Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (5 page)

Gracie
swallowed a snort of disbelief. “I’ll wager it was a sadder day for the
workers.”

After a
slicing glance, he resumed ignoring her. “Gracie said there’s a hotel on the
highway. May I use your phone to see if there are any vacancies? I dropped mine
in a puddle earlier and it stopped working.”

“I’m sure
The Granite Inn has vacancies.” Gracie said. “Is
that
what happened to your phone?”

“It won’t
hurt to check.” Gran ushered Dylan down the hall to the landline in the
kitchen. “Water and cell phones don’t mix. I’ve heard you should put a wet
phone in a bowl of rice.”

“I’ll give
that a try.” He dialed the number Gran provided. After a brief conversation, he
hung up and turned to them with a smile. “All set. Mmm, something smells good.”

“We’re
having a bite to eat,” Gran admitted. “Would you like to join us?”

“I wouldn’t
want to impose.” He hung back from the table, making a show of his reluctance.

“You
probably need to be on your way,” Gracie urged.

“Nonsense,
Gracie. It’s nothing fancy, mind you, just some chowder, but we’d be happy to
have you stay.”

“Thank you,
ma’am.” He rubbed his hands together. “A bowl of chowder sounds great. My
grandmother’s cook used to make this all the time.”

While Gran
ladled up another serving, Dylan took a seat, a single seat, like any normal
person, but he seemed to take up more than half the space at the table. Gracie
could only tap her fingers on her glass of tea and watch the clock. As
important as his visit might be to Clay, she didn’t want her friend walking
into an ambush tonight.

Dylan dug
in and savored the first bite. “Even better than it smells. And is this
homemade bread?”

“Yes, but
not quite fresh,” Gran said. “I usually bake daily, but with Chester in the
hospital, I haven’t had time.”

“Is your
husband ill? Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Broken
hip.” Gran worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “The doctor says he should
be as good as new, but it will take a while. That’s why Gracie’s here to help
out until he’s back on his feet.” She patted her granddaughter’s hand.

Dylan
reached for another slice. “Is Dr. Harris his physician?” he asked, as smooth
as the butter he slathered on his bread. “Gracie mentioned he’s a good friend
of hers.”

“She did?”
Gran’s eyes sparkled. “Why, yes, that’s true. They’ve been best friends since
childhood.”

“Classmates?”

Gracie
jumped in to prevent Gran from providing more background than necessary.
“Clayton was a year ahead of me in school.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want
Dylan to know the true nature of her relationship with Clay. But for the time
being, the less he knew, the better. “Why do you care?”

“Just
trying to get the lay of the land,” he said.

“That may
take a while.”

He shrugged
and leaned back, unconcerned and relaxed, like a man with a plan and all the
time in the world. “I can give it however long it takes.”

His
steel-blue gaze locked with hers. She no longer doubted Clay’s claim had
brought Dylan here, but she couldn’t picture him embracing the idea of a newfound
sibling or being all that eager to share the wealth.

A rap on
the back door interrupted the exchange. Her friend tromped into the mud room.

“Gracie!” A
grin split his face as he wiped his feet. “I’m so glad you’re home. East
Langden is no fun without you.”

At the
table, Dylan craned his neck to see the newcomer. Clay was out of his sight,
but it would be only a moment before he stepped into the kitchen. When wearing
his professional persona, Gracie knew he could be as controlled as a horse in a
harness. But otherwise, he could be skittish and contentious when provoked, and
sometimes, he spoke without thinking. She hated for him to be in a situation
where he couldn’t put his best foot forward.

She rose
and flung herself at him, hoping to segue the hug into a detour outside. “It’s
great to see you, too.” Gripping his forearm in her hands, she pulled him
toward the door. “Let’s go to the carriage house to talk.”

“Sure,
okay.” He beamed at her enthusiastic greeting but stood his ground. “First, I
have a message for Nora.”

Gracie
tugged harder. “I’ll pass along any messages later.”

“Nonsense,”
Gran said. “Let him come in.”

Reluctantly,
Gracie turned back into the room. She stood foursquare in front of Clay, ready
to protect him as she’d done throughout their childhood. Dylan set down his
spoon, apparently sensitive to the charged atmosphere. Obviously, the two men
were spitting images of one another, but as Clay moved toward the table, Dylan
didn’t react to the resemblance.

Naturally,
Clay could identify Dylan as easily as Gracie had. For many of their teen
years, they had kept a scrapbook with news clippings about the famous family
that didn’t claim him. The grip he clamped on her shoulder relayed his tension.

“Well.” His
throat worked over words that failed to emerge. Stone still, he paused as if
puzzling out this unexpected Bradford presence.

