Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (18 page)

She drew
his head down and gave him a long, hot, steamy kiss that sizzled his lips,
fried his brain, and made his cock as stiff as a poker.

“Thank
you,” she said as she slipped away.

Hell, he’d
agree Clayton was his clone for another kiss like that.

“You’re
both assigned to the strawberry team,” Gracie informed a pair of ice cream
volunteers at the church. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise
in the social hall where members of the congregation manufactured the last
batches of frozen heaven for the start of the festival the next day.

“Don’t
worry about us, Gracie.” Jeannie lifted a bib apron over her head and tied it
behind her ample frame. “Our strawberry will be so good that people will come
back for seconds.”

Gracie
leaned in to speak confidentially. “Gran always says your ice cream is the
best.”

“She says
that about anyone who volunteers.” Jeannie’s cackle shook her row of chins.
“Dishing out compliments is how your grandmother gets everyone to help every
year.”

“True,”
Reverend Jonathon Peterman chimed in from a nearby table. “Gracious volunteers
and generous praise are the keys to our success.”

His wife,
Polly, provided another team with a quart of chopped cherries. “I love how
everyone in the congregation pulls together to work on worthwhile projects.”

“The
festival is a good way to meet people. Sooner or later, everyone stops by to
help.”

“Even
Clayton.” The reverend nodded at someone over Gracie’s shoulder. “Good to see
you outside the hospital, Clay.”

“Hello,
Reverend and Mrs. Peterman.” Clay stopped beside Gracie, tense and taut as a
bow. “Gracie.”

“Didn’t
David come with you?” the reverend asked. “I thought I saw his name on the list
of volunteers tonight.”

“He’s not
feeling well. I offered to take his place. Would you stop by to see him
tomorrow, Reverend? I think he’s doing too much and should cut back. Maybe
he’ll listen to you better than he does me.”

The
reverend shook his head as he mashed bananas. “I’ll talk to him, but I don’t
know if it’ll do much good.”

“You know
what a strong sense of duty he has.” Gracie fought the urge to drop everything and
go check on him. “He’ll never say no if someone needs him.”

Clay
brushed his hair off his forehead. “That’s usually his greatest attribute. But
right now, it’s a flaw where his health is concerned.”

“I’m
surprised he let you come to work for him tonight,” Polly said. “He must really
feel bad.”

“He wasn’t
happy about it. Put me to work wherever you want, but I’d like to talk to
Gracie first.” He shot her a guarded look. “Do you have a minute?”

“Oh, my
yes,” Polly answered for her. “I can hold down the fort while she takes a
break. No problem.”

“Thanks,
Polly. Hang on a second, Clay.” Gracie opened one of the freezers, took out a
small plastic bowl, snagged a couple of spoons, and led the way to the church
parlor

When they
sat side by side on a loveseat, Gracie lifted the lid on the bowl and handed
Clay a spoon. “It’s peach.” She wiggled her eyebrows in invitation. “Your
favorite.”

“We’re
eating the festival ice cream?” He feigned shock. “Is this legal?”

“Quality-control
check.” She dug right in. “I’ve been dreaming about this all day. The first
bite is always the best.” Closing her eyes, she rolled the rich creaminess over
her tongue. “Consider it a taste test.”

Clay took
the dish and inserted his spoon. “Mmmm. Delicious.”

Gracie
hoped this peace offering would smooth over the ill-will from the afternoon,
but didn’t expect immediate success. Clay usually took his time putting
unexpected change into perspective.

He looked
tired and pensive, and still bruised from the fight the night before. After a
second bite, the companionable silence came to an end.

“Gracie,
about this afternoon...”

She held up
her hand in a stop sign. “Stay out of it.”

“If you’re
saying it’s all right for you to poke your nose into my business, but I’m not
allowed to even comment on yours, you can forget it. For your information, I’d
just as soon you butt out of Dylan’s investigation.”

“I’m doing
it for you.”

He snorted.
“Bull.”

