High Stakes Read Free Page B

Washington. Complete with alarms, motion detectors, magnetometers and closed-circuit TVs, surrounded by uniformed guards on the larger perimeter, it was the safest place for Bailey and the kids now that they were the acting first family. The Secret Service command post was across the street, but the agent equipment and the agents themselves mostly stayed on the ground level of the residence.
    Dylan, Bailey and the little ones had arrived yesterday and settled in with even more Secret Service because Clay was acting president.
    Tonight Dylan lounged on a couch in the library with a book propped up on his knees. Like the other rooms in the house, this one had twelve-foot ceilings and a fireplace. The shelves, which went on forever, contained bestsellers, histories and biographies, as well as tons of children’s literature, making Dylan feel at home. This was where the family spent most of their time.
    “Hey, Dyl,” Bailey said to him as she entered the room. “Sorry it took me so long to get them to sleep. You stirred Rory up with your wizard story.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “You okay?”
    “Yeah.” Dylan scooted over so his sister could sit next to him.
    She took note of the book. “Your namesake’s poetry?”
    “Uh, huh. The poor bastard.” Dylan Thomas had had problems with demon rum and killed himself with it at thirty-nine. Luckily, Dylan didn’t share the proclivity to drink, but he definitely possessed the poet’s interest in writing and, some said, talent.
    Bailey dropped down close on one of the warm fabric couches, curled her legs under her and put her head on Dylan’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming with me. I can usually handle the political business, but this one has thrown me.” She turned her face into his sweater. “Not the least of which is the fact that I like Mark Langley.”
    The president had finally undergone surgical clipping of the artery, a procedure where the surgeon closed off the aneurysm, removing it and grafting it with a metal mesh support.
    “I know you do,
a ghra
. Any more news on his condition?”
    “He’s stable. But he’s still in critical care.” Her blue eyes sparked. “Damn men. He had throbbing back pain for a while now, which is a key symptom.”
    “We don’t like to admit our weaknesses, that’s for sure.”
    Bailey shook her head. “What if Mark dies or is incapacitated? It’ll be such a loss for the country and he’s a good man.”
    “Don’t buy trouble, Bay. The outlook for recovery’s good.” Sliding his arm around her, Dylan noticed she seemed thinner. “You taking care of yourself?”
    “What do you mean?” ”You’re thin.” He rubbed a finger under her eyes. “Smudges here.”
    “Thanks for the upbeat compliment.”
    He pulled away. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not pregnant again, are you?”
    “No, we’re done with that.” Staring down at the plush rug, she bit her lip, tough girl Bailey, who’d faced down girls in gangs without flinching. Then, she looked up at him. “If something happens to Mark, Clay will assume the permanent presidency. I’m…I’m not ready to be First Lady, Dyl. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want.”
    Because, no matter how good the prognosis, Mark Langley might never be able to assume his duties, he responded, “There’s a lot of talk in the news about how good Clay is as VP and what a great president he’d make.”
    “I know. I happen to not be one of his supporters for the position.” She hadn’t wanted to be Second Lady, either, but gave up a lot for the love of her life.
    “Does Clay know?”
    “Of course not. My feelings would sway him. We’ve talked in vague terms, but if it’s his life dream to be president, then I’m not interfering.”
    Kissing the top of her head, he said quietly, “It’s your life, too.”
    “I know. And I can do a lot of good as First Lady. Which I keep clinging to.”
    Dylan sighed. After a rocky beginning, Clay and Bailey had the best