High Stakes (27 page)

Her show began with live footage and a voice-over: “And now an exclusive from our own Rachel Scott.” Her image appeared on-screen. God, she was beautiful, though she wore almost no makeup and was draped in clothes meant to conceal her identity. She addressed the camera with poise.

He listened intently. Then, Jesus, an explosion went off. Dylan jumped up from the couch. “Fuck!” But okay, okay. She was fine. She was trying to explain what was happening, something about rebels attacking a government building. His fists clenched as he continued to watch.

Hell, that hulk almost trampled her. “Get out of there, Rach,” he shouted at the television set.

Then, another explosion and the screen went blank.

Dylan froze. When the news program returned live, Laura Littman’s face was stunned. “We’re having a bit of trouble with our connection,” she said in a professional tone. “We’ll go to a break and be right back.”

Twenty minutes later, Dylan walked into the NSMBC studio. Weeks ago, before she’d been ill, Rachel had given him a pass to clear entrance, and he hadn’t returned it after their breakup. Heading to the fifth floor, he entered the newsroom with worry clawing at his gut. He caught sight of Jeannine on the far side of the room, in front of a bank of televisions. He’d had some contact with her in the weeks he’d been with Rachel, so he strode over. “Jeannine?”

She turned, and her face was ravaged.

He gripped the edge of a nearby desk. “Oh, my God, do you know what happened to her?”

“No word yet. We lost contact and can’t get it back.”

The news show ran with fillers.

After a bit, Dylan asked, “Do you think I could wait here? You’ll be the first to get word from her.”

She gave him a quizzical look, then said, “Rachel needed a cab from your house one afternoon.”

“Yes. We’re close, Jeannine.”

She nodded. “You can wait in her office. There’s a set on the wall.”

Dylan walked into the space he’d visited many times. He inhaled. It still smelled like her French perfume and something else, the potpourri she kept in a round glass bowl.

Suddenly, he saw her sitting behind her desk on the phone, badgering some reluctant person for an interview.

He saw her face her mother with a look of dread.

He saw her bending over the conference table, working with Crane, meeting with Jeannine and other staff.

Bereft, he sat down in the semidarkness to wait to hear if the woman he loved was still alive.

With his brothers behind him, Pat opened the door to Dylan’s house with Liam’s key. The interior was dim, with one light on in the corner of the living room off to the right. He could make out Dylan’s silhouette on the couch. “Dylan, it’s me, Paddy.”

A sigh.

“And me, Aidan.”

“Where’s the other one?” Dylan asked in a gravelly voice. ”Coming right over. He had to check on the kids.”

“I made Hogan go sleep over there.”

“We know.” Pat strode into the room, took off his jacket and threw it on a chair. Aidan followed suit. Pat dropped down close to Dylan, on the couch. “How you doin’?”

“Shitty. Why are you here?” There was no rancor in his voice. “You, too, Aidan.”

“Because we saw the show.” Aidan’s voice was raw. “We knew you’d be devastated.”

“You hate her.”

“None of that matters now, Dyl.” His little brother sounded sincere. “We’re here until she’s found.”

“One way or another.”

“Let’s try to stay positive,” Pat said calmly.

In an uncharacteristic move, so much so, it made Patrick gasp, Dylan laid his head on Pat’s shoulder. Pat slid his arm around his brother. Aidan got up, and knelt before Dylan, grabbing his hand. “We’re here for you, bro. If something happens to her, we’ll get you through it.”

“I promise,” Pat said.

“This reminds me of when Pa left when we were little. We made a fort on the floor and spent the night in it on our sleeping bags for a week, remember?”

“Yeah.” This from Pat, as Aidan wasn’t born yet.

The door opened and closed and Liam entered. “Sorry I’m…” He startled, probably at the tableau they made. “Did you get news?”

“Nope. Come on over, Liam.”

Liam crossed the room, sat on the edge of the couch and touched Dylan’s arm. That’s all they could do for now.

Later, at two a.m., Pat made coffee and they sat around the dining room table, playing euchre. The TV played low in the background with the all-night coverage on NSMBC of the bombing that had involved a team from the station. There was still no news on their…survival. Oh, God!