“Come in,
Clayton. Meet Dylan Bradford.” Bless Gran for her calm manner, even though she
must know the significance of this first meeting.

Dylan’s
gaze flashed sharply to the new arrival’s face. Protective as ever, Gracie held
her arms out at her sides, like a school crossing guard, holding Clay back. He
brushed past her and held out his hand. She experienced a flash of pride at his
composure.

“Clayton
Harris,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”

Dylan wiped
his mouth with a napkin before he stood. The upper hand would be lost if he
revealed the hostility boiling inside him. Instinct urged him to regard the
asshole with utter indifference, but contempt for his audacity wrestled with
more rational intentions. Sheer impulse advised him to take as much
satisfaction as he could from beating the holy shit out of the presumptuous
jerk, there and then.

Imposing a
rigid guard over his expression, he took the proffered hand and shook it with
one quick pump before dropping it like a dead fish. Similar in height, they
stood eye to eye, each of them measuring, assessing.

Dylan
sneered at the hopes and expectations that leaped to life in the other man’s
eyes. “Sorry I can’t say the same.”

“Maybe
not,” the man said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Why?”
Dylan crossed his arms.

“It means
you’re taking my claim seriously. Your mother didn’t.”

“Or it
means I’m more serious about disproving it.”

“That won’t
be easy,” Gracie spoke up. Both Dylan and Clayton glared at her. Clearly, the
down-home beauty didn’t know when to mind her own business.

“I’ve been
trying to determine my parentage for years,” Clayton said, “and the trail
always leads back to Matthew Bradford.”

Dylan
jerked his chin. “Maybe that’s wishful thinking.”

“No.”
Clayton’s chin-jerk mirrored Dylan’s. “I’ve tried my damnedest to prove that
I’m not the son of a crooked, womanizing politician who wouldn’t face up to
inconvenient responsibilities. Now, I’m just trying to resign myself to the
truth. So if you can prove otherwise, I’m on your side. But nothing short of
DNA tests will keep me from getting the information and acknowledgement I
deserve.”

Dylan
clenched his fists rather than take a swing at the annoying son of a bitch. His
mother had taught him better. She wouldn’t want him to start a brawl in this
nice Mrs. Lattimer’s kitchen, no matter how much physical satisfaction he might
gain from it. He forced his hands to relax, preparing to leave rather than stay
and cause Gracie’s grandmother distress. “Well, now, that’s exactly why I’m
here. To make sure you get what you deserve.”

And that
was one promise he intended to keep.

The next
morning, Dylan washed down a handful of aspirins with a swig of tap water. This
headache and lack of sleep could be attributed to the asshole claiming to be
his father’s other son as much as the lousy motel.

Anyone so
unwise and uninformed as to call his father a crooked politician was too stupid
to be taken seriously. If only Clayton’s claim could be dismissed as easily.

Stepping
out of the shabby hotel room, he closed the metal door sharply, determined to
do whatever he had to do at the cabin to avoid a return stay at the Granite
Inn.

After
arriving at his newest property, he discovered even worse decay than he’d
spotted the night before. The decrepit old place needed more than a thorough
cleaning to make it livable.

Still, he
wouldn’t mind roughing it if he could get some of the necessities in working
order. He climbed back into the Navigator and went into town in search of three
things. A phone to replace the one he’d dropped into a puddle the night before,
workers to help with the cabin, and some kind of food that would pass for
breakfast.

Several
hours later, he pulled up Liberty House’s circular driveway for the third time
in less than eighteen hours. Never in his life had he returned so often to a
place where he felt so unwelcome.

But he was
ready to beg if he had to. With his stomach growling in protest to the only
food he’d had that day—strong coffee and stale donuts from a Stop’n’Shop on the
edge of town—Dylan studied the beautiful old house and grounds.

Liberty
House exuded the serenity of an English country manor. Sweet-smelling flowers
bloomed along the walk and in window boxes. Crocks of bright geraniums
decorated the front porch along with sturdy benches and bentwood rockers. The
house stood high on a headland with the relentless sound of the nearby ocean
crashing against the granite shore.

The
well-maintained establishment was obviously someone’s pride and joy. He bet
that if he complimented Mrs. Lattimer on the beauty of her home and livelihood,
she’d be eating out of his hand in no time. The older woman had definitely been
a softer touch than the younger one. With any luck, Granny would answer the
door, and Gracie would be out of sight. If not, he’d be looking for another
place to spend the night. Again.

Gracie’s refusal
to rent him a room baffled him. Women usually gave him anything he wanted
before he even asked. After a mini-pep talk, he hauled himself out of the car
and onto the porch. When Gracie answered the doorbell, he somehow didn’t feel
as unlucky as he’d expected.