“If it
weren’t for me, the two of you wouldn’t even be talking to one another.”
Not technically true, but close enough
.

“If it
weren’t for me,” he countered, “Dylan Bradford wouldn’t be within five hundred
miles of here, which is why I feel responsible for your involvement with him.”

“There’s no
involvement,” she denied too quickly.

“It sure
looked that way to me when you had your tongue down his throat.”

“Clay...”
She blew a breath upward, displacing wisps of hair from her forehead. Since she
didn’t understand the attraction between Dylan and her, she sure didn’t know how
to explain it to Clay. “It was one kiss. That’s all. I’m not his type. He’s not
mine. And I’m not in over my head.”
Much
.

Clay
frowned before licking ice cream off his spoon. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She smiled
in acknowledgment of his concern. “I won’t.”

“Right.” He
tossed up a hand in resignation. “Just like you didn’t break your arm that time
I told you not to jump off the roof of the garage into your sandbox.”

“You loved
it when that happened. You got to practice your first-aid skills until Mom and
David showed up to find out what I was squalling about.”

“If you had
stayed still like I told you, it wouldn’t have hurt nearly so bad.” He smoothed
his hand over her forearm, as if still trying to relieve her pain.

“I never
would follow good advice.”

He shook
his head ruefully, a corner of his mouth quirked into a near grin at the
memory. “And I guess you never will.”

“There’s
nothing to worry about.” Gracie wasn’t nearly as sure as she sounded. “He won’t
be here much longer, and neither will I. We’ll go our separate ways, and I’ll
be able to tell my grandchildren that in a brush with the rich and famous, I
kissed a Bradford once. Of course, he won’t be able to pick me out of a lineup
within a week of being back in town.”

Clayton’s
eyelids dropped down, and he cut her a look out of the corners of his eyes.
“You make more of an impression than that.”

“Oh, sure.”
She wanted to believe him, but good sense overruled wishful thinking. Besides,
Clay’s opinion was always biased in her favor.

“When I’m
acknowledged as a Bradford,” he said with his slow smile, “Dylan will have to
accept you as part of my extended family.”

“That might
be sooner than you think. Things are really moving along. Aren’t you thrilled
about the DNA tests?”

The slow
smile disappeared. “I guess.”

“You don’t
sound thrilled. What’s bothering you now?”

He brooded
so long she didn’t think he was going to tell her, but finally he came out
with, “Something David said. This morning when he told me about the money, I
asked him why he hadn’t told me about it sooner.”

“He’s
always downplayed the possibility of a Bradford connection.” She was well aware
of David’s stand on the subject.

“Right, but
when I asked him why he was so reluctant to admit that it might be a
possibility, he said…” The words came to a standstill.

She punched
his shoulder. “He said what, for God’s sake?”

“He said he
thought Matthew had killed my mother.”

The
anguished statement caused Gracie’s heart to wrench for both Clay and Dylan.
The knowledge that their father might have killed Lana would destroy any
pleasure Clay would have in being acknowledged as a Bradford. And what would it
do to Dylan? “Why does he think that?”

“I don’t
know.” With elbows propped on his knees, Clay studied his shoelaces. “When I
questioned him, he became so agitated that he had to take his nitro. I insisted
he lie down, and I haven’t brought it up since. But you know David as well as I
do. He’d never make an accusation without solid information to back it up.”

Gracie
searched for something positive to offer. “On the other hand, he’s such a
straight arrow that if he had solid information, he would have shared it with
the police a long time ago. So it must be something he suspects, not something
he’s sure of. He could be wrong, you know.”

Clay’s
despondent “Right” mirrored Gracie’s doubts. He lifted his head to look at her
with troubled eyes. “Have you ever known him to be wrong before?”

“No, but
you should try to talk to him again. Find out what he really does know.”

He sighed
heavily. “That’s the plan, but he seems so fragile right now.”