Dylan was in a daze, barely aware of the sound of shuffling cards, the guys’ mumbles when they got new hands, the low rumble of the television. He kept thinking about the way Rachel’s eyes sparkled in the light that day at the race track, how she danced that one time in her studio, how she moaned when she was under him. He wouldn’t have been able to stand the wait if the guys hadn’t been here with him, if they weren’t taking care of Hogan. His brothers were the bright spot in the night—he knew now that no matter what their objections to Rachel were, they would always be there for him.

Aidan noticed first. “Turn up the sound, Pat.”

Dylan’s heart thunderclapped in his chest as he saw
Breaking News
in big letters flash across the set. Rachel’s beautiful face, a publicity headshot, came on-screen.

Fear thundered inside him. “Oh, God.”

“Read the caption, boy.” Pat’s voice was full of joy. “She’s okay. Her team, too. She’s in a hospital in Turkey, but they’re all alive.”

Drained by relief, Dylan put his head down on the table.

Rachel moved, sending pain to every muscle and nerve ending. Even opening her eyes hurt. But when she realized she was alive, she was safe, all she felt was relief. She’d made it through the bombing. Oh, no, did the others? She tried to call out, but instead, a moan escaped her. It brought a nurse to her side. Her face was blurry. “You’re awake.”

“The others?” Her voice was a hoarse croak. “My producer and cameraman?”

“Better than you. The blast knocked you out, but they had only superficial injuries.”

Rachel blinked to clear her vision. “Thank God. Where are they?”

“Waiting outside. I’ll fetch them.”

She glanced around the room. “Where am I?”

“In an American hospital across the border in Turkey.” She smiled. “Let me get your friends.”

When the woman left, Rachel tried to sit up, but pain shot out to all her extremities. Now that she knew the men who had come with her were alive, she lay back onto the pillows and let herself think about Dylan. Was he watching her coverage from home? If so, no matter how awful things were between them, he’d be terrified about her safety.

The door opened and her colleagues walked in. Emotion swelled inside her at the sight of them. They crossed to the bed and stared down at her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Crane said, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. He had a bandage on his forehead, but he looked fine.

“You, too.” She turned her attention to Tommy. “You okay?”

He chuckled.

“What?”

Crane socked Tommy on the arm. “He got some shrapnel in his butt.”

When she started to laugh, her ribs seemed to jut into her skin.

“But a pretty little nurse picked them out,” Tommy confessed. “So there was some consolation.”

They spoke about the bomb, about the footage they’d salvaged. It had been airing for the days she’d been in and out of consciousness.

“We can only stay a few minutes. You’ve got to rest.”

“I’m okay.”

The men exchanged a look she didn’t understand.

“Aren’t I?”

“What?” Crane asked. “Oh, yeah, sure. You’re good. The fact that you wandered in and out of consciousness had us worried, but now that you’re awake, all is well.”

They seemed in a hurry to leave as they turned, opened the door and walked out. Sounds of a P.A. and the low murmur of voices from the hospital staff filtered in because they hadn’t closed the door. Someone else came to the entrance. Rachel’s eyes filled. She hadn’t cried when she stepped into the melee at the city, when the bomb went off, or when searing pain shot through her. But seeing Dylan, big and beautiful, in the doorway, made her burst into tears.

His own eyes filled. He told himself she was fine, that all she’d had to do was regain consciousness permanently, and now she had. But he couldn’t stop the moisture that slid down his cheeks. He’d been crazy with worry.

He crossed to her. “Hello, love.” He held out his hand, and she took it.

“I’m so glad…” she choked on the tears. “…you’re here.”

“I’ve been here for a while.”

He pulled up a chair and sat. She raised her hand to his cheek. “Your cheeks are wet.” She wiped away the few tears.

“Hell, yes. I spent thirty-six hours with two men who hate my guts and took all my money in poker.”

In truth, Crane and Tommy had been so worried about Rachel they’d forgotten their animosity toward him. And the cards had been a way to pass the time.

“You, too.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her face.

