High Stakes (7 page)

“Damned if I know. Maybe one taste will put the fire out.”

She stared hard at his lips. “One taste could never be enough. I need to leave.”

Tug, tug. Closer, closer until her breath was a whisper-soft touch on his face. They were surrounded by a dusky cocoon. Making their encounter more romantic. Sexier.

“You don’t want this, Dylan.”

He swallowed hard. “Do you?”

“Of course I do. I was honest about why I slept with you.”

“Take what you want, darlin’.”

They both froze. Then, slowly, her hand slid to the lapel of his jacket, up to his jaw, around to his nape, which was sweaty.

He was going to let her lead if it killed him. She did some tugging of her own and brought his mouth to hers. Their lips touched and heat flared. They melded together, wanting, taking. He opened her mouth with his tongue. Probed the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, ever wanted to taste. Her long fingernails scraped his neck and he bucked toward her.

She re-angled her head.

He re-angled his.

His heart beat a quick tattoo and he put his hand on her heart, too, to see if it was keeping time with his, pleased that it was.

She moved closer in the seat; so did he. The hard planes of his chest plastered against her curves, and Dylan began to despair of ever stopping
with a taste.

He did. Not right away, but when he couldn’t bear the constrictions of their clothing, of their sentiments, he stopped. Every muscle in Dylan’s body craved for more.

Their ragged breathing was a cacophony in the silent car. His put his hand on her cheek. It was heated, as he could feel his was. Her skin was like watery silk.

“That wasn’t a good idea,” she said in a harsh voice, “unless you want to come up.”

He grabbed on to her shoulders, his hands holding her like a lifeline. But he managed to say, “No, I can’t. We won’t do this again.”

A heavy breath escaped her. “Then unlock the door.”

He hesitated.

“
Now
, Dylan.”

Not knowing what else to do, he clicked the lock and she shot out of the car. He watched her until she disappeared into the building. Then he put his head down on the steering wheel, took in steadying breaths, and cursed himself in the darkness.

“Hey there big brother.” Bailey smiled at Dylan on the computer screen when he answered her Skype call. He was rumpled and held a Guinness. Since she did, too, they lifted their bottles and said, “
Slainté
,” simultaneously.

Her eyes narrowed and she frowned. “You look awful.” She winked. “Well, as awful as Dylan O’Neil can look.”

He didn’t take the bait, which worried Bailey. Now his eyes were bleak. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Why?”

“Just shit around here.” His face brightened. “Hogan’s home.”

Bailey smiled at the thought of her Dylan-look-alike nephew. “How was the visit with his mother?”

“Same old, same old.”

They talked about the kids, Ma and Pa, then the discussion turned to his job.

“I finally got to read your column on KPRAY. You challenged them, without accusing them of anything.”

“I have a meeting tomorrow with the head honcho there.”

“You’ve got the most interesting job, Dyl.”

“With drawbacks.”

Ah, so he did want to talk about it. “What’s going on with Rachel?”

“You know me so well, which I don’t sometimes like.” He took a sip of his beer. “Mayor Jacobs called the head of Rachel’s network, and my editor, Herb Baker, strongly recommended—aka ordered—me to give her a second column. To do that, I have to be with her.”

“Holy shit! That’s the last thing you want.”

“You know, I could avoid all this if Clay would just make nice with her.”

Bailey’s face shadowed. “He’s so busy, and stressed, Dylan. I’d hate to bother him with this.”

“Hey, I was kidding. And I’m not sure that would help, anyway. I gotta do this. Don’t worry, I’m a big boy.”

“Which is part of the problem. You have male needs.”

Dylan guffawed. “I don’t need a lecture on that from my baby sister.”

She grinned. “Your baby sister’s learned a lot since she was a teen.”

He chuckled. At least she made him laugh.

“So, what’s the update on Mark?”

“As a matter of fact, he was discharged today. He’s going to Camp David to recover. His wife Michelle insisted because he’d never stay out of the business of the country if he was in D.C..”

“So Clay’s got a long haul as acting president.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you moving into the White House?”

“No, Clay refused and I didn’t want to, either. It caused waves, but we couldn’t usurp their family that way. Besides, that place gives me the creeps.”

