Men at Work    Close to You
The Wrong Man for Her   Be My Babies    Taking the Heat

Men at Work

The computer pinged loudly in the stillness of the offices of Allheart.com as Elyssa Wentworth, CEO and all-around mother to the outfit, booted up her machine. Though DC's spring weather struggled to sneak through the slotted blinds of her office, it was eerily gray and quiet on this mid-March morning.

A good time for email.

A poor substitute for intimate talk over coffee with a man.

Damn, she thought as she clicked into her cable server and onto the Net in seconds. Her coworkers had messed with her head last night at the office secretary's going away dinner. Contrary to their claims, Elyssa was happy with Allheart as her significant other, and offspring, all rolled into one. It was their damn innuendoes that had brought on all those dreams last night and awakened her at five for good.

"You've got mail!" a way too-chipper-for-seven-in-the-morning voice proclaimed.

"See, I've got somebody to talk to," Elyssa told the computer. The irony didn't escape her as she sipped her cafe au lait from the corner Starbuck's. She savored the sweet, milky taste as much as the caffeine jolt it gave her.

She had, to be exact, one hundred and sixty someones to talk to, her counter informed her. Slinking off her Ralph Lauren jacket--she loved how the mint green silk felt easing down her arms--and heeling out of but not dropping to the floor one of the Manolo Blahnik taupe sandals that she'd gotten for a steal, she scrolled down her screen to see if anything interesting popped up.

Her cursor halted at the address of one of the messages.

"Greetings from Allheart.com." Someone had sent her one of her own cards? In the two years since shed started the company, she couldn't remember a time when anybody had sent her an Allheart. How unique. It certainly warranted her attention. She called up the file.

And felt that quick zing course through her--like a shot of good bourbon or the jump-start of sexual attraction--as she saw her own little brainchild etch out onto the screen: Allheart's distinctive logo, Write from the heart, in its classy red lettering. She wondered if the fullness in her chest was what a normal woman would feel watching her daughter perform in a ballet recital or her son win a spelling bee.

Ditching those discomfiting thoughts, she concentrated on her card. It was one of their initial offerings, updated by Dana, her writer, and Alix, her graphic designer, several times. On the front was a star-filled, inky black night, with a single star standing out bigger and brighter than the others. The note at the bottom read, "Your star shines the brightest." It had been an amazingly popular series whose success had surprised them all.

Discreet but clear directions--thank you Dana--instructed the receiver on how to open the card. This was also one of the personal lines--where the sender could create his own message. She smiled as she clicked to open. Who had done this?

The script inside was simple. "I admire what you've done with Allheart.com Online Greeting Service. For a small outfit, your number of hits in two years is noteworthy. Let me introduce myself. I'm Joe Monteigne of Highwire Industries. We specialize in helping companies to create their vision and fulfill their dreams. I need only thirty minutes of your valuable time to discuss a business collaboration. I assure you it is of mutual benefit to us both. I'll telephone you today." It was signed--this personal signature touch had been Robyn's idea--in a bold masculine scrawl, Joe Monteigne.

Easing back from her triangular teak desk, she studied the screen and thought of the advice her brother Elliot, a Pulitzer Prize-worthynewspaper columnist, had given her a while ago. It's time to take the plunge, Lyss. You can use a new infusion of money. Expand or be eaten alive.

She'd been mulling over his words for weeks. Especially since other venture capitalists had been sniffing around her like dogs in heat. She'd already met with a few of them, but their cocky, arrogant, help-the-little-lady-out attitude made her want to barf most of the time. Oh, she knew her situation required financing. She'd started Allheart on an initial one-time investment from an angel--a backer who only wanted a return on his money and didn't want to get involved in the company. Her burn rate, the amount of capital needed each month to operate, was high. Now that she'd gone through much of that money, she'd need a capital intensive firm to back her.

Joe Monteigne's proposal sounded...different, somehow, from the other suspender-wearing good ole boys. More respectful. She laughed out loud into the silent office, remembering what she'd said last night at dinner, when her defenses had disappeared along with the Cristal champagne. My dream is to meet a man who thinks my life's just great as it is and who wants to play along. Of course, she'd meant the comment about her personal life, but it was true about her business, too. She didn't want to be taken over--personally or professionally. If she had to expand, and deal with the money mongers out there, she wanted someone who'd play her game: accept that she insisted on keeping control; offer help with business strategies and long term goals, and of course, have gobs of money to invest.

Biting off the raisin colored lipstick she'd applied this morning, she reached for the phone. It was almost seven. Like her, Elliot would be in his office by now. She was meeting him for lunch at her favorite bistro here in Georgetown, just a few blocks from her office. Maybe he could get some information about Highwire Industries and this mysterious--and creative--Joe Monteigne by then.

This morning, Elyssa had staff meeting, and that consult with Parker Industries--a big advertising account Carole Titus, Allheart's whiz salesperson, had been after for months--but in between she would do some of her own web research. She'd be ready when Monteigne called today.



"Ohmigod, who's the hunk?" Robyn Barrett, Elyssa's personal assistant, wasn't too bleary-eyed this morning to notice the papers scattered on the teak conference table when she strolled in at eight-thirty. Elyssa had been analyzing her just-compiled folder of web research on Highwire Industries while she waited for her staff to arrive.

"A VC," Elyssa said succinctly. Then she added, "You're late."

Robyn scanned the area. "So are Dana and Alix."

