Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2)

by Jacie Floyd

  “They’re begonias. It’s this year’s spring blossom.”

  “For the annual festival?”

  “Yep. It’s always the weekend before Memorial Day. It used to be just an ice-cream social for the town, but then someone came up with the idea of having a full-blown event.”

  She worked as she talked, digging, planting, pressing the soil, scooting down a couple of inches, and starting the process again. Tendrils of hair escaped her French braid and curled on her neck and cheeks. Bees buzzed in and out of the colorful perennials, and a hummingbird sipped at a feeder suspended from the gazebo. Small birds flapped and chirped in a birdbath a few feet away while gulls soared high off in the distance.

  Dylan felt a prickle in his brain and recognized this as one of those sensory moments that would stay tattooed on his memory forever. A freeze frame in the video of life that included feelings and scents, emotions and sounds. A déjà vu scene of perfect clarity that he would revisit in the years to come.

  He had a few other mental snapshots that stayed in his brain. His father, windblown and sunburned, on their boat the summer before he died. His mother engrossed in a children’s theater performance of The Nutcracker Suite. Natalie with her newborn son. Uncle Arthur being sworn into office. At the peak of Mount Everest with The Brotherhood.

  But those instances all involved significant people in his life. The idea of retaining the simple image of Gracie planting flowers made him squirm.

  Looking up, she caught him staring. “You might make yourself useful. If the terms of your trust fund preclude getting dirt under your fingernails, there’s another pair of gloves by the wheelbarrow.”

  Dylan took exception to her tone. Determined to dig the biggest and best hole she’d ever seen, he surprised them both by dropping to his knees beside her. “I’ve gotten my hands dirty before.”

  He plunged the trowel into the soil, putting some muscle behind the motion. She leaned back on her heels to watch and admire. “I want to ask you about my sister’s pregnancy.”

  “I’m not an obstetrician, you know.”

  At the look of interest on her face, he dug deeper. “But you’re a doctor, right? And a woman. And I’m worried.”

  “Then she should see her own doctor.”

  “She did, but I want another opinion,”

  “I won’t be able to determine anything from a third-party consultation…” Gracie shrugged. “Tell me what her problem is.”

  “She’s about eight months pregnant. Until recently, she was skinny as a rail with a beach ball for a stomach. Now she’s having a sudden weight gain and lots of swelling.” He enlarged the hole’s circumference as Gracie’s fascination increased. “Does that sound normal?”

  “Could be,” she said. “Or it could be an indication of certain conditions that are common in the last trimester.”

  “Like what?” Even this little bit of activity managed to release some of his pent-up frustration. He dug with increased vigor.

  Gracie shook her head. “It’s impossible and unethical to make a diagnosis without seeing her. I assume she’s getting pre-natal care from a reputable obstetrician.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Wait a minute.” A gloved hand gripped his forearm.

  He looked up from his task. “What?”

  “That’s some hole.” She dislodged a plant from its plastic tray and held up the one-inch root ball for him to see.

  Maybe he had been a tad enthusiastic. “Too big?”

  “Not if you’re planning on burying a body in there.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Just yours.” He pushed her off balance and dumped her into the crater.

  She floundered for a second like a turtle on its back then grabbed his shoulders. Instead of pulling herself free, she pulled him in on top of her. Accidentally, of course. He was sure she would never have done such a thing if she had guessed how intimately he would land and how instantly he’d respond to the feel of her beneath him. No sharp or bony edges to her. She was all woman, with soft, round, voluptuous flesh—except for the bullet-hard nipples pressing into his chest.

  “Let me up.”

  “Not a chance.” He gave her a slow smile, rocking his hips against hers.

  While he considered all the things he’d like to do to her, her arms flailed at her sides, and she gasped for breath. He eased his weight off her slightly just for the fun of watching her breasts expand when she filled her lungs with air.

  For a second, their eyes met. Hers seemed to soften and invite him closer, to give him unspoken permission to explore the body beneath him. Her neck stretched upward, bringing her mouth within an inch of his.

