Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (13 page)

Tanya’s
curls bounced as she nodded emphatic agreement, making Gracie wonder again what
had happened in her friend’s marriage. That was another topic she’d kept
off-limits.

“I tried to
tell him the same thing once,” Tanya whispered, “but there’s nothing people
like to hear less than the truth.” She held her breath when Clay stood up. Her
shoulders slumped when he moved toward the restrooms in the back instead of
toward them. “I told him that he probably didn’t really love you. But if he
did, you’d never return the feeling.”

“I’ve been
telling him the same thing for years.”

“I also
said if he didn’t open his eyes, he’d let someone who really did care about him
slip away without even noticing.” Tanya shot him a sizzling look as he returned
to his seat at the bar. “Meaning me, of course.”

Gracie sat
very still, processing the new information. “And how did he respond?”

“He laughed
in my face and turned me down flat.” Tanya threw her riot of curls over her
shoulder with a head toss. “It was pretty humiliating, but I got over it.”

Gracie
wasn’t sure she had. “When did this happen?”

“About
seven years ago.”

“Interesting.”
She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she thought about this
timing. “And you two have been bickering ever since?”

“I didn’t
see him again until he came back to town a few months ago. Since we’re both at
the hospital every day, I tried to be friendly, but he’s barely civil to me.
So, I figure, if he can’t handle it, that’s cool. But if he’s going to act like
a jerk, I can play that game, too.”

Her
expression softened with a look of longing. “Better than he can. The way he
wears his heart on his sleeve makes it easy for people to hurt him.” She
watched him carefully then scanned the room. Her eyes brightened and lips
turned up. “Hey, would you look over there? What’s a babe like that doing in
this neck of the woods? It’s Dylan Bradford, isn’t it? Now, he’s flat out
gorgeous.”

“Is he?”
Gracie’s pulse raced at the mention of his name. And the memory of his body
pressing against hers… His mouth a half-inch from hers... His tongue on her
breast. She could only face him if she could stop thinking about it. Oh, Lord,
she needed to stick her head in a bucket of ice to cool down. She touched the
side of her glass to her cheek. “I think he looks like Clay.”

“Oh, sure,”
Tanya scoffed. “That’s just how Clay would look if he had a bazillion dollars,
buckets of style, and enough self-confidence to fuel an oil tanker.”

Gracie told
herself very firmly not to turn and stare. She turned and stared anyway. Tanya
was right. Despite the swelling at his temple, the man had the looks to turn
some heads in New York or Paris. But in a place like East Langden, he drew
every eye. Men and women alike gave him the once over. Women with appreciation.
Men with envy.

He
hesitated by the door then headed toward the only empty seat at the bar. He
leaned his elbow on the counter and motioned to Guidry, before noticing Clay on
the stool beside him. The two men exchanged double takes of disgust.

Dylan’s
whole damned day had sucked. Big time.

Except for that
one bright spot with Gracie in the garden, the rest had been a huge, gaping
black hole in the vast space-time continuum of eternity. He had tried to work
himself into exhaustion at the cabin. By the time the sun set, his back ached
and his muscles screamed from exertion, but his brain still clicked along on
tracks of pointless speculation.

He’d
returned to Liberty House and showered, but the walls closed in on him and sent
him back out in search of distraction. He realized he’d have to have a serious
talk with Clayton before long, but not tonight. Tonight, he wanted a cold beer,
a hot woman, and a serious round of mind-numbing down-and-dirty sex. He’d
settle for the beer and another round of sparring with Gracie.

Driving
through East Langden, he’d spotted the Liberty House truck outside of
McStone’s. Gracie was as close to a friend as he had in this town. And if there
was one thing that could get his mind off his problems, it was picturing this
particular friend naked.

Not that it
would ever happen, of course, but fantasizing about it couldn’t hurt. Even the
sight of her fully clothed might help him out.

In the dark
and crowded interior of McStone’s, he zeroed in on Gracie like a heat-seeking
missile finding its target. But she was seated with someone. Dylan headed for
the one empty place at the bar. He’d park there while waiting to get her alone.

Motioning
for the bartender, Dylan felt an elbow make sharp contact with his ribs. He
turned to find Clayton thrusting out a belligerent jaw on the stool beside him.
Of all the rotten luck. Dylan had come here to escape the doubts the day had
raised, not to deal with them. Well, fine, he’d ignore the son of a bitch.

“You have
any micro-brews?” he asked the behemoth waiting to take his order.

With biceps
bulging like canned hams, the morose bartender wiped the space in front of
Dylan with a cloth and recited a respectable list.

“I’ll have
a Smuttynose Old Brown Dog.”

The
colossus filled the order. “Ten bucks.”

“Run a
tab.” Dylan hefted the brown ale and took a deep swallow. The drink hit his
empty stomach harder than a belly flop. “Can I see a menu?”

“If you
make up your mind quick. The kitchen closes in ten minutes.” The big guy handed
him a sticky plastic-coated card, then waited to take the order.

Clayton
chose that moment to heft his drink and jab Dylan in the ribs.

“Watch it,”
he warned.

Clayton
elbowed him again. For a second, Dylan considered pushing back—he was in just
that kind of mood—but decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort. They were going
to have to talk soon and kicking his ass tonight wouldn’t be conducive to
sharing confidences.

Dylan
sipped his beer, hooked his elbows on the bar, and cast an eye over the smoky
room again. McStone’s bore little resemblance to clubs he frequented in New
York. Nobody here was trying to out-hip anyone else. No live rock, jazz, or
alternative music. The twang of country music whined from a jukebox in the
corner.

