Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2)

by Jacie Floyd

  He called out to her, but she kept going. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. He repeated her name, and she weakened, damn it.

  He waited for her to stop and look at him before he waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll supply the whipped cream any time you say.”

  “Not even in your dreams,” she called back.

  His laughter trailed her up to the house. And she’d have felt a lot better if she hadn’t been intrigued by the offer.

  Returning to the carriage house, Gracie did her best to put Dylan’s playfulness into perspective. He was gorgeous, she’d give him that. And light years more experienced than she, but so what? She was busy. Her life was full. What more could she want? If a supersonic sex life hovered near the top of her wish list, it was certainly secondary to having a satisfying relationship. She really didn’t want one without the other. Did she? Certainly not.

  As she climbed her stairs, she admitted that Clay was right. Dylan was way out of her league. She didn’t even have a league.

  As an undergraduate, her one and only lover had been Ted Bellamy, a sweet, sensitive, social activist. He’d taken her virginity one night in a burst of passion after an Exxon protest. When the surge of idealistic euphoria faded, he focused more of his energy on collecting T-shirts and saving the spotted darter fish than in satisfying Gracie.

  During med school, she had met Baxter, the opposite of Ted in every way. Handsome, wealthy, and very physical, he dedicated his time to helping people. If he was more self-centered about their physical relationship than she would have liked, at least he was enthusiastic about having one. Later, she found out he wasn’t particular about where he expended that enthusiasm.

  She hadn’t enjoyed sex with either one of them that much, and worse, Baxter had claimed that his wandering eye was due to her lack of appeal, response, and stimulation.

  While Gracie showered and dressed, she reconsidered Baxter’s accusations for the umpteenth time. Maybe she just hadn’t met the right man. Of course, if no one less than Dylan Bradford would do, her physical standards were too high and her ethical standards were too low. Like Goldilocks in her quest for porridge, Gracie would never again settle for anyone who wasn’t just right.

  Lost in thought, she crossed the yard to the main house. She wanted to see her grandmother before going to visit Granddad again. She would only admit to a slight—very slight, almost minuscule—hope to see Dylan. And that was only to check on his well-being.

  Stepping through the back door, she found him seated at the kitchen table with Gran. With their heads together, they paged through a family photo album.

  “Here’s Gracie on her first day of school,” her grandmother was saying. “Didn’t she look adorable with her hair in braids? That book bag’s almost as big as she is.”

  “Adorable.” Dylan looked up and winked at her. The swelling around his right eye would normally have stirred her sympathy, but the smile he gave her was so close to a smirk it sent Gracie flying across the room.

  “Gran!” She reached over the table to slap the picture book closed. “I’m sure Dylan didn’t ask to see my childhood pictures.”

  “Of course he didn’t,” Gran agreed. “I told him about the picture we have of you with his father. He did ask to see that.”

  “Then let’s turn right to it.” Gracie flipped pages until she arrived at the photo under discussion. “There.”

  Her seven-year-old face wore a gap-toothed smile for the camera. Her gray cat, Cuddles, was clutched protectively in her arms. The handsome senator, in a long-sleeved dress shirt with his tie at half-mast, reinforced her hold.

  Dylan studied the photo and nodded. “That’s just how I remember him. What’s the story behind this picture?”

  “It was a Saturday morning, and Gracie usually came along to help in the bakery,” Gran began.

  Gracie smiled at the memories. “I’m sure I was more trouble than help.”

  “You were a joy.” Her grandmother beamed.

  Dylan looked over at the older woman, eyebrows raised. “That’s your bakery in town?”

  “It used to be. We sold it about ten years ago.”

  “I remember going there with my dad.”

  Gran nodded. “He often stopped by when he was in the area.”

  “I think I had the best brownie I’ve ever eaten while I waited for him there one time.”

  “Why, thank you.” Gran ducked her head. “I’ll try to make up a batch for you soon.”

