Someone To Believe In (32 page)

“OH, CLAY.” STANDING on the cobblestone
floor, Bailey noted the light oak booths, caught the tune of an
Irish band and took in the aroma of traditional Irish food; she
felt a sense of security and familiarity in the downtown Irish pub
that she’d feared she’d never feel in Washington. When the singers
began “No Never, No More,” she smiled. “I can sing that song.”

Clay came up behind her and squeezed her
shoulder. “Don’t tell them that. They’ll have you up there joining
them in a second.”

“Oh, dear, that would be public.” She pivoted
to face him. “Clay, what are we doing here? I was so enamored of
the place, I forgot...should we be here?”

“I think this is worth the risk.” He winked
at her. “I doubt people on the Hill are going to frequent Fado’s
Irish Pub at eleven on Friday night.”

She stared at him.

“Come on, I hate seeing that scowl. Just to
be safe, we won’t touch each other once.”

She was distracted from their conversation by
a host who approached them.

“Tráthnona maith
agat
.” He welcomed them in Gaelic then, and when
Bailey answered him in kind, his eyes widened. “
Bean mo chroi
. We’ll have to give you a prime
seat, lass.”

Bailey flashed Irish blue eyes at him and
threw Clay a sideways—and sexy—look. “How about a private
one?”

“Aye. As private as we’ve got.”

As he led them back, Clay asked, “What did he
say?”

“Woman of my heart.”

“Ah, I know the feeling.”

They were seated in one of the beautifully
crafted booths, in the back, behind a pillar. Her gaze spanned the
interior. “This is lovely.”

“Designed by Irish craftsmen with authentic
Irish materials in order to bring the best of Ireland to
Washington.” The host smiled at her. “Be sure to look at the other
rooms. The Library over there is stacked with books by our boy
James Joyce; the Cottage is the Shankee’s home.”

“Oh, I love Irish storytellers.”

The host beamed. “And then there’s The
Victorian Room where you can see some theater about Irish
politics.”

After he left to bring them Guinness beer,
Bailey gave Clay a private smile. “Politics, now that would
interest you, wouldn’t it?”

“Do I detect a lilt to your voice?” he asked.
His brandy-colored eyes shone with humor and intense satisfaction.
His whole body was relaxed and he looked young in a gauzy
light-brown shirt rolled up at the sleeves and tan designer jeans.
She wore black jeans and green light cotton sweater.

“A lilt? Maybe I...oh, Clay, listen.” He
smiled. “Oh Danny Boy,” the classic Irish hit song, began to play.
Immediately her eyes misted.

“What, honey?”

“I love this song. It reminds me of my
family, my background.”

“Well, let’s listen to it, then.”

Afterward, there was raucous clapping. Bailey
stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled. Clay threw back his
head and laughed at her enthusiastic response.

“Galway Bay” began with the opening, “If I
ever go across the sea to Ireland.”

Clay smiled at her, his eyes brightening even
more. “Maybe we’ll go to Ireland on our honeymoon.”

She sucked in a breath. “Clay.”

“What? We already talked about marriage.”

Bailey watched him watch her. Just a little
while ago, his mouth had been all over her. It heated her blood
just to think of it. Their lovemaking had been tender and
breathtaking at the same time.

Finally, Clay spoke. “You can’t just ignore
what I said.”

“I don’t know how to respond.”

Cocking his head, he shrugged. “All right.
Let’s table it. I don’t want anything to ruin this weekend.”

A waiter approached them with their
Guinness. “
Slainté
!” he
said.

Bailey and Clay both raised their glasses to
toast. After they sipped, the man asked, “Will you be orderin’
now?”

“We haven’t looked at the menu,” she said
picking it up. “But I’m starved.”

“Boxy is their signature dish, Bailey,” Clay
told her.

“Oh, I love potato pancakes. My mother makes
them.”

The waiter beamed. “Bailey, is it? A nice
Irish girl.”

She wished she could tell the waiter about
her parents’ pub. Damn this secrecy. Though she didn’t voice it to
Clay—he’d jump on her frustration and use it to move her along
faster she was tired of hiding her feelings, too. “Aye, and I’ll
have boxy, of course.”