Polly
knocked on the door and popped her head inside the room. “Sorry to interrupt,
Gracie, but the Taggertys accidentally put strawberries in a batch of peach ice
cream. What do you suggest?”

“Fruit
smoothies.” Standing, Gracie linked her hand with Clay’s and pulled him up with
her. “C’mon, back to work.”

Dylan
flicked a wall switch. A single overhead fixture provided him with enough light
to locate the kitchen counter where he dumped a bag of cleaning supplies.
Earlier, the electrician had strung cords with bulbs to augment the existing
lamps. Dylan moved through the living room and kitchen flicking them on.

The scarred
walls, buckled flooring, and sorry furnishings almost made him prefer the
darkness. Only the spiders and rodents that dove for cover convinced him that
the brighter the lighting, the better.

Years of
decay and neglect permeated the room. He grimaced at the stench. With the
woodsy noises outside providing background music, he rolled up his sleeves and
tackled the shambles in the kitchen.

He’d hoped
to have dinner with Gracie. But when he’d stopped by the B&B earlier, she
was out. Probably just as well. In between the day’s chores, his thoughts had
veered with tedious regularity between his father, Clayton, and Gracie.

Another
phone call to Gilmore had gotten his assistant busy digging into Clay’s trust
fund. Natalie promised to look through their father’s papers. He’d left another
message for Uncle Arthur, urging him to question the law firm that had handled
the deed and the trust as soon as possible. Both documents seemed connected
with Clay’s paternity, but Dylan cast about for some scenario that didn’t end
up with his father as the villain of the piece.

His dad’s
presence at the factory the night Lana Harris disappeared suggested a
connection there, too. He’d rejected the idea of his father and Lana being
lovers for as long as he could. But now, it was time to prepare for the possibility
that he and Clayton could be related. Closely related.

A brother.
The word rang hollow and alien inside his head.

He loved
his mother and sister. But after his father had died and they’d settled into
what passed for a normal life without him, he’d missed having another male in
the all-female household. Even the household help ranged heavy on the female
side.

Mother and
Natalie had tried to understand his feelings, but they’d been unable to
appreciate the traditional rites of male passage. Grandfather Bradford had
picked up the slack on the big-picture issues. But in life’s smaller rituals,
Dylan had turned to Uncle Arthur. His uncle had taught him how to drive, shave,
and tie a necktie.

Funny how,
even though Dylan had been included in outings with Frank and Uncle Arthur, the
two cousins had never quite clicked. Frank had always been just a little too
perfect.

He wouldn’t
sneak out at night to meet girls. Refused to drink the twelve-year-old scotch
Dylan smuggled out of the liquor cabinet. Never ditched school. Never snuck
behind the boathouse to smoke. Never wanted to raise any of the hell Dylan
needed to raise just to break out of the confining straight-jacketed life the
Bradfords and Steadmans demanded. He wondered if a younger Clayton would have been
more like him or a stuffed shirt like Frank. Probably like Frank. Another
depressing thought.

And now, he
didn’t need a brother any longer. He’d formed his own brotherhood with his two
best friends over ten years ago. Brothers of his own choosing. Brothers who
never let him down. If he ever got this place fixed up, he’d love to have them
up for no-frills guy getaways. Similar to Wyatt’s mountain cabin in California,
they could escape from the regular pressures of their lives.

From what
Mrs. Lattimer had said, Gracie had been a little hellion who’d done her best to
loosen Clay up. He could picture Gracie tempting Clay off the straight and
narrow. Big-hearted Gracie with her high spirits, her disregard for dignity,
her irreverence. Just thinking of her called up the memory of their kiss. If
she were here right now, he’d kiss her again. And again. And again.

Kissing
hadn’t been a primary goal of Dylan’s since he was fourteen-years-old and on
summer vacation in Cannes. That was the year four young Parisians from the next
villa had taught him everything they knew about the art of kissing.

By the next
summer, the girls’ curvaceous new bodies invited more advanced explorations.
The four girls took turns frolicking with him through the sultry evenings,
offering him the variety and instruction that formed the sexual pattern of his
life.