  “Getting back to the picture,” Gracie nudged. “At the time, I didn’t know your father was anybody special, of course. I just wanted someone to help me get my cat out of a tree, and he was the tallest one around. He took off his coat, lifted me off the ground, and held me up so I could reach Cuddles. When Gran saw who I had dragged into assisting me, she insisted on taking this picture.”

  “I planned to have it put in the local paper,” Gran continued, “as a human interest story, you know. But then, after what happened, I didn’t.”

  Dylan looked up, puzzled. “What happened?”

  “That was the day he died,” Gran said gently.

  He tapped the photograph with his index finger as if pinpointing the day and time. “This was taken on the day he died? October seventeenth?”

  “Yes, dear.” Gran patted him on the arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that part of the story might upset you.”

  “I’m not upset.” He studied the face in the picture. “Could I get a copy of this picture? Since it’s the last one taken of him, I think my sister would like to see it, too.”

  “I have a scanner in my office,” Gran said. “But Gracie may have to remind me how to use it.”

  Dylan continued to stare at the snapshot for a few more seconds. Gracie began to feel like an interloper. Before she could think of a tactful way to end the intrusion, the timer on the stove broke the silence.

  “What are you baking, Gran?” She picked up potholders and opened the oven door.

  “Coconut pies.” Gran seemed as relieved as Gracie by the distraction. “Clay says your grandfather might get to come home tomorrow, and I wanted to take a little treat to the nurses who’ve been taking care of him.”

  “He’s coming home? That’s great.” Gracie set the pies on the cooling rack, sneaking a concerned glance at Dylan.

  He’d left one finger in place to mark his father’s picture, but idly turned the pages. Abruptly, he sat forward. “Who’s that?”

  Peering over his shoulder, Gracie said, “That’s me with Clayton, not long after he moved in with David.”

  “And this?” Dylan pointed to another picture taken outside the bakery. “Is that your mother with Clayton?”

  Gracie glanced at the photograph of a woman in a tie-dyed T-shirt. “No, that’s Clay’s mother, about a month before she disappeared.”

  He closed the book with a snap and stood. “Excuse me, please.”

  “Wait a minute.” Gracie tugged on his elbow. “How’s your head?”

  “Not as good as it was.” He touched the swollen area gingerly. “I seem to be getting a headache.”

  “Do you want something for it?”

  “No, thank you.” His curt response dismissed her concern as he disappeared up the stairs.

  “What was that about?” Gran asked. “I hope he wasn’t disturbed about the picture.”

  “I don’t think he was,” Gracie assured her. “I’m on my way to see Granddad and then to meet Clay for a movie. What are your plans for the evening?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gracie and her grandmother’s chatter dwindled to a murmur as Dylan stumbled to his room. He did have a migraine and nausea gripped him. Collapsing backward across the bed, he tried to organize the thoughts whirling through his head.

  With his hands clasped behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling and let the images flow.

  He had been eight years old when his father died. Old enough to remember the smell of his aftershave, the full-bodied sound of his l
augh, and the crease between his eyebrows when he gave someone his full attention. Some of Dylan’s recollections—like the causes Matthew Bradford supported, the speeches he gave, and his political aspirations—were public record.

  Most of what he knew about his father had been passed along by his mother. The devotion to his parents, constituents, and children. And despite the rumors, she had never doubted that he had been a faithful husband.

  Dylan’s mind skated closer to the yawning abyss. A fierce tension coiled inside him. He jerked upright and sprang off the bed to pace the room. Emotional turmoil hurled him from wall to wall with frustrating swiftness. He needed to get some exercise or explode.

  Changing into shorts and cross trainers, he left through the front door to avoid bumping into anyone. At first, the repetitive beat of his feet pounding on the pavement held his attention. Then, matching his breathing to his tempo became a suitable focus.

  Half a mile later, his thoughts caught up with him. He ran faster, trying to out distance his demons. But they kept pace, threatening to trip him up with every step.