  “Oh, Dylan.” Her voice hitched on a breathy little sigh. Her eyelids fluttered downward, giving him the impression of a woman too shy to ask for what she wanted. Funny. He’d never pictured her as shy before.

  “Gracie...” He bent forward the extra inch. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Completely.” Her lips curved into a winsome smile.

  Something stiff and cold brushed against his neck. Almost simultaneously, certainly too soon for him to avoid it, she stuffed the garden hose down the back of his shirt and drenched him with chilling water.

  He jerked up, releasing her.

  Laughing, she jumped out of reach and gripped the hose in one hand. “Oops, sorry!”

  “You’ll pay for that!” Two long strides took him to her, but she danced away, wielding the hose like a sword.

  She darted behind the garden bench. Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he planted one foot on the bench, intending to step over it. As he lifted his other foot off the ground, MacDuff latched onto his pant leg and growled.

  “Easy, boy,” he commanded, but the dog’s spirited defense continued. “Call him off.”

  “He’ll quit if you let go of me.”

  Dylan removed one hand from her shoulder to pet MacDuff and remind him of their friendship. But the dog snarled, and Dylan resigned himself to losing this round. He squared his shoulders and prepared himself for the blast. “Spray me and get it over with.”

  Her face fell. “It’s no fun if you ask for it.”

  “Then, let’s call a truce. We’re both wet. Turn off the water, and I’ll let go of you.”

  Gracie twisted the nozzle on the hose. “Truce.”

  He took his hand from hers, and MacDuff released his hold.

  Gracie laid the hose down out of range for both of them. “If you’re finished disrupting my day, I need to get back to work.”

  Like it was all his fault. All right, maybe it was. But damn, she brought out something in him that he’d misplaced a long time ago. Innocent child-like fun and a fresh perspective on the people and events around him.

  She squatted down to push the displaced dirt back into the hole. He knelt beside her to help. Although the tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips, she remained aloof and wary. He definitely didn’t want that. He wanted to see her smile, see her laugh. See her naked.

  Apparently, the water dousing hadn’t cooled his interest. Gracie’s sweet, earthy scent nearly drove him wild. He’d do better to think of something mundane.

  Like the stock market with its erratic ups and downs—a lot like his own uncontrollable urges. He thought of his unproductive investigation, and the idea of his father being attracted to a local girl. Again, the topic hovered too close for comfort. He looked around at the immaculate grounds in search of a neutral topic for conversation.

  “I’m surprised you don’t have a gardener.”

  “We do, but this week, Toby’s helping with the—”

  “Spring Blossom Festival,” Dylan finished for her. “Why is it such a big deal?”

  Gracie planted a flower while he moved down a couple of inches and dug an appropriately-sized hole.

  “It brings in a lot of money for the town,” she offered, talkative now that he’d started her on a safe, impersonal subject. “We change the featured blossom every year and decor
ate the town with it. A local artist does a screen print for a commemorative poster and Gran’s church group designs a cross-stitch. We have the ice-cream social, rides for the kids, a sailboat race, a clambake, and a softball game between the local politicians and business-owners.

  Dylan had run with the bulls in Pamplona, drove the pace car at Indy, ridden Krewe at Mardi Gras, hoisted the sails on an America’s Cup champion, and danced in the streets during Carnival. He should be yawning over East Langden’s little festival, but like Gracie’s effortless beauty and company, the innocent attractions of the Spring Blossom Festival drew him in.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Maybe you could help.” Dodging a bee that circled around them, she looked at him speculatively.

  “Sorry.” Deep down, he was. A little. “I’ll be at the NBA playoffs in New York this weekend, so I won’t be here.”

  “You’re leaving? For good?” She fixed her attention on one of her bulky gardening gloves, casting her gaze downward. He wanted to see her eyes, to see if the thought of him leaving made her glad or sad or maddeningly indifferent.