Mothering the young woman like the rest of the crew at Allheart, Carole smiled at Robyn from across the table. "Cab problems. They called in on their cell phones, kid."

Shrugging, Robyn sank onto a chair next to Carole. "Sorry," she said in that teenage-sister voice that always melted Elyssa's pique. Once Allheart had begun to grow, Elyssa had needed help, and something about the young blonde made her the number one choice. She'd been right to hire the girl--mostly Robyn was top notch and on the ball. Men, and nights with them, seemed to dull her first thing in the morning. It happened to most women, Elyssa guessed.

She's not a robot like you, was how one of Elyssa's more disgruntled boyfriends had put it.

"VC as in Viet Cong?" Robyn asked.

"As in Venture Capitalist." Carole reached for the picture Elyssa had run off on her computer.

Robyn stared at it. "Man, in this case, it should stand for Very Cute."

"More like Vicious Cannibal," Elyssa mumbled, "just waiting to eat you and your business up."

"I wouldn't mind getting eaten up by this one," Robyn commented. He's got a Brad Pitt mouth and Tom Cruise eyes."

Reading the text about Highwire Industries--they had really good copy--Elyssa said absently, "Does he?"

Snickers. She peered up over half glasses that she wore when her eyes got tired. Damn that sleepless night. "What?"

Robyn rolled her eyes.

"Christ Robyn, you act like a teenager sometimes."

Oblivious, Robyn pointed to the picture Carole held up. "Come on, Elyssa, look. Isn't he yummy?"

From behind them, she heard, "We're here. Sorry we're l--Jesus, who's the sexy stud?" Dana dropped her purse onto a chair and peered over Elyssa's shoulders.

Alix joined in. "Linebacker shoulders. My fave." She smiled at Carole.

"I know my Alan's a cutie, too." She referred casually to her live-in boyfriend and shrugged. "But even though I've ordered, I can still read the menu."

Carole gave her a knowing smile back. "You haven't ordered, lady. And you know it."

"Am I missing something here?" Elyssa asked.

"Nah." Carole winked at Alix. "Alix and I had a heart-to-heart girl talk last night on the ride home is all."

"All right. We can stop drooling over Joe Monteigne and start this meeting now."

"Joe." Robyn sighed and got that man-dreamy look on her face. "Nice strong solid name."

Realizing she wouldn't get anywhere without throwing a few crumbs, Elyssa blithely outlined his morning email.

"How sweet." Dana's eyes glowed from beneath her fiery red bangs. "I love that he approached you with one of our babies."

So did Elyssa, though she'd be damned if she'd admit it. "In any case, since he's calling today, I've got to decide if I'll talk with him. That's why I was studying the file. Not to drool over him."

"He's serious drool material," Carole put in.

"You, too, Brutus?"

The women laughed.

"Seriously," Carole said. "You know we need more financing." A rare mischievous smile graced her lips. "Consider the advantages of working with Mr.Prime Piece of Beef. All those late nights of due diligence and hacking out business strategies. Might be fun."

"Selling out to VC's is not my idea of fun." Elyssa shrugged. "But I'll keep this one in the running." She scanned the other women who'd finally seated themselves and opened up their note pads. Though they joked, and had gotten to be personal friends over the last months, all four women knew when to get down to business. It was just one of the things Elyssa valued about them. "All right, here's the agenda." Elyssa passed around a typed sheet with succinct wording and neat columns. "Reports first on the new graphics software--that's you Dana; brainstorm possibilities for the new baby line of cards--Carole; an analysis of the most frequently used messages from Alix." All things Elyssa knew and felt comfortable with. "Robyn, take notes!"

"With you, general," Robyn said.

"Yes, sir boss," Dana quipped.

Carole saluted.

"Wise guys." Elyssa gathered up the file on Highwire, and stuffed the grinning picture of Monteigne back into it. Then she went work.

After all, this was what she was good at.



From a corner table at the Clyde's of Georgetown, Elliot waved to Elyssa. As always, he looked a little rumpled in his somewhat worn suit, shirt and the paisley tie she'd bought for him. He ran a hand through his chestnut hair--hers was shades darker--and smiled as he stood to greet her. After he kissed her cheek, he studied her. He had the same shape hazel eyes as she did, though hers were a bit more green today, thanks to the suit.

"You okay, kiddo?" Elliot was three years older than Elyssa's thirty-four years, but he had an exaggerated big brother complex.

"Couldn't be better. You?" she asked as she seated herself.

"Terrific." He held up a folder. "I got you some info." She reached for it, but he drew it out of her grasp. "Not now. Let's catch up first. Like your competitor's cards say, 'Stop and...'"

"...'smell the roses.' How mundane." Placing her green Prada handbag on the floor, she smiled affectionately at him. He was so good for her. Making her slow down. Making her relate to him, at least, as a human being, not some corporate cardboard cutout.

"You look good today." She opened her menu. "Is there a woman?"

Elliot gave her a thousand-watt grin. "Nah." He shrugged. "But I got the promotion."

"Oh, Elliot." She reached over and grabbed his hand. "Congratulations. Not that I'm surprised. The newspaper needs you."

"Apparently they think so, too." He smiled at her. "Not bad for a kid from Smalltown, USA, is it?"

She tried to ignore the reference. "Senior columnist at the Washington Post is terrific for anyone."

"You still don't like to talk about it, do you?"

