Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (31 page)

Mention of
Arthur brought forth another round of nausea. Dylan swallowed it back. “You
know, I don’t feel as kindly toward my uncle as I normally do. I might need
more of an incentive than that.”

“No way,”
she scoffed. “Everyone knows you Bradfords have more family loyalty than the
Kennedys.”

“Not
anymore.” Dylan worked his wrists against the ropes while he took a verbal stab
in the dark. “But I would like to know why you killed Lana Harris. And Henry
Stillberg.”

For one
blessed moment, she halted her round of frenetic pacing. “Figured that out, did
you?”

“There’s no
other reason for you to be here and to be in such a hurry to get out of Dodge.
Maybe for the right information I’ll agree to help you.”

She sighed
in disgust, reached into a frilly, impractical handbag, and withdrew a .38
handgun. “Maybe you just need the right incentive.”

Damn. Why
hadn’t his family thrown more of their wealth and political influence behind a
bill for stricter firearm laws? “He who holds the gun,” Grandfather Bradford
had always said, “holds the power.” Or something like that. With one leveled at
his chest, Dylan couldn’t argue with the premise. “Just stay calm and tell me
what you want.”

“We’ll get
in your car, and you’ll take me to the Podunk airport where your plane is
stored.”

“Right.”
His head swam as he tried to get to his feet, but she waved him back to the
floor with the gun. “What about the cash you need?”

“You can
get it for me when we get to the Caymans.”

“When do we
leave?”

“As soon as
it’s dark. I don’t want to be seen again here in East Bufu.”

“Then tell
me about Lana Harris while we wait.” With his head swimming, he listed to the
side and took advantage of the position to rest his pounding temple on the
hardwood floor. “What did you have against her?”

“That
bitch! She was about to get everything I wanted.” The harsh lines of her face
attested to burning emotions undimmed by the passage of time. “It wasn’t enough
that she had Matt’s child and was pregnant again, but he was thinking about
giving up his family and everything he’d worked for to be with her.”

“Why do you
think that?”

“She sent
Matt the positive results of a pregnancy test. I saw them on his desk and
started digging around. He’d bought property for her out west and made travel
arrangements to go with her.” Karen’s face contorted. Dylan flinched when she
slammed the hand with the gun into her other palm. “I couldn’t let him throw
himself away on that trashy nobody and ruin his career and mine along with it.”

The
fruitcake’s intensity fueled Dylan’s fear. If only one of them could think
clearly, it would have to be him. Unfortunately, his synapses weren’t firing on
all cylinders. Little of what she said made sense. “You were having an affair
with Uncle Arthur, too?”

“Arthur?”
she scoffed. “That pale, wimpy imitation of Matthew? Never. Matt was the man
for me from Day One. I’d never have settled for less.”

“My
father?” He jerked up his head only to be tortured with another shaft of
nauseating pain. Hanging onto the edge of consciousness by his fingernails, he
forced out his next question through gritted teeth. “You thought my father was
having an affair with Lana and had fathered her children?”

She gave
him a look of pity. “Everyone knew it.”

“Everyone
knew wrong.” He fought to focus but having three of her pacing around the room
increased his wooziness. “Clay and the unborn child were Arthur’s.”

“No! He was
just covering for Matt the way he always did.”

“My father had
a vasectomy years before Lana disappeared. Her second child couldn’t have been
his.”

“He didn’t
have a vasectomy!” She pulled back as if he’d slapped her. “He would have told
me.”

“Why would
he?”

She
sneered. “Your parents had nothing between them. Matthew was just waiting for
the right time to leave that ice princess he was married to.”

Dylan would
never believe that. “Do you think the right time would have ever come? It would
have been political suicide.”

“He loved
me! I know he did.”

“Did you
have an affair with him?” With her thinking so warped, would Karen know or tell
the truth after all of this time?

“Nothing so
tawdry. He bought a condo for me in LA. We agreed we couldn’t be together any
place close to home, and I admired him for his caution. He said he didn’t want
any gossip to circulate about us, but then the rumors sprang up about Lana.
When I found out he was serious about that tramp, I intercepted the message
about a meeting between them and came here to warn her away. She wasn’t ruining
my chances to be presidential press secretary.”

“But
something went wrong.”

“She
laughed at me. She said I didn’t know what I was talking about. We struggled,
and I killed her, but I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s
what they all say,” Dylan murmured to himself, finding it ever more difficult
to concentrate.

“Arthur
came in after it happened, and I hid in here. He panicked, the fool, and took
the body away with him. No one would have known about me if it hadn’t been for
the damned security camera. Henry began blackmailing me almost immediately.
When you started poking around, I’d had enough.”

God, Dylan
wished she’d stop pacing.

