Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (12 page)

“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?”

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 laugh, 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 outing 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.”

Their
foreheads almost touched as Gracie leaned in. “Nobody cares about Clay more
than I do. I’m just not the right person for him. And I don’t believe he’s as
crazy about me as he thinks.”

“He sure
gives a good imitation of it.” Tanya took a moment from her napkin folding to
look hopeful. “You think he’s faking his interest?”

Clay turned
to glare at them from the bar, even though he was too far away to hear them. A
twinge of disloyalty filled her for talking about him behind his back, but the
tension emanating from Tanya like a bad aura told her the chat went a lot
deeper than mere gossip.

“Exaggerating
it. My mother, grandparents, and David all planted the idea a long time ago
that it’d be just super if we got together. Clay is so desperate to be part of
a family that he fell in love with the concept. It’s a safe and tidy dream for
him to fulfill expectations set for him by the people he admires.”

Gracie
stirred her straw through the melting ice in her glass. “We might do okay as a
couple, but it wouldn’t be passionate, thrilling, or eternal. In my opinion,
being with someone who doesn’t love you is much worse than being alone.”