"What's there to talk about?" One thing she and Elliot never did was lie to each other. He was the only person she could count on to be straight with her. Always. "We grew up poor, we were smart, we made it big. End of story."

He grinned. "Ah, it sounds so simple. Almost makes me forget the hours of working at Mickey D's while I went to Georgetown U." He shook his head. "Don't you miss that smell of grease sometimes?"

"Vassar girls don't ever smell like grease." She batted her eyelashes. "Anyway, if you're asking if I like to think about what a struggle it was to get through college on a shoestring, scholarships notwithstanding, no I don't. What's wrong with that?"

He held up his palms. "Nothing." When a waitress approached their table with sparkling waters Elliot had obviously ordered, he said, "You ready to eat?"

After choosing the same meal of chicken Caesar salad and bread, Elyssa said, "So, what did you find out?"

For a moment, he looked like he might argue at the reversion to business; finally he placed his elbows on the table. His photographic memory clicked almost audibly into work mode. "Highwire Industries is one of the most successful VC's in the area. They specialize in Internet Investments. It's the baby of your card guy; he started the company about ten years ago and he's worth millions now. His investors are the standard pension funds and university endowment kind. He's got an interesting assortment of partners who, rumor has it, depend heavily on his opinions. Word around town says he thrives on the challenge, and lately he's been after unusual investments."

"Unusual?"

"Smaller, unique businesses, not necessarily the ones that approach him."

"Why?"

"Boredom, probably. He likes the challenge." Elliot's eyes danced. "Just like you, Lyss."

She smiled back. "How old is he?"

"Thirty-eight."

"That's pretty young for so much money and power." The lemon flavored water felt good on her parched throat. Talking about expanding her business unnerved her as much as it excited her.

"He comes from money. Old Virginia money. He's a Harvard MBA and did his undergrad at Yale."

"How'd you get all this? His website and the search engine I used didn't uncover nearly this much personal information."

Elliot lounged his long, lean frame back in the comfortable chair. Backdropped by the dark wood with Americana on the walls, and surrounded by the friendly, easygoing atmosphere, he looked right at home. "Really, Lyss, you wound me. I'm a reporter." At her pointed look, he shrugged. "The Post did a story on him a few years back. They had a file on him."

She nodded. "What's his working relationship like with a company he invests in?"

"No more personal stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you want to know if he's married? Gay? What his hobbies are."

"Why would I?"

"Know thy enemy, Sis."

"So, he's a shark, right, when it comes to investments?"

"Actually, no, he's done some pretty fair negotiating. Most of the companies spoke highly of his light hand and easy manner."

Tom Cruise eyes and linebacker shoulders came to mind. He could afford to be light and easy, she guessed. In business and with women.

Shit, she was going to murder Robyn, Carole and all of them.

"What is it?"

Their salads arrived and Elliot dug in; Elyssa pushed lightly dressed romaine around her plate. "The women at the office behaved like school girls over his file this morning."

"So?" Elliot crunched happily on his salad. "Don't you think he's attractive?"

"I guess. I'm more concerned with the size of his portfolio than the size of his--" The waitress returned with hot crusty bread, cutting Elyssa off.

Elliot gave her a flirty nod and thanked her.

Breaking off bread and nibbling on it, Elyssa said thoughtfully, "You should get married again, Elliot."

"Maybe."

"It's been a long time since Sally died."

Elliot had met a wonderful woman when he'd first started working at the Post. She was killed two years after their marriage in a freak Metro accident; that had been almost a decade ago. He'd been wandering from woman to woman since then.

"And you, dear sister, should dip your feet in the marriage pool, too. You're not getting any younger, you know."

"Please don't start." She patted her mouth with the napkin. "Now, finish up your report on Monteigne."

Elliot scowled. "Oh, no you don't. Not another word until you eat every bite of that salad."

She arched a brow. "You mean I have to clean my plate before I can leave the table?"

"That's right. You don't eat or sleep enough."

"I don't have time."


"Eat!" he said implacably. "Then I'll tell you the rest about your hunky hotshot."

Hmm. A worthy deal. Elyssa picked up her fork.



At dusk, the streets of Georgetown were just busy enough to make driving a challenge. Which was fine with Joe Monteigne. He liked nothing better than tough-as-nails Washington drivers, high risk business deals, and women who believed they couldn't be seduced.

It's part of your problem, son, his still young, sixty-five year old father told him this weekend as they'd run along the pond on their Virginia property. Nothing's a challenge anymore. You need something in your life.

And since Joe loved and respected J. Lance Monteigne, Sr. more than anybody in the world, he'd listened to his advice.

Swerving into a tiny parking spot, Joe edged his restored Mach I yellow mustang, one of the three cars he kept as personal toys, into an impossibly tight space that had already been passed up by two drivers. He admitted to himself that his father's insights were why he was here tonight, instead of at the racquetball game he'd canceled with a senator from Oklahoma. When he'd called Elyssa Wentworth, aka the Queen of Hearts--also known less kindly as the Ice Queen--he'd told her he was indeed free at seven, since she didn't have another open spot in her schedule this whole week.

He believed it. He'd researched her scrupulously. From the Net and in print, he'd read everything available about her personally and professionally, but he still had a feeling there was something more to her that nobody had unearthed. And discreetly, he'd talked to those in the know around town about her, too. She'd gotten the Ice Queen nickname from other venture capitalists who'd tried to woo her.