Women were
desirable, plentiful, and interchangeable. But not permanent.

Now he‘d be
happy to spend the entire summer doing nothing but kissing Gracie. Well, maybe
not the entire summer. June, at least... which didn’t explain the jumbo box of
condoms he’d bought that afternoon.

If he were
smart, he wouldn’t even try to put them to use. Clearly, Gracie wasn’t the sort
to have an affair lightly, and anything more permanent was beyond his
experience—maybe even beyond his ability. Gracie obviously played for keeps,
and he only knew how to play for fun.

Surely the
idea of attempting anything more than fun sprang from the restlessness he’d
felt in New York and not from anything he felt for Gracie. He should go back to
the city and lose himself in the diversion of someone else’s body.

But at the
moment, he didn’t want anyone but Gracie.

His longing
went beyond the desire to taste her mouth, tangle his fingers in her hair, and
feel her body arch with pleasure and splinter with completion beneath his. He
wanted all of that, yes, but he also wanted to forge something stronger between
them. A union brought about through more than the momentary possession of her
in his bed. One that wouldn’t end with the usual vague and insincere promise to
call her again.

No other
desire in his life had scared him so much.

While his
head whirled with frustrating contradictions, the darkness outside the cabin
deepened. The harsh lighting inside created ghost-like shadows. Every board and
timber in the building popped and creaked in an eerie symphony. The rev of a
distant motor provided the backbeat to his edginess.

Time to hang up his dust cloth
. After he finished
cleaning one final cabinet.

He poked a
broom into a pile of debris under the sink.

The debris
whirled into life. A panicked family of mice squeaked and darted about, angry
and frightened by the disturbance. Ten or so of them skittered in every
direction. He swept them toward the door, but more of them escaped than allowed
themselves to be herded toward freedom.

Dylan flung
open the door to release the one tiny mouse he’d corralled. He pulled up at the
crunch of a footstep on the porch. Against the backdrop of the starlit sky, a
shapeless shadow loomed across the doorway.

“Aah!” His
heart pounded, and he raised his little broom.

“Don’t
swing!” Gracie lifted her hands in the air as if wielding a sword instead of a
pizza box and a six-pack. “I come bearing gifts.”

Feeling
relieved but foolish, he retreated into the kitchen. He leaned an elbow against
the counter and pretended she hadn’t startled him. She looked not at all
ghoulish in jeans and a denim jacket. The aroma of onions and pepperoni wafted
toward him.

“Great.
Food.” His stomach rumbled. “I’m starving.”

“I bet you
worked up quite an appetite chasing vicious field mice, didn’t you?” When she
laughed, the sound went straight to his heart. He’d been hoping she’d show up.
“How many have you set free?”

“Not as
many as there are in here.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands. “I’ve been
working on it, but the kitchen’s nowhere near vermin-free.”

She handed
him the pizza and placed the six-pack on top of the flat box. “Be right back.”

She
returned in seconds with a folding tray table, paper plates, and napkins. While
she was gone, he worked on banishing his fantasies about her. But that only
lasted until she bent over to erect a tray table. As she shrugged out of her
jacket, the sight of beautiful, voluptuous Gracie in hip-hugging jeans and a
white T-shirt that fit like a second skin brought them back full force.

Unfortunately,
she didn’t harbor any indecent thoughts about him. At least, none that he
detected—until they drew a pair of wobbly, mismatched chairs up to the tiny
table and bumped knees as they sat down. She blushed as if he’d flashed her,
but she left her knee resting against his.

After
they’d attacked their first slices of pizza, she questioned him about the
investigation. He filled her in on the steps he’d taken since they’d separated
that afternoon.

“You know…”
She paused to loop a string of mozzarella into her mouth with a casual
sensuality that left him salivating. “It seems like you’re warming up to the
idea that Clay’s a Bradford. How do you feel about that?”