“Henry and
I met last night, and I paid him his hush money for the last time. When he
left, I went to pass him on the road, and somehow the old geezer went over the
bluff. Such a tragic accident. But I’m afraid someone saw us together. And
Henry always said he’d leave the photos someplace where they’d be recovered if
anything ever happened to him. I’m not waiting around for those to surface, so
I’m off to warmer climates. With a little help from my friends, of course.”

Dylan
decided to play along. “I’m always happy to help a true humanitarian. Getting
rid of Henry Stillberg was a service to the world.”

“What was
your beef with Henry?”

“He tried
to blackmail me, too. It seems he had various versions of the story, wringing
money out of anyone who’d pay.” Dylan grimaced, only partially an act. His head
pounded beneath a sizable lump as his attention faded in and out. He’d rubbed
his wrists raw with his attempts to free his hands, to no good result.

She’d have
to release him at some point—to fly the plane if not sooner. He didn’t have
much doubt he could overpower her, as long as there was only one of her,
instead of the psychotic triplets he saw now. Sleep, maybe, would help. He’d
try to rest before they went wherever she wanted to go.

He leaned
his head against the wall, pulling on the cord around his hands one last time
for good measure. He hurried to cover his surprise when they broke apart. He
looked at Karen, still walking and talking, so proud of her story that she
probably couldn’t turn it off now if ten FBI agents barged into the room. If
only they would.

The sound
of her voice droned on, and Dylan’s vision and consciousness wavered. He
figured that must be the case or he wouldn’t have such a clear image of Gracie
standing outside the door. Brave, beautiful Gracie. No telling what she’d do to
rescue him if she really were here.

She’d probably
want him to create a diversion so she could rush Lana. Yes, the Gracie in his
vision wanted exactly that. He leaned to the side and groaned in acute pain,
more real than fake. Karen drew nearer, but not near enough. Suspicious, that
was Karen. He couldn’t blame her.

He groaned
again, louder.

Karen took
another step forward. As Gracie tiptoed up behind her, Dylan had a blinding
flash of clarity.

She was
real!

With a
renewed sense of purpose, he kicked his legs out, and tripped Karen. Gracie
rushed in and clunked her on the head with a two-by-four from the other room.
Gripping Karen’s wrist, she banged it against the floor until the handgun came
loose. Gracie grabbed it and focused it on Karen.

“My God,
are you all right?” she asked Dylan.

“I think so.”
He pulled his bloody hand from behind his back and rubbed the bump on his head.
“Maybe a concussion.”

“Oh,” she
said, frowning. “And look at your poor wrist. Is the other one like that, too?”

He pulled
it forward and nodded, but the nod sent him adrift on waves of vertigo. He
clutched his head to halt the dizzying rotation.

Sirens
wailed outside, sending the top of Dylan’s head through the ceiling. “How—?”

“I went
into town after I got home from the hospital. Marvin Gardens said he’d been
riding out this way and saw your car in the factory parking lot. When you
didn’t come home, I got worried. After I got here and saw the trouble you were
in, I called the police chief.”

With
Fleming and a deputy bursting through the door, Gracie abandoned her position
guarding Karen and rushed to Dylan’s side. She peeled his lids back and stared
into his eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He blinked
and frowned at the fourteen or so digits she held in front of him. He could see
them, count them as requested, but they blocked all of her face from his view
except for her beautiful eyes.

“How many?”
she demanded.

“Too many.”
He took a stab at folding them into the palm of her hand just before he slid
back into darkness. “I can’t see nearly enough of you.”

The next
morning, Gracie waited outside Dylan’s room wrestling with a tangle of
emotions. After regaining consciousness the night before, he had settled into a
dark funk someplace deep inside himself where she couldn’t reach him. Where he
didn’t want to be reached. He’d insisted that she go home and leave him alone.

She hadn’t
overheard everything Karen Hammonds had said, but enough to know the woman was
fixated on the long dead Matthew Bradford. How much was truth and how much
she’d invented was a task for Chief Fleming and a state psychiatrist to tackle.

Gracie
gripped a bag containing Dylan’s clean clothes. She desperately wanted to see
him and reassure herself that he was all right, but she also wanted to put that
off as long as possible. He’d already told her he planned to leave for New York
as soon as the doctor released him.
Not
much left to say after that
.

Preparing
to greet the patient, she pasted a big fake smile on her face. At the sound of
her name, she stopped and turned, gulping back her surprise.

“I’d like
to see Dylan if I may,” Senator Bradford said, more humbly than she’d come to
expect from him. Anxiety accentuated new lines etched into his face. He looked
closer to his true age now, where just two days ago his polished, youthful
appearance had seemed to defy time.

“That’s up
to Dylan, Senator.”

He nodded
and pushed the door open, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him, but she
hesitated. “Maybe you should speak to him alone.”