She stared at him. “Dylan, I’ve been thinking.”

“Me, too. About us.”

“Let me go first. I’m sorry I reacted badly to the column incident. The whole time over here, I realized I should have come to you about it, instead of cutting you out of my life.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was in love with you.”

“What? Then why…”

“It hurt so much to think we’d gotten close and you’d betrayed me.”

“I didn’t. Did you see the second column?”

“Uh, huh. And the one on KPRAY.”

He shrugged.

“But won’t the positive slant in them affect the book deal? I want you to have what you deserve in life.”

“I turned the deal down. And Clive dumped me.”

“I’m sorry.” She waited. “Was that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No.” Leaning over he kissed her lips. They were parched and cracked. “I was crazy with worry. I realized all that matters is you’re safe. And that we try to give this relationship a real shot, out in the open. Somehow I’ll handle you going out into war zones. Aidan and Liam said they’d help me.”

“Oh, Dylan. Thank you.”

“For agreeing to try to handle all this?”

“For coming, mostly.”

“Hmm.” He kissed her again. “Now for some formalities.”

“What?”

“I don’t think we’ve ever said the words that count the most directly to each other.”

She grinned.

“I love you, Rachel.”

“I love you, too. For now, that’s all we need.”

One month later

Rachel knocked on John Walsh’s door and heard, “Come in.”

John occupied an office on the top floor of the network headquarters, with a spectacular view of New York. Sun bounced off the tops of the edifices, which almost touched the clouds.

“Hi, John. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Hey, anything for our new prize winner.” She’d been honored with the New York Excellence in Reporting Award. Her pieces on the governor, still ongoing, had garnered the accolade.

She glanced at his array of statues on a shelf, confirming his talent, too. “Yeah, even Rubin called to congratulate me.”

John laughed.

“I think he’s doing a good job with Syria.”

Her boss nodded. “But you can go back anytime you want.”

No, she couldn’t, but she wouldn’t tell him why. “I don’t want to go back, for that job, anyway.”

He watched her. Clearly, he was surprised and why not? She’d been after the foreign correspondent’s job for a long time. “What do you mean?”

“I’d like to keep my show and do hard-hitting stories like the one with the governor. And also some ancillary work with Syria.”

“Ancillary how?”

“Segments on the children over there. I’ve got footage of them that we didn’t use. And if I have to go back to get more, I’ll do that.” Later on.

“Sounds good to me. I’m just surprised. You’ve been gunning for the spot over there for a long time.”

“My priorities have changed.” Which was an understatement. “I’d also like to set up a fund from the news station for Syrian children, like others on cable TV have done. I did some research while recuperating and they’re building orphanages in the country for children who’ve lost their parents.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s even better is Bailey O’Neil is behind it. She said it’s a good place for her to focus our attention.”

“Wow, you hit the jackpot.”

With Bailey, maybe, but not two of her brothers. In the month since the accident, Aidan and Pat had not accepted her. They were overtly nice on the rare occasion that she saw them, and Dylan’s parents were civil to her, but she had a long way to go to make real peace with the O’Neils.

John’s phone buzzed, calling him to another meeting. She had to leave anyway because she was having lunch with Dylan. Her stomach growled with the thought.

The end of May was beautiful in New York City, and the sun warmed her as she walked down the street to a small Italian restaurant. The slight breeze ruffled her hair and she felt pretty damn good, given all that had happened.

The place was full of diners but she saw Dylan sitting in a booth by the window. She took a minute to study him. He wore a white dress shirt, open at the throat, and a blue sports coat. His hair, a little too long, was disheveled from the same wind that had tousled hers. God, he looked good. When he glanced up and saw her coming toward him, his expression was so genuine, so deep and meaningful, that her breath caught.

She was breathtaking, Dylan thought, there was no other word for how she looked today in a peach dress that highlighted her coloring and accented all that beautiful auburn hair. During the month of her convalescence, they’d spent some time walking on the beach and enjoying spring in May, but today, her face seemed to glow with more than just the tan. The smile she wore was almost blinding. He stood and kissed her on the lips. “Hello, love.”