  Even after Dylan was old enough to know the score, he had preferred to believe his father was different from other wealthy and powerful men who considered it their birthright to use women for fun and games.

  If his father, legendary womanizer that he had been during his bachelorhood, could find real love and happiness and settle into family life, then it just might be possible for Dylan to do so, also. That thought had given him hope for his own future.

  Without doubt, without hesitation, he championed his father’s reputation and accepted his mother’s account of their marriage. Never had he allowed his faith to be shaken.

  Until now.

  Today, he had seen the resemblance to himself in the picture of the young boy roller-skating alongside Gracie. Dylan’s own family albums contained pictures of him and Natalie at similar ages. Gasping for breath, he forced himself to acknowledge that Clayton looked like him. Enough like him to be his brother.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

  Lana Harris’s picture had detonated a landmine of memories. The accusations of another woman in his father’s life took on greater significance when faced with a photograph of a real, red-blooded woman. And the allegation of Clayton being Matthew’s son grew in proportion with the knowledge that the woman in the picture was Clayton’s mother.

  Was Dylan’s belief in his father’s integrity based on nothing more than family solidarity? The question made his heart churn with betrayal. His mother had expected him to keep the memory of his father intact. And now, if Dylan didn’t run faster, fast enough to escape his treacherous thoughts, he’d be contemplating going against her wishes. Her express wishes.

  But what if her version of the past was wrong?

  His feet flew across the pavement. He willed his mind to clear, turning himself into an automaton with no thoughts, no feelings, no suspicions, and no fears. He headed up the rutted drive that led to the old Bradford camp. Slowing his pace to a walk, he circled the building.

  Sweating and gasping for breath, he dropped down onto the crumbling porch steps. Elbows propped on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands.

  He’d failed to accomplish a single thing he’d set out to do. If Gracie owned this place, she wouldn’t be waiting around for someone else to do the work for her. His lack of practical skills compared to hers was starting to make him feel like a total wuss.

  He’d be damned if he’d sit around any longer.

  Going inside, he surveyed the damage. Maybe the debris and graffiti left behind by twenty-some years of trespassers made it look worse than it actually was. Prepared to do anything to keep from acknowledging the possibility of an unthinkable relationship between his father and Clayton Harris, Dylan began picking up cans, bottles, condom wrappers, and fast food containers. The pile of refuse grew along with his doubts.

  According to Uncle Arthur, Dylan had been to the cabin with his father on several occasions. Dylan remembered only one. A beautiful crisp fall weekend. Arthur and his son Frank had been with them.

  Seized by the memory that replayed in his mind, Dylan moved toward the dock. The overgrown path faded in and out, but he managed to find his way to the water. The old dock was still there along with the dilapidated boathouse where they used to keep a small skiff.

  That weekend, they had taken the boat out to fish, returning late in the afternoon. At seven years old, Dylan had boasted about the number of fish he’d caught. As they started toward the cabin, a woman had emerged from the woods. His father and uncle exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “Damn. Why is she here?” his father had muttered. “She shouldn’t show up here during family time.”

  “I’ll deal with her,” Uncle Arthur had said. “Take the boys up to the cabin.” He steered them in that direction, but the woman was almost upon them.

  “Don’t rush off,” she called. A broad smile made her face a caricature of friendliness. The fading light cast menacing shadows across her features, and her voice echoing off the water lent a threatening air to the otherwise lilting tone.

  “Who’s that?” Frank asked.

  Dylan’s father stepped closer to both boys. “Just a woman from town.”

  “Don’t you gentlemen want to introduce me to your sons?” she said. “I have a little boy they might want to meet.”

  The scrutiny she gave him and his cousin made Dylan squirm with discomfort. “Come on, Dad.” He’d pulled on his father’s hand. “Let’s clean the fish.”

  “Okay, son. Take care of this, Arthur.”

  Before Dylan’s uncle answered, the woman interrupted. “I don’t have anything to say to him. You’re the one I want to talk to, Senator.”