“I won’t
believe it until I have no other choice.” He popped the cap off a beer and took
a long swallow.

“That’s not
fair to Clay,” Gracie pointed out.

“It’s more
about being fair to my father. I don’t think I could ever accept the fact that
he would behave dishonorably toward a woman—either wife or mistress—or an
innocent child. That behavior doesn’t fit with my own memories or my mother’s
description of him.”

Gracie
munched thoughtfully. “Your father wasn’t the only Bradford who visited here in
those days, was he?”

“No, but I
can’t picture any of the others being Clay’s father either.”

“But it’s
possible,” she argued. “Tell me about the other candidates.”

“Uncle
Tommy,” Dylan suggested after a long moment. “He would have been in his late
twenties, I guess. But it couldn’t have been him.”

“Tommy, the
one killed in a hit-and-run accident about ten years ago?” Gracie tapped her
fingers against her beer. “He was gorgeous. Even in a family with looks like
yours, he stood out. Women a lot more sophisticated than Lana would have
drooled over him.”

She thought
he was gorgeous? He’d file that nugget away for later. For now he needed to
decide exactly how to reveal Uncle Tommy’s secret. She waited for his answer
with her usual honest interest, and he decided to trust her. “Tommy’s, ah,
sexual interests ran in a different direction.”

“What
direction?” She peered at him over a pizza triangle, brown eyes wide with
curiosity.

“Not
women.”

“Men? He
was gay?” She chewed on that fact for a minute. “Darn. Who does that leave?”

Dylan
considered the question again. “Grandfather Bradford, I suppose.”

“I remember
Gran saying he had a real eye for the ladies once upon a time.”

“If he was
going to risk everything he’d worked his whole life for, it would’ve been with
someone willing to play the game his way.” Of course, his legend had been built
on tales of ruthlessness. But still, the theory just didn’t wash. Family meant
everything to Grandfather. He was rascal enough to own up to an illegitimate
son if he had one. And damn anyone who objected.

“What about
the current senator?”

“Uncle
Arthur?” Dylan laughed out loud. Arthur had never embraced the exaggerated
reputation with women the other Bradford men relished. “The idea of him with a
mistress is almost as humorous as Uncle Tommy having one.”

“He’s not
gay, too, is he?”

“One-hundred-percent
hetero, as far as I know. He met Aunt Delia on Cape Cod when he was seventeen,
and, as he always tells it, fell in love with her angel-blue eyes on the spot.
I’d bet he’s been a one-woman man ever since.”

“Okay,
let’s see who we’ve got.” Gracie put down her pizza, wiped her fingers with a
napkin, and then ticked off names one by one. “Not your father. Not your
grandfather. Not Tommy or Arthur.” She threw her hand up in exasperation. “I
admire your family loyalty, but more than likely, one of these men is Clay’s
father. We should try to eliminate them based on something more than your
personal preference.”

A bit of
pizza crust stuck in his throat, and Dylan washed it down with another pull on
his beer. The only reason behind considering someone else to name as Clayton’s
father was to clear his own, but that didn’t make it any easier. All of them
were men he loved, admired, and respected.

“Would
there have been anyone else?” Gracie asked. “Cousins? Nephews. Black sheep?”

Dylan
started feeling boxed in by the direct questions, Gracie’s nearness, and the
walls of the cabin. “I can’t think of anyone else, but I’ll ask Uncle Arthur.”

“Are you
sure you want to ask one of the suspects who the other suspects might be?”

“Trust me,
Uncle Arthur’s
not
a suspect.”

“Okay,” she
said, clearly humoring him. “I’ll talk to David.”

“Why?”

“Of all the
people left in East Langden, he knew Lana the best. And he knew your father.”
Her eyes became guarded, leaving Dylan to wonder what she was hiding. “His
health isn’t good right now, but have you noticed how he seems to be doling out
information in bits and pieces?”

“Has he
doled out something I don’t know about?”

“N-no,” she
said, failing to meet his eyes. “But maybe there’s more.”