Slamming shut the door, he straightened his tie, threw on his Hugo Boss suit jacket and headed to the door of her building. For a minute, he let himself breathe in the warm night air. Like all the other cherry blossom buffs in DC, he'd always loved Washington in the spring; he'd returned to be near his family after his divorce and a brief sojourn in Boston, and never regretted it.

As he entered the remodeled brick warehouse and took the elevator to the offices on the second floor, he caught his reflection in the highly polished aluminum wall. What he saw staring back at him was exactly what his ex had called him: too handsome and too rich for his own good. Bethany had remarried someone just as handsome and rich, which had irked Joe a bit, though he took full responsibility for their breakup. Again, his dad had been right.

He'd been bored in his marriage. He only got a slight twinge now and again when he thought about her, like when he heard she'd had a kid--a girl--a few years back.

The elevator opened up to a suite of offices. On the oak door facing him, tastefully scripted on a brass plate, was Allheart.com, Inc. He pushed on the heavy door. Inside, he found a foyer with an empty desk to the left. A secretary/receptionist name plate told him the help had gone home for the night. He rapped heavy knuckles on the door he'd opened, but no one answered and he let it close. In a glance, he took in the framed cards--obviously their stock--gracing the walls, the thick Berber carpeting, the grasscloth wallpaper and the gleaming wood. Nice digs. Since the foyer opened into an oak archway, he felt comfortable following it through. Inside, he found offices to the left and right; straight ahead was Oz, where the wizardess herself dwelt. He knocked on the ajar door, which simply read, Elyssa Wentworth.

"Hel-lo," he called out.

A rustle inside. She was probably shrugging into one of those suit jackets she favored. Maybe putting on those four- hundred-dollar shoes. Or tidying that dark hair that not a single picture had caught loose. He remembered thinking, as he viewed one photo, about what that mane would look like out of its prissy bun. The door was pulled open.

"Hello." She matched her voice. Lush. Rich. And, surprisingly, very sexy.

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Joe Monteigne."

For a second she scrutinized him carefully. She nodded as she shook his hand, but didn't smile. "Elyssa Wentworth." She stepped aside. He noticed she was tall, about five eight or nine. Though who could tell with those deliciously high heels. What stilettos did to a female's legs sent his pulse spinning as much as a good takeover.

"You're right on time," she said.

"I wouldn't dream of wasting any of my thirty minutes, Ms. Wentworth."

She glanced at a slim gold watch on a delicate wrist. "And I'm afraid that's all you have. I have to leave for an engagement at seven-thirty."

"As do I." He smiled at the show-of-power play comments they exchanged.

She stopped before a couch and indicated that he sit. He was impressed that she didn't need to employ further power plays by placing him in front of her desk and herself behind it. She took a chair opposite him, and crossed her spectacular legs.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Her tone clearly implied he should say no. "No, thanks."

"What exactly do you want, Mr. Monteigne?"

Joe was shocked to find a personal answer battering to get out of the male portion of his brain. He shook off the unusual urge to flirt with a client. "I want to talk about you and your company."

"Really?" She arched a raven brow at him. "I assume you know all about my company."

He smiled. "I do. And--" he leaned forward, tugging back the sleeves of his suitcoat "--I expect that you know as much about mine as I do about yours. So no need for preliminaries." He cocked his head. "What I want to hear is what you expect to do now with your very successful business."

"So you can tell me how you can help?"

"Exactly."

"What if I said I was happy with our growth rate. That I didn't want investors at this point."

"I'd tell you that you were very foolish."

She didn't take offense. Instead, she lazed back in the chair, which notched up the icicle green skirt an inch. Somehow, he knew it wasn't intentional. "Okay, shoot. It's no secret VC's have contacted me. I plan to be choosing someone to back me again soon. So tell me what you think you can do for me."

"Highwire Industries allows people to fulfill their dreams. We give them the necessary capital, business experience and direction to do that."

She interrupted. "Which means you want partial control of the company."

"We choose to look at it as offering to work with the company using our considerable expertise. We have years of business acumen at our fingertips that we're just itching to use to help you make the right decisions for Allheart."

"I've made the right decisions all by myself so far."

"Yes you have, or I wouldn't be here."

"So why do I need you instead of an investment banker or another angel?"

"Because the bigger greeting card companies are going to gobble you up like turkey on Thanksgiving if you don't move on, branch out, forge ahead into related areas. That's what you need my help to do because I don't want that to happen."

Her hazel eyes deepened to the color of grass in the morning. She was intrigued, he could tell.

Still leaning forward, his hands linked between his knees now, he said, "Let me ask you three questions that will show what I can do for you that the others can't." He gave her a killer grin. "Or can't do as well."

She nodded. Her dark hair was scrubbed back from her face, but he noticed a few strands escaping down her nape. He said, "What's your vision for Allheart? Do you have a business plan for it? And what are your personal goals?"

"Well, that's a pretty steep order." She glanced at the Tiffany clock on her credenza. "I don't think I can tell you that in the remaining twenty-five minutes."

"Can you tell it to me at all?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, as CEO of this successful but vulnerable company, you should have a business plan written in stone."

She studied him, which impressed the hell out of him. She didn't get mad or take his words as an insult. Cool eyes assessed him carefully.

"Look," he said, ready to plunge in. "You've done precisely what you should have done up to now. I'm here to help you go further."