  “Not unless I find out a lot more about Clayton and his mother by then.” He remembered his unimpressive investigation. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “No, it’s just—Liberty House opens on Friday. We’re all booked up for the Festival, so Gran will need your room.”

  He removed his baseball cap to wipe his forehead and muttered a curse. “Well, that’s great. I can’t move into the cabin until it’s fixed up, but I can’t get anyone to work on it until after the Spring Blossom Festival.”

  “Ah.” Her expression flashed with understanding. A bee landed on the bloom Gracie reached for, and she shooed it away. “That is a problem.” She worked silently for a moment. “Have you thought about starting on the project yourself?”

  “Who, me?” He smiled at the idea of tackling so many unfamiliar projects. “Everything needs cleaned. The roof is rotting away, and part of the floor needs replaced. The windows and doors are broken. The plumbing doesn’t work. Should I go on?”

  “I guess not.” As she leaned over to plant the final flower in the row, the end of her necklace dropped out of her shirt.

  He picked up the larger of the two objects dangling from the chain. A military dog tag. He held the rectangle between his thumb and forefinger. His throat went dry. “The ex-fiancé?”

  She shook her head slightly and pulled the memento from him. “My father’s.”

  He moved to the small gold heart still swinging free and touched it with a fingertip. “A lover or a sweetheart?”

  Again, the small, almost painful gesture of denial. “My mother’s.”

  He hid his relief behind brevity. “Nice.”

  “My father gave her the charm when I was born. She added the dog tag after he died. That and some medals were the only things of his the Navy sent to her.”

  Dylan understood the value of keepsakes. “And wearing them makes you feel closer to them?”

  Her eyes lost that skeptical glint she sometimes turned on him. “In Hartford, yes. I don’t need additional reminders in East Langden.”

  He was about to show her the Saint Christopher medal that had been his father’s, but Gracie got to her feet and began loading her tools into the wheelbarrow. Leaning back on his heels, he watched her graceful movements. Sometimes her sensual glide took his breath away, contradicting those endearing moments when awkwardness propelled her toward calamity.

  Dylan heard a droning close to his right ear and then a faint touch on his temple. He slapped at the sensation automatically and felt an immediate stab of pain. Brilliant.

  His vision clouded, and the world tilted around him.

  Chapter Ten

  Gracie turned in time to see Dylan slap his palm against his temple. “No!” she shouted, too late to do any good.

  While his eyes rolled back, his knees buckled. She caught him under the arms before he hit the ground and eased him the rest of the way down. Such an extreme and immediate reaction to an insect sting might signal anaphylactic shock. Or the wooziness could simply be caused by the location of the sting to the head.

  Pulling off her grubby gloves, she pressed two fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse. Strong and steady. She turned his head to the side. His breathing seemed normal, too.

  “Can you open your eyes?” Minimal dilation. No immediate symptoms of shock. After removing his baseball cap, she located a wicked stinger protruding from an angry welt near his eyebrow. “Hang on.” She scraped the stinger away. “Have you ever had a reaction to bee stings or insect bites before?”

  “Don’t think so.” His words slurred together, very unlike his usual precise diction.

  Medical training dictated a cold compress against the inflamed area. She looked toward the house, a hundred yards away. With no time to waste, she pulled her tank top over her head, dampened it with water from the garden hose, and pressed it against the welt. When she settled herself on the ground with Dylan’s head in her lap, his eyelids fluttered opened.

  Confusion swam in his eyes before the first signs of true awareness returned. Then understanding. Then something deep and warm that reminded Gracie that she had nothing on from the waist up but a sheer white bra.

  Gracie had learned anatomy and physiology in medical school, and she found breasts about as ordinary as elbows. But members of the male persuasion tended to have a different reaction. That knowledge brought the embarrassed flush to Gracie’s cheeks, not any personal response to Dylan’s admiration. Certainly not.