Again, Dylan laughed. “You sure are a different kind of Second Lady. Is he home much?”

She shook her head. “We haven’t seen him for three days. He’s getting briefed about the areas of most concern. He slept in the Reagan bedroom, but I can tell when I talk to him he’s not getting much rest. He’s coming home tonight, though. We’re having a romantic dinner after we get the kids down.” She smiled. “Anika’s staying over, so Rory will leave us alone eventually.”

“Great nanny you have there.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go check to see if Hogan is ready for school tomorrow.”

“Before you do, tell me how you’re feeling about Rachel.”

“Truthfully?”

“Of course, you jerk.”

“It’s killing me to be around her.” His expression turned bleak, and Dylan O’Neil didn’t do bleak often.

“I can imagine. I remember how hard it was to resist Clay.”

“She says it’s hard for her, too. Being with me.”

“Yeah, all that’s a powder keg, waiting to explode.”

He swore under his breath. “I hope not. It’s tough, Bay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Uncle Dylan!” A voice came from behind Bailey. Rory had found her.

She said to her son, “Come say hi.”

Another voice popped up. “Me, too. Me, too.”

“Okay, Angel.” Bailey stood and picked up her little girl. “Take my chair, Rory. Angel, you can see Uncle Dylan from here.” She whispered, “Sorry to miss the rest of the conversation.”

“Don’t be. It isn’t pretty.”

Dylan grinned at Rory. “So, Ror, tell me about that cute little redhead at school.”

“What?”
Bailey said. It took her a minute to realize she’d been had.

Dylan entered the board room at the headquarters of KPRAY and found Robert Zacharias at an oval oak table with his Bible in front of him. He was a demure man, slight of build, sporting a receding hairline and dressed in a plain white shirt and blue tie. Once again, the surroundings were modest, with several windows, through which a March sun shone. Prints of religious art decorated the walls.

“Welcome, Dylan.” Zacharias didn’t stand but held out a hand. After they shook, he added, “Have a seat.” When Dylan dropped down across from him, the man’s expression was pleasant, as if Dylan wasn’t here to nail him. “Jamie tells me you have some questions about the ethical nature of our radio show.”

Relaxed but alert, Dylan gave him a perfunctory smile. “You have a bigger organization than the radio show, sir.”

“Call me Robert. That’s right. But the intent of everything we do is to bring the message of Jesus to people.” He sounded as if he meant that. He probably did. Religion was full of do-gooders gone down the path of perdition.

Dylan added, “You operate like a corporation with a headquarters”—Dylan motioned to the room, the building—”a Board of Directors and officers.”

“With many differences, though. Our BOD is unpaid; we’re nonprofit and a member of the Evangelical Council founded by Billy Graham. ECFA oversees our financial affairs,
ethics,
which seem to concern you, and reporting standards. The Fortune Five Hundred don’t do that.”

Dylan already knew all that. “I assure you, Robert, I’ve studied your website. My concerns are about the more ephemeral nature of your business.”

The man steepled his hands and his brows knitted. “I don’t understand.”

Dylan picked up his tablet. “I have a series of questions for you.”

“You’ve read our mission statement, our vision, right?”

“I did.”

“Then go ahead.”

“What are the people like who donate to keep the station going?”

He held up a hand, fingers splayed. “Let me tick them off for you, some of the ones I remember. There’s Tammy, who’s in her thirties, of Anglo Saxon descent and is a secretary at city hall. Peter and his wife, a middle class suburban family, African-American, very fundamentalist. Mitchell believes in the legalization of pot but has strong values and is a Mexican-American member of New York’s senate.” The fifth digit came up. “The Italian family who owns a store down the street participates. Shall I go on?”

Clever guy. These examples came from all walks of life. All social classes, all races and genders.

“Are all of them Christian?” Zacharias nodded.

Dylan asked a few more generic questions, then switched gears. “I’m interested in those who use a credit card, where monthly donations are automatically deducted from the owner’s account into yours.”

“Really, why?”

“Because my gut tells me people give more than they can afford.”

Zacharias didn’t seem surprised. “If Jesus wants them to.”