"My vision," she said ignoring his compliment, "is to expand the types of cards we offer, thus expanding our market. I've thought about going into ancillary products, too."

He nodded.

"My business plan consists of an annual budget." She watched him. "But that's not what you mean, is it?"

Admiring her savvy, he said, "No, it isn't. I'm talking about a three to five year projection which ties your vision with your financing. A vision documents your goals. A business plan outlines tactics, revenues, cash flow and defines how to implement those goals."

"That sounds complicated."

"It is, but this is what Highwire does best. And I have the personal expertise to make it happen. We simplify the whole process for you."

She nodded. Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she assimilated what he said.

"What are your personal goals, Ms. Wentworth?"

Again, the quizzical look.

"For instance, let's talk about your use of time in relation to money. Are you going to have the time and money in the future to do all you dreamed about? Do you want a house and kids or do you want to jet set to Morocco and Tahiti? Do you want a Lexus or a Beetle?"

"I have a Lexus," she said with a mocking tone.

He grinned. "I know. I was making a point."

She smiled back. "I know. So was I. But I get what you mean."

"How your company performs means how much you get to fulfill your dreams."

"I've been successful," she reiterated.

"As are many companies. But the sleeping giants are awakening. Hallmark and American Greeting aren't going to let you outdistance them much much longer with your cleverness, appeal to modern audiences and innovative product lines."

"So, I need you to help me compete with them."

"Exactly."

This time he checked at the clock. "All right, here's the deal. We'll work with you on your vision and business plan. Creation of those two things is not an easy task; it'll take about two weeks of your time and three weeks to a month of ours. We'll come back with a document you feel comfortable with. Concurrently we'll be talking about what's going to make you happy and tailor that vision and happiness to coincide."

He watched to see her reaction. She didn't blink one of those pretty eyelashes. "Interesting," she finally said.

"If you like what I give you, we do a due diligence." He referred to the process of gathering information to assess the founders, the market opportunity, the technology and the competition. "Then, when all the data's compiled, I'll bring it to my partners, solicit the necessary capital and form a partnership."

Both brows raised this time. "How much control would you want?"

Smart girl. This was the bugaboo. "That's part of the deal worked out when we decide how much money you need from us, and how much of our business experience you require." Leaning back, he crossed an ankle over his knee. "Having us help run your company is a boon, Ms. Wentworth. We have the experience you lack. We've brought companies to fruition that are as small as and bigger than yours. Our skill can only help you."

"I'd lose a great deal of control."

"No, you'd have help directing the company."

She laughed then. "Semantics, Mr. Monteigne. But, all right. Say I do this with you. When you make me more profitable, you'd want to do an IPO or sell off to a larger corporation, right?"

Initial Public Offerings and being bought by larger companies more often than not happened with Highwire's firms. But no need to go into that now.

He arched a brow. "What happens after our investment depends on how successful you are. Allheart would have several choices if you were good enough."

From the many deals he'd orchestrated, he sensed he had her interest and maybe an edge on her competitors. Most clients at this point couldn't resist the lure. Now, it was his job to reel her in. "What do you have to lose, Ms. Wentworth?"

"Three weeks of my time."

He stood then. "A small price to pay for more than likely ending up with a company worth billions. And we both know you're going to need some type of investment soon. Ours will be the best." The little clock chimed once. "My half hour's up." He reached into his suitcoat pocket and took out a card. "Call me in a few days and let me know what you decide."

She rose too, accepted the card and slipped it into her pocket without breaking eye contact. Then she held out her hand. He grasped it firmly. Hers was slender and strong, just like she was. Now that the rush of adrenaline that shot through him every time he commenced a deal hummed in his blood, he allowed himself to indulge one time in how pretty she was--long lean lines, with some interesting curves and angles. It'd be...a pleasure to work with her for a while.

"I'll call you either way, Mr. Monteigne."

"Fine." Releasing her hand, he turned and walked to the door. He knew if he pivoted around she'd be staring at him. Unaccountably, he wondered what she'd see.

He didn't pivot. He stared straight ahead as he left, though what he saw was crystal clear--a bright-eyed beauty with a mind like a steel trap.

Being all male, he liked the combination.

© 2006 Kathryn Shay

Close to You

Chapter 1

Secret Service Agent CJ Ludzecky and her three colleagues hustled into New York City’s Memorial Hospital on the heels of the Second Lady and the Vice President of the United States. Though she kept her emotions at bay when she was on the job, CJ couldn’t help but empathize with Bailey O'Neil, the Vice President's wife of two years. She remembered well the night her own father had died in an institution far too similar to this one. She'd been fifteen, and she and her brother, Lukasz, had taken it the hardest, probably because they were the oldest of his eight children. Briefly, CJ wondered how Bailey's brothers were faring. Embedded in her memory was the image of holding a weeping Luke in her arms. His vulnerability had crushed her. She considered saying a prayer for this family, but dismissed the notion; she didn't believe in that anymore.

The group of six reached the admittance desk and were met by a man dressed in an impeccable suit. "Mr. Vice President. Ms. O'Neil. I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I'm James Jones. I manage New York Memorial."

Bailey and Clay shook hands with the administrator. "Thank you for meeting us at this hour," the Vice President said.

CJ watched Clay slide his arm around his wife's shoulders; Bailey leaned into him. They had to be the most demonstrative political couple she'd ever encountered in the six years she'd been with the Service. Their open affection for each other was often a topic of discussion among the Who's Who in Washington—much of it not always kind. Since Bailey was four months pregnant, Clay was even more attentive than usual.