  “Now, see here.” Arthur’s face turned lobster-red. “This isn’t the time or place to be bothering my brother.”

  “Oh, I think it is, and I think he’ll see me, won’t you, Senator?” Her hand on her hip was as cocky as the smile on her face. “Or I can talk to the press. You Bradfords can make the choice.”

  “Arthur, go with the boys.” His father had turned back to the woman. “Make it fast.”

  For all his previous rush to get away, suddenly Dylan refused to budge. His uncle and cousin started up the hill, but Dylan stayed where he was until Frank came back for him and pulled him by the arm. Dylan turned and looked back to see his father on the rocks beside the woman in the tie-dyed T-shirt. Clayton Harris’s mother.

  “You obnoxious, arrogant bastard!” Gracie’s friend Tanya Turnbaugh hissed at Clay across the table in McStone’s Pub.

  To Gracie’s knowledge, the label had earned more than a few people a bloody nose over the years. The insult rocked Clay back in his seat. She couldn’t believe a mere difference of opinion over the action movie the three of them had just seen could lead Tanya to hurl the ultimate slur, but her friends had been at each other’s throats all night. Everyone within earshot waited for his response.

  “My mother’s marital status at the time of my birth is public knowledge,” he said through gritted teeth. “How do you explain being such a bitch?”

  Her glinting smile mocked him. “It’s due to the company I keep.”

  “If you’re implying that your personality defects are my fault, I’ll be happy to stay as far away from you as possible.” Clay pushed away from the table. With his head high and his shoulders stiff, he stalked across the room, took one of the few empty seats at the crowded bar, and ordered a beer from Gracie’s cousin Guidry.

  She turned back to Tanya. “What in the bejesus was that about?”

  Her friend chewed her lip with something like regret, then gave her curls a defiant toss. “I told you when you asked me to join you that he wouldn’t be pleased.”

  Gracie hadn’t guessed how accurate the prediction would be. The two women hadn’t had a good chance to talk since her return to town. When she ran into Tanya leaving the hospital, Gracie thought a third party would make the ou
ting with Clay seem less like a date. But Tanya and Clay obviously had a boatload of negative history Gracie knew nothing about.

  “You’ve been goading him all evening,” she said.

  Her petite friend slumped in her chair and pouted like a three-year-old. “He started it.”

  “You two used to get along great. What happened?”

  Tanya’s brown eyes flashed with anger and hurt, unable to conceal her emotions. Born Tanya Nadine Turnbaugh, her initials said it all. Their high school yearbook had called her “TNT, a tiny mite in an explosive package”. What mischief Gracie hadn’t thought up over the years, Tanya had. Clay had always curbed their wilder flights of fancy.

  After high school, their paths separated as they headed off to different colleges. At first, they’d kept in close touch. But after a while, less often. Eventually, Tanya had dropped out of school and landed in a bad marriage. Then, two years ago, she had returned to town, divorced and with custody of a year-old son.

  Thinking back, Gracie couldn’t remember another time that she, Tanya, and Clay had been in town together since their high school graduations.

  She looked over to make sure Clay’s attention remained on his beer. Gracie sure hoped it would cool him down.

  Tanya glanced his way, too, and her eyes softened. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  “True. Having someone call him a bastard is the one thing he won’t forgive.”

  Her friend’s features sharpened. “He’ll just have to add it to the list of things he won’t forgive me for.”

  Gracie’s ears perked up. “What are some of the others?”

  Tanya folded a napkin into precise accordion pleats before answering. “You know how I always used to have a crush on him?”

  Gracie glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “Yes, but he was just one of many. I never thought you were any more serious about Clay than you were about the others.”

  “I was.” The admission seemed to lie on the table between them like a sleeping monkey, inert and vulnerable for the moment, but obviously capable of reeking future chaos. Tanya folded another napkin into an origami crane. “I knew he was crazy about you, but you weren’t interested in him. I was pleased for my sake that you didn’t want him but miffed at you for not appreciating your good fortune.”