Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (11 page)

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
decorate 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.

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.

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?”