever seen. The ball came back to her and she took a shot from the three-point range on the left side. It swished into the basket, without touching the rim.

“Wow!” Dylan remarked and the crowd cheered loudly.

But it was the woman next to him who snagged his attention. Dressed in snug grey jeans, black boots and a collared sweater, hair perfect, makeup the same, Rachel bolted up and yelled between cupped hands, “You go, girl.” She then proceeded to whistle with her fingers in her mouth.

Dylan’s jaw dropped. Who knew the polished, sophisticated woman had this side to her? Unfortunately, he loved his nieces and nephews, attended a lot of their games. That he and Rachel had this in common disconcerted him. God, he hoped they didn’t find much more they shared. It was already hell being with her, even in a crowded gym that was beginning to smell like the inside of a locker room.

For the entire game, Rachel behaved the same. At one point, when the referee called a foul on her niece, Rachel stood, shouting, “You need glasses, ref.”

Rachel Two turned toward the stands and instead of being embarrassed by Rachel One’s outburst, she giggled at her aunt. Oh, hell.

With only twenty seconds left on the clock, the other team tied the game. Again, Rachel Two took the ball, threw it into play, got it back and dribbled fast down the court. This time she didn’t pass. Instead, she weaved in and out of players, dribbled around others, and charged to the basket. She shot the ball up in a perfect arc; it circled around the rim—twice!—then dipped inside, just as the buzzer rang.

In the stands, Rachel jumped up and down, whistled again and hugged her sister. All the spectators came to their feet, too, screaming as she was.

As soon as the team did their lineup/good game hand slaps, Rachel Two took off and threw herself into her dad’s arms. They hugged with such affection, it made Dylan go soft inside.

His Rachel preceded him down the steps, distracting him from her behavior by the way her jeans hugged her ass—again! The family crossed to the coach and the star while Dylan hung back.

More hugs and greetings. Huge grins. Then Rachel turned to him. “Come on over, Dylan. I want to introduce you.”

It wasn’t until the two of them were walking to the door—Dylan noticed her driver had come in to watch the game—that Dylan commented, “Who are you and what did you do with the Rachel I know?”

She laughed, a sultry sound that hit him in the gut, despite the throng that surrounded them. “I know, I lose it here. I can’t help it.”

Unable to resist, he moved closer. Now all he could smell was her perfume. “Personally, I thought it was cool.”

She didn’t brush him off. “Did you?” ”Yeah, you should see me at my relatives’ games. I’m just like you.”

“Who do the kids belong to?”

“Patrick’s second oldest boy and one of his daughters do basketball. My son and Liam’s play baseball.”

“All those games to enjoy.”

They exited the gym, and a blast of frigid air hit them. Rachel tucked her hands in her pockets. When she shivered, he reached over, pulled up her collar and closed the front of her coat. Then he looped the scarf close around her neck.

She halted in her tracks, causing people to bump into them or move around them. It wasn’t until he saw the expression on her face that he realized the intimate thing he’d done. So much for crowds of people preventing them from being alone.

It was a slow night at Bailey’s Irish Pub. Dylan was washing glasses behind the bar, listening to some Irish music drift out from the jukebox. He was comforted by his brother Pat taking inventory at the other end and the scent of food cooked for dinner. A few stools over, Liam nursed a cup of coffee and read the newspaper.

But this mellow mood would be interrupted by Rachel’s show, on in a few minutes; Dylan knew he had to watch it to keep an eye on her for his column. But he purposely hadn’t called her in the two days since her niece’s basketball game and she hadn’t emailed or contacted him, either. He hadn’t come up with a way of working together and ignoring his white-hot attraction to her, so distance seemed to be the best alternative.

And must be nothing big had happened in the world of politics or pop culture, since the deal was she’d notify him about any newsworthy story she was on to.

Patrick came down the bar with the remote. “Aren’t you gonna watch your girlfriend, boy?”

“My
what?”
How could Pat know…? His brother’s brows furrowed. “Rachel Scott. I was kiddin’ about the girlfriend part.”

“Um, yeah. I’m gonna watch her.”

“Hmm.” Pat fiddled with the remote, then said, “Shouldn’t I be? Kiddin’ about that? Is something more going on?”

“Of course you weren’t serious. Rachel Scott and I are adversaries.”

Without saying more, thank the good Lord, Pat turned the volume up on the television. And there she was, more beautiful than Dylan had ever seen her. She wore a dark green, knit dress and dangling earrings that sparkled like real gems and probably were. Her hair was up in a knot on her head, with little tendrils escaping it. He’d never seen her style it that way.