“At what cost to them, though?”

“We all suffer for our faith, Mr. O’Neil.”

“And it’s okay for your listeners to suffer because they give money to you?”

“If God wants it that way.” He leaned over and braced his arms on the table. “When my wife and I had a young family, she stayed home while I went out to work, and we scrimped. We still found a way to give significant money to our church.”

“I’m not against supporting a church you belong to. Churches do good work inside and outside their four walls.”

“Then consider KPRAY a global church.”

“Maybe I will. If you give me access to your donors. I want to hear their personal stories.” He nodded to Dylan’s tablet. “There are testimonials throughout the site.”

“Uh-huh. I want to talk to some of the ones not featured here.”

“For what purpose?”

“To see if they can afford to support you.”

The guy didn’t immediately object, like Jamie Linton had. He seemed thoughtful. Then, “How would we go about that? I can’t disclose identities without their permission.”

“Would a list of the last few days’ donors be available right now?” Dylan had read they got thousands a day.

“Yes, of course. We keep meticulous records.”

“Good. I’d like you to pick ten that came in who have automatic deposits. You can call them and ask if they’d talk to me. Be up front about what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure many of our brothers and sisters would like to share their ministry with you.” He started to stand. “I’ll get you a list.”

“Not so fast.” Dylan gestured to the computer on the sideboard. “Access the list from there.”

“Why?”

“I want to watch.”

“Why on earth…? I don’t get what you’re saying.”

“Mr. Zacharias, you could rig any list you make up. Pick the ones you know are living within their means. My way, it will be as random as possible.”

“There’s no need for you to stand over my shoulder to do all this. I’m an honest, God-loving man.”

“Me, too,” Dylan said charmingly. “So my plan should work for both of us.”

Rachel arrived early to her Saturday morning dance class. She wanted to get to the barre before the girls showed up because she’d planned a different warm-up in her head and had to try it out before she asked the students to follow her. When her taxi pulled up to the building, she found one of her students waiting outside. In the five-degree weather. Without a hat or gloves. Rachel was covered from head to toe in warm wool.

“Kammy, what…what are you…never mind. Let’s get inside.”

Tugging the girl by the hand, she drew her up the steps, unlocked the door and let them both into the waiting area on the first floor. It wasn’t warm yet, as the heat needed to be turned up. The owner of the studio, who rented Rachel the upstairs room, didn’t start until ten.

“Sit, sweetie.” Rachel adjusted the thermometer and felt a blast of warm air come through a register. “Over here. You’ll warm right up. No, don’t take off your coat yet.”

When Kammy finally thawed out, she removed her coat, took off her boots but kept her gaze averted. She sat on the bench to don her ballet slippers. Rachel dropped down next to her. “What happened, Kammy? I can’t let this go unaddressed.”

“My mother had to be to work at seven.”

Rachel glanced at the clock. Seven-fifteen. “How long have you been outside?”

“Not long.” The girl still wouldn’t look at her. She had the thickest eyelashes. Her hair, which had to be bound up for class, flowed to her waist.

Gently she touched Kammy’s shoulder. “Give me a time.”

“Six-thirty,” she mumbled.

“Sweetie, being out in the cold for forty-five minutes in this weather is unacceptable.”

“It was either that or I couldn’t come.”

All right, these kids were poor. Which was why Rachel set up this class. But responsibility wasn’t foreign to them. She’d met with all the parents and they’d signed an agreement. She’d never thought to include that they couldn’t dump the kids off at any time. What to do? “I need to think about this.”

The girl grabbed her hand. “Please don’t kick me out. I wanna be a dancer like you. This is my only chance.”

Well, the girl was good. Very good. But she was already ten and should have had extensive training by now, as Rachel had since she was five.

“I wouldn’t think of kicking you out.” And though her knee-jerk reaction was to kick the
mom
in the pants, she knew lower-income people didn’t have control over their lives sometimes.

“Let’s go upstairs.” She touched Kammy’s hair. “I’ve got some pins to put this up.”

Kammy turned grateful dark eyes up to her. “Thank you, Miss Rachel.”

“My pleasure. Maybe you can help me try out the new warm-up I planned today.”