As they spoke with the doctor, CJ scanned the forty-by-forty hospital reception area. The other three agents did the same, though she noted her partner, Mitch Calloway, who headed the Second Lady's detail and Tim Jenkins, the special agent in charge of vice presidential force, moved in close to the protectees.

"I'll show you the way." The hospital administrator glanced at agents then back to the Second Couple. "All of you, I guess."

Calloway looked over at CJ. About forty, he had shrewd brown eyes and dark hair accented by a touch of gray at the temples. Nodding to the other side of the room, he signaled her to take note. A striking red-headed woman was arguing with a…uh oh, a man with a camera. Damn it, how had the media gotten wind of the Vice President's midnight trek on Marine Two, the VP helicopter, from Washington to New York? And how did they get past the uniformed guards at the entrance to the hospital? True, the Service hadn't had time to do any advance work because this was an emergency. But, still…

Irked, CJ strode across the area. When she reached the pair, their disagreement was in full swing.

The female stood tall on her three inch heels. Apparently she was digging them in. "I said no, Ross. We're not intruding on them. We're leaving right now."

"Yes," CJ said, drawing herself up to her full five-eight height. "You are."

The camera man, a wiry wrestler-type, peered over half glasses at her. "Yeah? Who says?"

Brushing back the tailored jacket of her black suit, CJ exposed her semiautomatic, then flashed her badge. They could guess who she was by her suit and the American Flag pin she wore on her lapel, along with her earpiece, but a little show of force never hurt. "The United States Secret Service. No media here, hotshot." She shook her head and let her usually even temper spike. "Can't you people be humane for once? This is a family emergency."

"First Amendment gives us--"

The woman stepped forward, sending a fall of auburn hair into her eyes and perfume wafting toward CJ. "I'm Rachel Scott. Our TV station, WNYC, got a tip that Vice President Wainwright and his wife had arrived in town and were headed to Memorial. But we won't intrude. Obviously a family member is more ill than we anticipated. We'll be leaving."

"Thank you. I'll follow you out." CJ's comment was neutral, as she'd been trained in responding to questions.

Don't confirm or deny the press's comments. Usually they're on a fishing expedition. If you agree with them, they'll phrase it like you said the words. Her first boss, David Anderson, had given her good advice on all aspects of being an agent. He'd been her mentor, until he turned on her, which still made her furious, except that it led to her working with Mitch in the DC field office. When Mitch had gotten into the coveted the VPPD, the Vice Presidential Protective Division, he'd often called on her to substitute for agents or when extra protection was needed. After a year, one of the Second Lady's personal agents cycled out in the customary rotation of agents, and Bailey had asked for CJ to join their detail permanently. That was how she'd come to such a plum position with not even a decade in the Service under her belt.

Because she saw to it that the press exited through the front door without taking any detours, and turned them over to the uniformed agents standing post outside, CJ had to find her own way to the CCU. As she traversed the corridors, she said into her wrist unit, part of the Service's restrictive radio network, "Reporters are history. I'm on my way back."

"Understood," Mitch said. "We're at the CCU with Bulldog and Bright Star."

Code names were given to protectees, usually indicative of their personalities. Clay Wainwright was known for fighting relentlessly for the rights of others, and Bailey was a stand-out on the Hill because she didn't play politics.

The smell of hospital assaulted CJ as she made the trip upstairs. Antiseptic, ripe food and something best left unidentified abused her senses. She remembered the odors. She associated them with death. For Bailey's sake, CJ hoped her own visceral reaction was wrong this time.

Her three colleagues, Clay and Bailey were in the corridor outside of CCU talking to a doctor whose tag read, Edward Crane, Chief of Cardiology. The Vice President of the most powerful country in the world commanded top people's attention. CJ came up next to Mitch, who threw her a quick nod.

"Mr. O'Neil is resting now. We've given him a sedative." The doctor's voice was soothing. "We've run some tests to assess his condition and make a determination on how to proceed. I've called in our best cardiac surgeon and his team." Glancing at his watch, he added, "I expect them any minute."

Bailey leaned into Clay. "What's the prognosis?"

CJ had to smile, despite the circumstances. Though she'd only been the Second Lady's permanent shadow for a few months, she'd followed the news accounts of the woman's whirlwind career as the wife of the Vice President. It was public knowledge that Bailey and Clay had a history; first, as a young District Attorney, he'd put her in jail for harboring a criminal. After that, for almost a decade, they'd disagreed on the best way to stop youth gangs, and had battled out their different views in the newspapers. But two years ago, when they were assigned to the same task force by the governor of New York, they'd fallen hard for each other, and thumbed their noses at the political world. From what CJ understood, they'd fought like hell to be together. In any case, Bailey O'Neil was a perfect role model for teenage girls and women alike. CJ truly valued her assignment protecting the Second Lady, even though there had been some nasty gossip about how she'd gotten the position.

The doctor continued analyzing the patient's condition. "It appears Mr. O'Neil had a major heart attack. Your brother tells us he had the classic symptoms--chest pain, shortness of breath, discomfort in his arm. Mr. O'Neil, the son, called 911 and administered aspirin, which helped."

"Will Pa be all right?" Bailey asked, her voice shaky.