The night
before, the fiery brilliance of her wholesome beauty would have appealed to him
more if she hadn’t been so infuriatingly disagreeable. This afternoon, as the
sun streamed across the threshold, she glowed with a healthy vitality he seldom
encountered in the city.

Her vibrant
hair was pulled into a casual topknot. Curling wisps escaped here and there,
softening the dramatic lines of her cheek and jaw while emphasizing flashing
brown eyes. Her delicate nose stopped just short of an upward tilt, and a
scatter of freckles dotted otherwise flawless skin. A smudge of blue paint
replaced last night’s streak of grease. The plump bow-shaped mouth curved
downward in counterpoint to the determined lift of her chin.

A green
surgical shirt and matching cut-off pants covered her gorgeous flesh. No
medical professional of his acquaintance filled out a pair of scrubs so well.
He took all of it in with a glance, but his body—jaded to the gaunt figures of
fashion models and society debs—responded with swift, unexpected pleasure to
Gracie’s lush, womanly curves.

Granted,
he’d been too preoccupied to take any of his regular partners to bed in the
last few weeks, but that was out of choice, not necessity. With his sudden
interest bordering on the obnoxious, he turned away and stared across the sweep
of lawn while he reined in his untimely erection.
Down, boy
.

“Well, if
you didn’t want to see me, you shouldn’t have knocked on my door,” Gracie said
from behind him.

The husky
quality of her voice lured him further into the quicksand of desire, but her
words grated like sandpaper. Now he remembered what he disliked about her.

Everything…
Except her luscious body.

He dared a
brief look at her over his shoulder. “I came to see your grandmother.”

“Too bad.”
What secret did she hide behind that impudent grin? And why did it make her
mouth so tempting? So kissable? “Gran’s not home. Why do you want to see her?”

Leaning
against the porch rail, he faced her and concentrated on Gracie’s flawed personality
rather than her perfect form. “I want to talk to her about renting a room.”

“Admit it.”
Gracie crossed her arms under generous breasts that lifted and swelled. If she
kept on flaunting herself like that, he’d be forced to turn away from her again.
“You thought she’d be easier to talk into giving you a room than I would.”

He’d be
damned before he’d admit anything of the kind. “I need somewhere to set up my
laptop until I can get the water and electricity turned on at the cabin.” Both
utility companies had told him it would be a week before he could expect
service. But he had no intention of divulging those details to Gracie.

“So you
don’t want to sleep here?”

“No, I want
that, too.”

“What about
the Granite Inn?” Amusement softened the challenge in her voice. “Didn’t it
meet the high Bradford standards?”

The Granite
Inn barely met the standards of a wild boar. He scratched his chin through the
new goatee he’d mistakenly started growing as a disguise. Everywhere he’d been
this morning, people had recognized him. Not that his identity had earned him
any preferential treatment. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d gotten a cold
shoulder more often than not. “Liberty House is more convenient for overseeing
renovations at the cabin.”

At the word
“renovations,” she tilted her head to the side and more tendrils escaped her
topknot. “You really intend to fix up the place?”

“That’s the
plan.”

As she
opened her mouth to respond, a crash and a woof interrupted them. Gracie turned
and made a dash for the stairs. “MacDuff!”

Dylan
followed the flash of legs as she disappeared up the steps. After crossing the
spacious entry and climbing the wide stairway, he took a left at the split
landing, trailing her voice to a door at the end of the hall.

Canvas drop
cloths covered most of the room. Sky-blue paw tracks decorated most of the drop
cloths. Gracie scooped the dog out of the paint pan, petting and scolding him.

Meanwhile,
Dylan checked out her legs.

For years,
he’d maintained a mental list of World-Class Legs. The criterion for inclusion
was brief with length-of-leg being the primary factor. After his first glance
at Gracie’s, he’d have to revise the list and the criteria on her behalf.
Length became secondary. Shape became all-important.

Even her
slender bare feet, arched provocatively on the rough canvas, conjured
toe-sucking fantasies. Well-turned ankles glided upward into luscious calves.
Normally, no matter how great the legs, points were deducted for knees. Gracie
gained
points for hers. Smooth and
rounded, dimpled skin rose to a playground of sinewy thigh that awakened dark,
erotic thoughts.

And while
her skin looked as soft and supple as satin, the muscles underneath flexed with
the definition of a practiced equestrienne. The mental image of those thighs
gripping the flanks of a spirited mount made his stomach clench with desire all
over again. Damn.

“You are
such a bad boy,” Gracie rebuked.