“What would you like it stuffed with,
darlin’?” the waiter asked. “Chicken, shrimp, sausage, seafood, or
portobello?”

“Oh, I love them all.”

“Can we get a sampling?” Clay asked. “My
friend here is in town from New York.”

“For an Irish lass, I’d say Hogan will do
it.” He took the menus and left.

“So, you like this surprise?” he asked,
starting to reach for her hands across the table, then remembering
their deal and drawing it back.

“I love it, Clay. Thanks so much.”

He grinned.

“For this and earlier,” she added arching a
brow.

“I missed you, lass.”

“I could tell.”

He clasped his hands together tightly on the
table. “It’s different now, isn’t it?”

“Hmm." She sipped her beer. “More
meaningful." She scanned the fieldstone fireplace and absorbed the
familiar atmosphere. “More intense.”

He picked up his beer. “For me too,
darlin’.”

“This place is even getting to you.”

“You
are
getting to me.”

Despite their caveat about touching, she
reached over and squeezed his hand. “Right back at ya.”

He laughed, she smiled, then she lifted her
glass to him. She said, “Dance as if no one were watching. Sing as
if no one were listening. And live every day as if it were your
last.”

Clay arched a brow. “Heed your own words,
Bailey me girl.”

She knew exactly what he meant.

BAILEY WAS LIKE a little kid on the bicycle
tour of the Mall the next day. Wearing sunglasses and ball caps,
they pedaled next to each other as she exclaimed over the
Washington sights. A warm October breeze and bright sunshine
followed them everywhere. They stopped in front of the Lincoln
Memorial for a break and dismounted their bikes.

Bailey looked up at the famous American
monument and grinned. “Wow, is that big. Rory would love seeing
this.” She swept her hand in the air to indicate the entire scope
of the Mall. Although Bailey had been to Washington several times,
she hadn’t done the tour since she was young. And Rory had never
been here.

“Then we’ll have to bring him down.”

She sipped her water. “Maybe.”

Forcing himself not to react, Clay looked
away. He wasn’t going to spoil this weekend by arguing about what
he didn’t have. “Hungry?” he asked glancing at his watch.

“Are you kidding? Between what I ate last
night and at Kramer’s this morning, I’m stuffed.” They’d had
breakfast at the famous bookstore on Dupont Circle in the same
disguise they wore now so she could get to see one of his favorite
D.C. spots.

He nodded to the bikes. “This will work it
off.”

She moved a bit closer on the steps. “I can
think of other ways, too.” She brushed the side of his thigh with
hers.

Since he was incognito, he leaned over and
kissed her nose. “You’re on, sweetheart, as soon as we get back to
the town house.”

They were called to return to the group and
resumed the tour of sights Clay had taken for granted as long as he
could remember. She was good for him, letting him view these grand
monuments through her eyes. Though he had to forcefully quell his
worry over what was coming Monday, he was enjoying himself.

He felt the same way when he toured the
Smithsonian with her that afternoon. He saw the Women’s Museum and
the children’s exhibits with new appreciation.

And once back home, he made tender love to
her. She promptly fell asleep and was still out when the phone
rang. Clay answered it quickly so she wouldn’t wake up.

Thorn’s voice came across the line. “Oh,
great, Clay, you’re in town.”

Damn it, he shouldn’t have answered. “I
am.”

“I hope you’re not tied up tonight.”

He glanced over at Bailey, naked in his bed,
the sheet pulled up to her chin. Her chest rose and fell
rhythmically as she slept deeply. “As a matter of fact I am.”

“Can you get out of it? For a while at
least.”

“Why?”

“The head of Health, Education and Welfare is
having a tête-à-tête at the Kennedy Center tonight. You’re
invited.”

He sat up straighter in bed. “What? I didn’t
know anything about this.”

“The invitation got lost. His assistant
called me yesterday, to ask why you weren’t coming. You’d left the
office early and didn’t return my calls.”

Clay glanced at the answering machine, which
blinked an accusing bright red. “I wasn’t here.”

“What about your cell?”

“I turned it off.”

A pause. “Why?” Thorn waited. “Does this have
anything to do with the talk we had that day after
racquetball?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Clay, if you’re with somebody, you can bring
her.”

“Don’t I wish.”

“Oh, hell, she isn’t married, is she?”