“Good evening, viewers. Welcome to
The Rachel Scott Show
. Tonight we bring you some breaking news. But first some background. Three months ago, after the November elections, we ran a story of how a bridge to New York from the small town of Fort Case experienced unexpected lane closures. Cars sat in gridlock nearly four days. Children could not get to school. Emergency vehicles were unable to reach their destinations in a timely way and businesses suffered.”

Dylan knew all about the snafu, had looked into it and found nothing. He hadn’t paid much attention to its aftermath. Traffic in New York was always crazy. He wondered what she was getting at.

The camera panned into a close-up. He caught his breath at the, well, beauty of her. “We’ve been investigating this story for a month and just discovered some interesting facts. First, the mayor of Fort Case”—his picture came on-screen—”did not support the governor’s bid for reelection in our border state, which, as it turned out, he won by a landslide, anyway. Second, an aide close to the governor was heard saying she wouldn’t want to be in that mayor’s shoes. Her boss
held grudges.
”

Dylan had run that story down, too, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. And Rachel had never mentioned she was working on it, either.

“However, tonight, we want you to know that the Rachel Scott team has discovered that the Port Authority official, who was appointed by the governor and is an old high school buddy of his, just resigned
because of health reasons.
Seriously? Do you believe that? Let’s ask our panel.”

“Huh.” Liam had come down the bar and joined them to watch the show. “I can’t imagine why the governor of a state would do something so petty. He must not have known about the closures.”

“You’re a Pollyanna, boy.” Pat poured his own java and refilled Liam’s. “He’s Italian, and those guys hold grudges.”

“Stereotype much, Pat?” Liam retorted.

Shrugging, Pat said, “If the shoe fits.”

Dylan stared at the screen, not commenting.

Liam nudged him. “What’s wrong, Dyl? You think the governor ordered the lane closures as retribution of some kind?”

“I have no idea. But I
should
have known she and her team were investigating the story.”

“Why?” Liam asked.

Pat added, “What are you talkin’ about?”

Uh-oh. He hadn’t told his brothers he was working with Rachel, nor the circumstances that had brought that about. Shit, what to do now?

Pat moved in closer. “Dyl, what’s going on?”

“Something I haven’t told you.” Both brothers waited. “I’m investigating Rachel Scott, to give her a second chance to explain herself. You know, like I have with a lot of the columns.”

“You mean explain why she got Rory kidnapped? C.J. hurt in the process? Smeared Sophie? How could she ever explain that?” Dylan knew Pat would be upset. And wait till Aidan found out.

“She can’t, Paddy, I know that.”

Liam asked, “Then why are you giving her another shot?”

Dylan prided himself in taking responsibility for his actions. But he had to tell his brothers the truth or they’d hate him, for a while at least. “Her boss is cozy with the mayor. The mayor called my editor’s boss. I was ordered to give her another chance to prove herself. And you know she wanted one. I did tell you that.”

“You should have said no.” Pat’s tone was implacable.

“And lose my job?”

“Maybe.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say. Pat and Liam worked full-time at the pub, but it had never been enough for Dylan. Besides, the business couldn’t support three families. Aidan had gotten into his photography, and Dylan had snagged another job writing for
CitySights
. Because he loved journalism, he’d gone on to earn a degree in it. “I want to keep my job, Pat. Besides, I need it to make ends meet.”

“You could quit the column, fill in here more and work on that book you keep saying you want to write.”

Like his namesake, Dylan Thomas, he’d tried his hand at poetry and a screenplay but had eventually set his sights on a novel.

“You know my agent suggested submitting my columns for a nonfiction book to get my feet in the publishing-house door before I ventured into fiction.” That manuscript had been with Clive Mason for a couple of months, and he was shopping it around. A bit hurt by Pat’s accusatory tone, Dylan added. “I told you all that so you’d know I haven’t given up on a writing career.”

“Bullshit! No job is worth having to make a deal with the devil.”

Dylan’s spine stiffened. He’d learned two things long ago: that his family meant everything to him—hell, he’d die for them—but paradoxically, he had to stand up for himself, protect himself, as well as them. “I’m keeping my job at
CitySights
, so I have to work with her. If you’re mad at me for it, you can shove your objections up your ass.”

“All right, everybody, calm down.” Liam stood and ducked under the opening to the bar. He slid his arm around Dylan. “You do what you have to do. We’ll stand by you.”

Leaning into his little brother, Dylan said, “Thanks, Liam,” then turned to Pat, who was now propped up against the back counter, his arms folded over his chest. “What about you, Paddy? You standing by me even if you disagree about what I did?”