"We won't know that for a while. We've already done some tests to determine the amount of blockage. It wore him out, and made him anxious, which is why he's sedated. The cardiologist and his team will determine the extent of the heart trauma and a course of action when they get here."

"What might that include?"

The doctor glanced to Clay when he asked the question. "It depends on the amount of blockage. It could mean angioplasty, or some form of surgery. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. I hate to commit, Vice President Wainwright, until the surgeon can give us his opinion."

A woman who'd hovered behind them—she wore a hospital badge which read Janice Denny—cleared her throat. "I'll show you to the private waiting room. The rest of your family is there, Ms. O'Neil."

Bailey frowned. "Can I see Pa first?"

"Yes, of course." The doctor's smile was sympathetic. "One person at a time is allowed into the room. He's alone now, as your mother took a break. Try not to wake him up."

"Hold on." Mitch spoke with the air of a man used to being obeyed. "An agent will have to accompany Ms. O'Neil."

"Into CCU?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Isn't that a bit excessive?"

"We didn't have time to do thorough advance checks on your personnel or the hospital rooms themselves. If the press downstairs knows we're here, others could, too."

Tim Jenkins stepped forward. His kind eyes and boyish charm were deceptive. He said with the authority of an SAIC, Special Agent in Charge, "One of your team should go to the waiting room and check the area out while Ms. O'Neil is in with her father. We'll stay here with the Vice President until you let us know all's clear."

"I want CJ to come with me," Bailey told them.

The Second Lady accepted the protection of the Secret Service willingly. Only the vice president was required by law to have it. On occasion Bailey let it slip in conversation that it was hard for her to have the agents around all the time. But she knew they were needed to protect her and her children, especially because she was so high profile, due to her gang work in New York. And she did her best not to take her annoyance out on the agents. Mitch had told CJ horror stories about presidents like LBJ mistreating his protectives, and even some vice presidential wives trying to dodge the Service's watch over them.

CJ stepped forward, her face blank. "Whatever you want, Ms. O'Neil." Agents always addressed the protectees formally.

The doctor opened the door to the private CCU room, a privilege given to them because of the patient's relationship to the Vice President. When the doctor moved back, Bailey and CJ stepped inside. Bailey stood by the door and stared at the bed. Then she grasped CJ's hand. The Second Lady was such a toucher, it often surprised CJ.

Still, CJ squeezed her fingers. "It's all right. Go on over."

A nurse sat in a chair in the corner. CJ followed Bailey and stopped a discreet distance away, while Bailey sat down at her father's side. Machines at the head of the bed beeped and whooshed; the soft sounds muted phones and footsteps filtered in from the corridor.

"Hi, Pa," Bailey whispered, lightly touching Patrick O'Neil's limp hand. There were tears in her eyes. "It's me, your girl. I'm here in New York, and I'm going to stay until you get better." Some sniffling. "I love you so much. Please, come out of this. Get better. I'm not ready for you to leave us yet." She placed a hand on her stomach. "Clay and I are having another boy. We're going to name him after you." She kissed her father's head. "Please, Pa."

Before she lost control, even a modicum of it, CJ averted her gaze. She was used to quelling her personal feelings, though she'd known this trip to New York would test that skill. Ever since she'd joined the Secret Service, straining her relationship with her family, and being subjected to unfair rumors among the agents, she'd hardened her heart. Getting weepy and sentimental about the situation had no place in her life now.

# # # #

Aidan O'Neil stood by a window in the private waiting room with its stuffed couches and subtle lighting, staring down ten stories at the taxis and stalwart motorists who braved New York City in July at midnight. When he heard a commotion behind him, he steeled himself for this encounter. He'd been holding it together, but he knew Bailey's arrival would test his strength. And right now, he was afraid he'd fail miserably.

Pivoting, he watched his baby sister come into the room; he had to smile at the sight of her. The Second Lady of the United States of America was dressed in jeans and a light blue top that revealed her just-beginning-to-swell stomach. Her hair was in a messy braid. The Vice President wore jeans and a sweater.

Bailey rushed to their mother; the two women hugged, then Bailey sat down and held Ma's hand. Before long, Aidan's brothers approached them. By order of age, they embraced their sister. Aidan grinned thinking of the nicknames Bailey had given them all. Patrick, the oldest, enveloped Bailey in his strong arms. He was physically bigger than the rest of them, but had the same dark hair, blue eyes and Irish wit they shared. He was dubbed The Fighter. Dylan, the next oldest, sported the broadest shoulders, which dwarfed Bailey when he kissed her head. She called him The Taunter. Tall and lanky, Liam, The Manipulator, held Bailey in a death grip. Also the most sensitive of them, he wiped his eyes when he drew back. There were murmurs among them.

Aidan noticed the bodyguards lined like soldiers up behind the foursome. He'd met all of them but the woman, who'd been permanently assigned to Bailey three months ago. The men were about his height, a touch over six feet, and muscular. She was around 5'8", with steely blond hair pulled off her face. Standing poker-straight in her black suit and severe white blouse, she rarely took her eyes off Bailey.

When his sister spotted him on the other side of the room, she broke away from their brothers and approached him.

Please don't let me break down. It wouldn't be good for her.

Bailey enveloped him an embrace. She smelled the same, like lilacs, though she felt a bit heavier with the weight of her pregnancy. They shared the long hug wordlessly. No need to talk. The two of them were still as much on the same page as they'd always been, despite her sojourn in DC for two years. Finally they drew back. When he caught sight of tears on her cheeks, he wiped them with his thumbs. "Hormones wacky again, B?"

