Free Someone To Believe In by Kathryn Shay Page B

problem with Clay being on this task
force?”
    He knew there was. “No, of course not. I’ll
look forward to sparring with him.”
    “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
    Best to take the bull by the horns. “Surely
you expect some fireworks.”
    “What I’d like is a truce.”
    Let me come to work with you…We might even
call a truce.
    “I’m not sure you’re going to get that.
However, I’ll do my best to be civil.” She said her good-byes and
clicked off the phone.
    “What?” Aidan asked.
    “Looks like round three’s coming up.” She
explained the situation, excitement pumping through her veins like
a direct shot of caffeine.
    “You don’t seem unhappy about working with
Clay Wainwright.”
    “Of course I am. The senator’s a pain in the
ass.”
    “Uh-huh.” He stood. “Come on, B., let’s go
play with the wild things. Something you’re really good at,” he
added.
    “Much to Wainwright’s chagrin.” She wondered
what he was thinking about this turn of events.
     
     
    FIVE
     
     
    ALONE IN HIS den in his New York town
house, Clayton stared at the computer screen; its low hum was the
only thing breaking the silence. He was studying a proposal for
the Appropriations Committee to be discussed in September and his
eyes kept closing. It wasn’t that he was tired. He was
bored. Focus on the committee ,
he told himself. It was in a session of Appropriations that he’d
gotten the Street Angel’s funding stalled for Guardian.
    You bastard. Get out of here right now,
Senator. This little experiment is over.
    Maybe he should try to contact her again.
They were going to be working on the governor’s task force
together, and Jerry Friedman has asked him once again to come in
peace. Clay had her email address at ESCAPE. He drummed his fingers
on the mouse pad. Hell, maybe she was there. He stifled the thought
that he was using the committee as an excuse to contact her.
    Dear Ms.
O’Neil . Nah, he knew her better than that. Dear Bailey, I’m sorry our last meeting ended so
badly. I’d hoped we could get to know each other better. I
shouldn’t have made that crack about Lawson .
Truthfully, Clay had been jealous.
    Shit, he sounded like a teenage
boy. Are we going to be able to bury this
hatchet? He signed it simply Clay and pressed Send, staying online in case she
was at work and responded back immediately.
    She did.
    Dear Senator, Apology accepted. I lost my
temper with you, too, which seems to happen when we’re in the same
room. I think I need anger management where you’re concerned.
    He smiled. Her response was a peace
offering. He typed, Where are you now? Do
you have Instant Messenger so we can talk live?
    A longer wait. Clay got up and went to
the teak sideboard to pour himself a scotch. He appreciated its zip
as he took a swig and chided himself for contacting her. A chime
indicating an answer coming in. He went back to the
computer. Not a good idea , was
the message.
    He typed and sent, Please.
    Finally, capitulation. IrishCream .
    He chuckled, and returned ClayFeet .
    In minutes, he added her to a buddy
list under “personal” and clicked into IM. How are you?
    Tired, came the
instant reply. This was a lot better. It was like talking to her.
Grinning foolishly, he settled in.
    Why?
    I couldn’t get Rory to sleep last night.
    How late was he up?
    Until midnight. I read him five books and
sang an easy eighteen songs.
    Without thinking, he said, I wish I had those days back with my son, Bailey.
Treasure them.
    What would you do differently?
    That was easy. Be home more.
    A long pause. I’m not home enough.
    I have some suggestions that
would keep you home more. He put in a ☺.
    I’m too tired to fight about that,
ClayFeet.
    Okay. Do you exercise?
    Exercise is highly overrated.
    Not if it’s fun.
    What do you do to keep in such good
shape?
    Hmm. So she thought he was in good
shape. Racquetball. I’m really
good.
    And modest, too. A long pause. I used to
play.
    When?
    In prison.
    Clay