  He tried to sit up. She slipped her arm under his shoulders. His head collapsed back against her chest as his eyes drifted shut once again.

  “Feeling better?” Giving in to sheer maternal instinct, she touched her hand to his forehead, checking for fever.

  “Just dandy.” He snuggled his head against her.

  “We should get you into the house for an antihistamine.” With his need for her medical assistance diminished, her need to put physical distance between them increased. Having his blond head cradled against her chest seemed too personal, too intimate. “Can you stand?”

  “Not yet.”

  The warmth of his breath caressed her skin. His beard rasping against her skin left her almost panting. She shifted his head to a less intimate position. He shifted higher—onto the soft swells of her breasts. Suspicious, she stared down at him. His eyes were open again, dark and hot, and trained on her flesh so very near his mouth.

  Transfixed, she watched as he darted his tongue across the sensitive skin along the scalloped lace edge. A white-hot shaft of desire darted through her when his teeth closed over her nipple. She searched inwardly for outrage at his boldness, but found only confusion. And desire.

  He was no more interested in her than he was in watching snails race. Right? And yet the touch of his mouth started a chain reaction of longing that churned inside her like water on a paddlewheel. She threaded her fingers through his hair, desperately wanting to disregard the little voice inside that warned against reacting to this Baxter clone.

  He was here to deny her best friend his birthright. His family had caused her hometown economic distress, and his sexual exploits were legendary. She really didn’t want him. She didn’t even like him... much.

  Instead of clasping him to her like she wanted to do, she used every ounce of strength she possessed to push him away. “What are you doing?”

  She mentally scrambled to remember all the lessons she’d learned about sexual responsibility. She’d never fully appreciated the way the students in her sex education classes rolled their eyes at her “just say no” advice. Suddenly, she understood all too well.

  The best sex she’d had in two years with Baxter paled in comparison to the excitement of Dylan’s tongue on her skin. Of his teeth on her nipple. Oh, my! She resisted the urge to fan her face with her hand. Where was that hose when she needed it?

  “Sorry.” His grin said otherwise. “My bout
with vertigo brought on hallucinations of ice cream cones. Licking was the natural response.”

  Dumping him out of her lap, she rose to her feet and brushed off her bottom. “I was afraid you were dying, and you were taking advantage of my good nature.”

  “Your nature’s better than good. It’s delicious.”

  Gracie lifted MacDuff into the wheelbarrow, determined not to waste another minute of her time on someone who was only giving her a second look because he was stuck out here in the boonies with nary a super-model in sight.

  Dylan pushed himself to his feet and swayed. Gracie sped to his side and held his arm until he regained his balance. He tried to link arms with her for the return to the house, but she wouldn’t have it.

  Pulling his hand away from his temple, he held her tank top wadded up like a baseball in his palm. “Can I keep this?”

  “No.” She grabbed it from him and slipped it over her head, then wished she hadn’t. If that wasn’t a leer on his face, then she had seriously misinterpreted the expression. “What?”

  “I’ve never been envious of a shirt before.”

  Outwardly, she gave him frowning disapproval. Inwardly, she gave herself a stern lecture. She didn’t want to have sexual feelings for him. She would not succumb to his juvenile comments. She would ignore his adolescent fixation with her breasts if it killed her. She disdained this unwanted, pointless, futile, temporary attraction she felt for him.

  She would never be more than a passing diversion for him, a wholesome Cabbage Patch Doll thrown in as a novelty to the row after row of Debutante Barbies in his life. And she deserved a whole lot more than a lover with the attention span of a gnat. She’d been burned before by a man who believed she was a convenience, and she’d do well to remember it.

  “There’s some ointment in the downstairs bathroom to put on that sting.” Celebrating a moral victory over temptation, she marched away. She had never realized how unfulfilling a moral victory could be.

  “Sure. Thanks for your help.”

  She felt his eyes follow her as she walked away. An unfamiliar instinct prompted her to put some sway in her gait. Realizing what she was doing, she stopped immediately.