"Yeah." She cradled his cheek in her palm. "You don't have to be so strong, you know. You can cry, too."

"I've had my moments."

"It's bad, isn't it? The guys are putting up a front for Ma, but I can tell they're really worried."

He'd heard the EMT's. Myocardial infarction. Which meant part of the heart had died. "Yeah, honey, it's bad."

"You were with him?"

Aidan felt his pulse pound like a thousand drums. Of anyone, he could tell this woman the truth. But he wouldn't lay it on her now. "Uh-huh." He glanced over Bailey's shoulder to the female agent standing by the door. "I haven't met your new watchdog."

"What? Oh, no, you haven't." She turned and smiled at the woman. "CJ, come here."

Long strides brought the agent to them. CJ? What the hell kind of name was that for a girl? The fairer sex should be named Adriana, Lorena, Sophia.

"CJ Ludzecky, this is my brother Aidan. He's the youngest of them."

A small smile softened the agent's mouth. "Nice to meet you, Mr. O'Neil."

He snorted. "Better not call me that, darlin', or you'll have the four of us doing a heads-up. Make it Aidan."

"Thanks, but I prefer Mr. O'Neil."

He noticed she didn't offer her own first name. What was he supposed to call her, Agent Ludzecky? Shit, what the hell did it matter? Where was his mind? His father lay dying in a hospital room right down the corridor and Aidan was wondering about formalities.

Clay came up to them and gave Aidan a bear hug. From their open affection for each other, a spectator would never guess Aidan had once decked the future vice president in Bailey's living room because he thought Clay was playing her. "You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah."

Clay touched his wife's shoulder. "You have to sit down, honey." She didn't move. "Now."

"I want to know what happened first."

Clay nudged Aidan. "Help me out here."

"Let's sit and we'll talk."

They chose a furniture grouping away from the others; Aidan took a chair and Bailey and Clay sank down onto a sofa. Again, the agent stood a several feet away.

"Where, when and how?" Bailey asked. "Paddy didn't have details on the phone."

To stem the rush of guilt, Aidan took a deep breath. "Pa and I were in the backroom of the pub." The O'Neils owned and ran Bailey's Irish Pub on MacDougal Street. "We were having a beer, watching over Shea and Mikey." The sons and daughters of his brothers often accompanied their dads to work. A bedroom/play area was set up in the back, and the adults took turns staying with them. Though Aidan was the only sibling who'd never married, nor had kids of his own, he often babysat. "We were talking and watching the end of the Yankees game."

Aidan swallowed hard. Ever vigilant, and because she knew him too well, Bailey would sense something in him if he wasn't careful with his words; she could be a pit bull when she wanted information. "We got into it, like we do sometimes. As usual, Pa got himself stirred up. And then he clutched his heart. Started to sweat. He said his arm was feeling funny." Damn it. Aidan's voice cracked on the last word.

Because he could still see his father, furious at him…

"You want to leave the pub? To take pictures?"

Aidan had kept this professional goals from his father for a long time, but he'd decided that night the subject needed to be broached. "Pa, it's more than taking pictures. I wanna be a photographer full time, to do that with my life. I don't want to work at the pub anymore. Besides, if I leave, Dylan and Liam can give up their second jobs."

Long ago, his father had made it clear he expected his sons to take over the family business. Aidan knew the need to keep them close was because he'd already lost one child. Since none of the boys had ever balked, it had worked for everybody. Until now.

"You can't make a living taking pictures, son."

Usually, Aidan was careful to quell his anger at Pa's dismissal of his talent. This time it had bubbled to the surface, probably because Pa had voiced one of Aidan's insecurities—deep down, he felt inadequate about going out on his own. Still he fought for the chance. "Damn it, Pa, I can. I worked at it since I got out of college. I've sold photos to a lot of different magazines here in New York. Last month, I won this prize, and was contacted by…"

He never finished explaining the Ansel Adams international photography prize he'd won, and how he'd been offered a probationary job at a reputable photography magazine because of it. The heart attack had come fast and furious, taking down his big, robust father within seconds. Mother Nature could strike vehemently, and that night she'd been in top form...

Bailey asked, "Aidan? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure."

His sister shook her head, rose and knelt before him. She grasped both his hands in hers. "A, you're not blaming yourself, are you? We all get into it with Pa. Your fight was about the stupid Yankees."

"Watch your mouth, girl. The Yanks are sacred ground."

"Aidan." She squeezed his fingers.

"No, I'm not feeling guilty. I feel bad, though."

She studied his face until Clay came to her side. "Up, woman."

"I'm not an invalid, Clay. For God's sake, I'm pregnant."

"I know. But you need to rest. Now get up, and sit on that couch. Put your feet on the table."

His sister stood, and squared off with her husband. Usually Aidan loved to watch these little tiffs, but not tonight.

Clay cut it off at the pass, anyway. "Sweetheart, it's going to be a long night." His tone was tender. "Conserve your energy."

She leaned into him. "All right. Before I sit, though, I have to use the ladies room." She peered down at Aidan. "But we're not done with this."

"Okay. Go for now."

Aidan knew he'd tell Bailey the truth eventually, but for tonight, no one but him needed to deal with the fact that he might very well have killed his father.