“Oh, I
doubt if we have any secrets from you. And maybe he’ll be a little more
receptive with you at my side.”

Gracie
doubted that, but she acquiesced.

As they
entered the room, her heart went out to the man lying as still as a corpse in
the hospital bed, gazing out the window. He didn’t bother to turn his head and
acknowledge their presence. Gracie hovered near the door, but the senator moved
to Dylan’s side.

The
brilliant blue eyes that had been listless beneath the swath of white bandage,
blazed to life. “You’re not in jail.”

“No.” The
words “Not yet” hung in the air unspoken.

Chief
Fleming had explained that charges would be brought, and a hearing seemed
inevitable. The general public would gobble up all the scandal the senator had
tried so desperately to avoid as it aired on Court TV, non-stop network news,
and made the cover of newspapers and magazines from coast to coast.

But
admitting his sins to the other members of his family would be the worst
punishment any Bradford could face. The thing Arthur had sought most
strenuously to preserve was the one thing that would be lost to him forever.
He’d made his own choices, wrong, illegal, irrational though they might have
been. She understood about loss, but could dredge up little sympathy for him.

Only for
Dylan, who looked as if his heart had broken. And for Clay, and David, and
Lana, and even Matthew, all of the innocent victims of this one man’s selfish
acts.

Arthur
reached out tentatively, but Dylan shrugged his hand away and looked at Gracie.
“Why is he here? Did you bring him?” His voice and eyes were as cold and
distant as a glacier.

She
advanced toward him, lifting her chin, determined not to let him see how deeply
his withdrawal hurt. “It took courage for him to come see you. If you don’t
listen to him now, you’ll always wonder what he had to say.”

He gave a
snort of disgust and turned his head away. “I’ve heard more than enough from
him already.”

Arthur
cleared his throat. “I know my actions are indefensible and unpardonable, and
I’m sorry. In light of family ties and our past relationship, I hope you can
forgive me.

Dylan’s
facial muscles flexed, biting back a boatload of emotions Gracie could only
guess. All she knew for sure was that he’d taken a bone-crushing grip on her
hand. “I’m not the one who needs to forgive you. You hurt many others more
severely than me. You might begin with Aunt Delia. And your sons. Both of
them.”

As if on
cue, the door swung open and Clay stepped in. It startled Gracie to see the
three men together, their features so similar, each expression stonier than the
last—Clay’s flushed. Dylan’s pale beneath his bandages. The color leeched from
the senator’s face.

“Perfect
timing,” Dylan said. “Arthur, I don’t believe you’ve met Clayton Harris.”

If any more
color could drain from the senator’s face, it did. She’d never seen anyone so
ghostly white remain standing.

He squared
his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he told Clay. “I owe you an apology and an
explanation.”

“You don’t
owe me anything,” Clay snarled. “All I ever wanted was to know who my father
was, and now I know. I don’t want anything else from you. Ever.”

The senator
accepted the rejection with a tight-lipped nod. “Ever is a long time. If you
change your mind in the future, my door will always be open to you.”

“Too little.”
Clay turned on his heel. “And a damn sight too late.” He stopped before
exiting. “David’s asking to see you, Gracie.”

“I’ll be
right there,” she told him, trapped for the moment in the coil of tension that
spooled between Dylan and his uncle.

“I’ll leave.”
The senator turned slowly toward the door. “Is there anything I can do for you
before I go?” he asked his nephew.

“Tell me
one thing,” Dylan said, reluctantly.

“Anything.”
A few quick steps returned Arthur to his side.

“How much
of Karen’s story was true?” With his expression hard and flinty, his fingers
tightened around Gracie’s. “Did my father have an affair with her?”

The senator
winced. “It’s best to let some things go, Dylan.”

“I asked
you a question.” His voice lashed across the room like a bullwhip. “I’d
appreciate an honest answer. Did my father have an affair with Karen Hammonds
or not?”

“Not an
affair.” The senator licked his lips and looked away. “Not really.”

Pain
clouded the depths of Dylan’s eyes. “But he slept with her.”

“Once or
twice. And to my knowledge, those were the only times he was unfaithful to your
mother during their marriage. Karen was a relentless piranha. She pursued him
until he gave in. And he regretted it.”

“Is a
feeling of regret all it takes to make infidelity acceptable by Bradford
standards? I’m sure that was a great consolation to my mother. And will be to
Aunt Delia.” Dylan turned his head on the pillow, dismissing his uncle, but the
old man persevered.

“Matt loved
your mother, and he did the best he could. That’s all any of us can do.” Arthur
ran his perfectly manicured hand through his professionally styled hair and
turned on the heel of his expensive shoe. “I’m sorry that’s not good enough for
you.”