Someone To Believe In Read Online Free

been a
whiner. He suspected Jon bore the brunt of that now.
    After Clay had hung up with Jane, he’d tried
to work, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Bailey O’Neil. The
governor had talked about her and Clay’s open feud, expressing his
own chagrin at being caught between them. He explicitly said he
thought she and Clay should bury the hatchet. It irked him that
he’d felt defensive about their relationship. Hadn’t he tried to
meet with her? She’d flatly refused to see him when he’d made an
overture.
    During their discussion, the governor had
also mentioned that her brothers owned Bailey’s Irish Pub in the
Village. On a whim, Clay had gone to the restaurant’s website. Sure
enough, the owners were listed as O’Neils: Patrick, Dylan, Liam,
and Aidan. The senior Paddy O’Neil had turned over the business to
his four sons and was semiretired. No mention of a daughter,
though.
    For privacy because of her job? No, that
wouldn’t be. Only the governor and a select few knew the Street
Angel was Bailey O’Neil. She kept her identity hidden for her
safety. Damn it, did the woman know the danger she was in? If she’d
deigned to see him, he would have reminded her. But, of course,
she’d refused.
    So, after he’d Googled the pub, Clay had
hopped in a cab and come here. What were the chances of her being
at her family’s place this late on a Friday night? Still, when the
rain let up, he pushed away from the storefront and headed across
the street, dodging cars, which seemed to honk willy nilly in this
city, avoiding the spray of water from their tires. It was
unseasonably cool, and he turned up the collar of his jacket.
    The door to the pub was heavy as he pulled it
open. He took time to appreciate the intricately carved oak before
he stepped inside, where the lilting sound of Irish music filled
the air. Scents from the kitchen made his mouth water; on the
tables he saw steaming bowls of stew and crusty bread, which
accounted for the smells. He stayed in the corner, in the shadows,
and stared across the room. Five men and one woman stood in front
of a piano, which was being played by an older woman. The males
were all versions of one another, as if somebody had painted the
same person at various ages of their lives: thick black hair,
strong features, big eyes. The woman with them—the woman with the
crystal-clear alto voice singing about the green hills of
Ireland—also sported the same features, but this time the artist
changed brushes and painted her with delicate, feminine strokes. A
skein of inky hair rioted down her back.
    Bailey O’Neil. Looking a little older than
the last time he’d seen her, but not much. Her fresh-faced
innocence amazed him once again.
    All of them wore black pants and green shirts
with an insignia on the left chest. They finished their song and
the room erupted into applause, accompanied by raucous pounding on
the tables. Clay hadn’t noticed how crowded the pub was. One
strapping young buck threw back his chair, stalked to the singers,
and picked Bailey up. He kissed her on the mouth and swung her
around. She whispered something in his ear and he laughed. Clay
scanned the room, saw there were no unoccupied tables, but a stool
at the bar was available.
    He crossed to it and sat down, easing off his
light jacket and draping it over the backrest to dry. The dark oak
bar was U-shaped and hand-carved like the door. It was, literally,
a work of art. The bartender, an older woman, hustled over to him,
wiping her eyes. She’d been watching the singers. “Sorry, sir. I’ve
a soft spot in me heart for that song. What’ll ya have?”
    “A Guinness.”
    “Build ya one right away, I will.”
    The woman busied herself at the tap. Clay,
still in the shadows, watched Bailey chat with the others, and
then head for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll relieve
you in a sec, Bridget. Let me just check on Rory.”
    “No hurry, darlin’.”
    As Clay waited—building a Guinness