“No! Nor does she work for me. Nor is she a
hardened criminal.” Though she had gone to jail.

“Sorry. Role reaction. Look, you need to go
to this thing, even if you just put in an appearance. It’s black
tie.”

“Thorn, I can’t.”

“Just for an hour.”

He sighed.

“Damn it, Clay, can’t you get away from her
for a little while? You have responsibilities. And if you decide to
throw your hat in for VP, you shouldn’t ignore events like
this.”

He pivoted when he heard a rustle on the bed.
Bailey turned over and opened sleepy eyes to him.

“All right, I’ll be there. What time?”

He hung up mad.

“You’ll be where?” she asked.

“The Kennedy Center.” He explained the
situation to her.

She brushed his cheek with her palm. “I can
amuse myself here for a couple of hours, Clay.”

“It’s not that.”

“We were cooking in tonight anyway.”

“I know.” He tried to bite his tongue but he
was a man used to speaking his mind. “It’s the secrecy that’s
getting to me. I want you with me tonight. I want to show you off
to the world.”

“Clay.”

“I know. I promised myself I wouldn’t bring
it up all weekend. But I didn’t expect this.” He nodded to the
phone. “I’m sorry. But I have to go for just an hour or so.”

“Of course you do.” Her eyes sparkled. “Do
you have to wear a tux?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ve never seen you in one.”

“Well, you will I guess.” He nodded to the
phone. “Damn it.”

She brought his hand to her breast. The sheet
slipped and he felt her skin against his palm. “We’ve got all
weekend, Clay.”

And then what?
he thought but didn’t ask. At times like this he felt the
dilemma of their situation acutely and was tempted to return to
control mode, which would only irritate the lovely woman lounging
in his bed like Jezebel waiting for the king.

To give her credit, she tried to lighten the
moment. After he showered and began to dress, she made bawdy
comments about the cut of his trousers over his butt, got out of
bed to help button his studs, and teased him. “You know, while
you’re gone, I’m going to snoop. In your desk. Your underwear
drawer, everywhere.”

“Just don’t reveal any state secrets,” he
said kissing her nose.

A half hour later, with the vision of her
soft and sexy in his bed firmly planted in his mind, Clay shot the
sleeves of his tux jacket as he climbed the stairs to the famous
performing arts center on F Street. Built in 1971 as a memorial to
JFK, the still-modern building housed several theaters and was
responsible for bringing culture to Washington. It also had a
rooftop restaurant, where he was headed. Finding the elevator,
riding it up, he thought, of course, of what he’d left behind.

Reaching the top floor, he exited the
elevator and found the private room in the back, just off the
outdoor porch where events were held in the nice weather. Jim
Smith, the senator from Michigan, and head of the Health,
Education, and Welfare Committee and their host, crossed to where
he stood in the doorway and stretched out his hand. “Clayton, we
were wondering where you were.”

“Apparently, the invitation got lost.” He
shook hands. “Glad I could make it.”

As they moved to the bar, Thorn joined them,
said hello, and got a drink for Clay. Jim asked, “Didn’t you
question why you weren’t invited to this shindig?”

No, because I wasn’t paying attention to the
events in D.C.

“Actually, he’s spent a great deal of time in
New York.” Thorn smiled graciously. “The Big Apple keeps him
busy.”

“Those Yanks are doing great, aren’t they?”
Smith said. “Have you managed to take in any of the games?”

“Well, he took in at least one.” The other
New York senator, Alex Case, had come up behind them when Jim
asked about the baseball team, and clapped Clay on the back. “Tell
me, did your young friend enjoy his visit with Jeter?”

“What visit with Jeter?” Thorn asked.

Case sipped his drink. “Joanie called my
assistant and asked if I could arrange for Clay to take a little
pal of his into the locker room.” He shrugged. “I knew Jeter before
he was the number one man for the Yankees.”

“Yes,” Clay said, uncomfortable. “My friend
enjoyed that.”

Thorn eyed him silently. When the others
moved away, Thorn drew in a breath that indicated lack of patience.
“What’s going on, Clay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t fuck with me. Something’s going on. It
seems to me you have a double life. If you aren’t going to tell
your Chief of Staff about it, we might as well call it quits
now.”