A table
full of young women shot appreciative looks his way. Couples at other tables
played cards and pretended to ignore him. Men at the bar with the weathered
faces and clothes of fishermen and construction workers had their eyes glued to
a baseball game on the overhead television. Since it wasn’t a Yankees game,
Dylan wasn’t interested. In the back, four guys played eight-ball. A pool cue
whacked balls around as a biker ogled a redhead... Hey, that was the redhead
who’d been sitting with Gracie.

He honed
back in on Gracie. She sent him a friendly smile and motioned him forward.
About damn time. As he left the bar, he let his toe accidentally connect with
Clayton’s shin. The man muttered a curse.

Dylan slid
into the chair next to Gracie. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man
in a rumpled suit and floral tie approaching. Irritation flared inside him like
heartburn. A reporter. He could spot the breed a mile away.

“Dylan
Bradford?” The man answered his own question with a nod, not giving Dylan a
chance to confirm or deny it. “Bill Brinker, editor of the
East Langden Ledger
.”

He ignored
the outstretched hand.

The
reporter shifted his hand to his pocket and changed tactics. “Hiya, Gracie.
Mind if I have a seat?”

“Not at
all.” She smiled and pushed a chair out for him.

“I mind.”
Dylan held the chair in place.

Brinker
pulled out a seat on the other side of the table and dropped into it. “I’m
writing an article for the
Ledger
about your visit. I hope you’ll give me a couple of quotes.”

Dylan
wanted to have a beer, eat his dinner, and flirt with Gracie. Was that too much
to ask? “I don’t give interviews,”

“I’m going
to do a story about you whether you cooperate or not. You can’t stop me.”

“You’re
right about that.” Maybe he’d have more success with calm reason than outright
refusal. “The Bradfords have always been big supporters of freedom of the
press. But why does your freedom take precedence over my rights as a private
citizen? I’m not doing anything remotely newsworthy.”

“No?” He
grinned slyly. “Senator’s Son Meets Illegitimate Brother. How’s that for a
headline? It’s big enough for the AP to pick up, and if I’m lucky, I can sell
it for some big bucks.”

Dylan’s
hand clenched into a fist. Red lights burst in a haze around him. Before he
gave himself the satisfaction of taking a swing, a calming hand reached out and
closed over his.

“In East
Langden,” Gracie said, “we’ve always been more respectful of personal privacy,
Bill.”

Brinker
rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “True, but that doesn’t always
pay the bills, and I’ve never had something like this fall into my lap before.”

“It would
be a big break,” she conceded. “But how about this? Dylan will give you an
interview sometime in the next week, if you agree not to run the article until
he leaves town.”

The
reporter crossed his arms on the table and considered. “What good will that do
me?”

“You’ll
have an exclusive interview,” she pointed out, “but it won’t draw attention to
Dylan until after he’s gone.”

“What if
the story breaks before then?” the reporter asked Gracie, apparently not
questioning her right to negotiate for Dylan.

Even she
didn’t seem to realize she was a paper tiger. She continued with all the
confidence of a Secretary of State during peace talks. “He’ll still talk to you
first, as long as you aren’t the one who reveals his whereabouts.”

“Why would
I do that?” Dylan asked, oddly more amused than angry at having her speak on
his behalf.

“Yeah, what
makes you so sure he’ll honor the agreement?” Brinker seconded.

Gracie
smiled. “I think I can arrange for some interesting candid photos. You can use
them in whatever way you like. If he doesn’t cooperate.”

“All
right.” The man’s weathered face creased into an accordion of wrinkles as he
grinned. “What do you say, Dylan?”

A waitress
threaded toward him with his order on a tray, and he didn’t want a reporter
hanging over him while he ate. Plus, Gracie looked so pleased with herself that
he didn’t want to rain on her parade. He’d find his way out of the arrangement
later if he wanted to. He shrugged. “Why not?”

Brinker
laid his business card on the table. “Call me by the end of the week or the
deal’s off.”

“Sure.”
Dylan turned his attention to the food in front of him.

The
waitress placed his bill on top of the card.

Dylan read
the nametag on her pink shirt. “Put it on my tab, Nell.”

“Sorry,
sugar. I get off when the kitchen closes. I need to be paid for food now.”

“Do you
take American Express?” He reached into his back pocket, but came up empty
handed
. Well, shit
. “I must have
forgotten my wallet.”

The
waitress’s patience disappeared with her smile. “Then who’s going to pay for
this?”

Dylan
resented being treated like a deadbeat. Everybody in this piss-ant town knew
who he was. Why weren’t they cutting him any slack? “I’ll bring the money by
tomorrow.”

“Sorry,
buddy, but we’ve got a deal with the bank. They don’t serve burgers, and we
don’t make loans. I need the money
now
.”
With each sentence, her volume rose several decibels. If she didn’t stop soon,
she’d be screeching louder than the town fire alarm.

Dylan
looked around. Everyone in the bar watched the exchange. Brinker scribbled
notes on a pad. Clayton grinned at Dylan’s discomfort. Others seemed to revel
in it or be embarrassed by it. Only Gracie looked sympathetic. Just as he
decided to unstrap his Rolex and offer to leave it hostage for the twenty-dollar
tab, Gracie picked up the bill. Humiliation and relief battled inside him.

“I’ll get
it, Nell,” she said.

The
waitress relaxed as Gracie counted out the money. “I don’t want you to get
stiffed for it, but I have to pay Guidry out of my tips if I come up short, and
the first installment on Julie’s braces is due this week.”

“Don’t
worry about me, Nell, I’ll add it to his bill at Gran’s.” Gracie smiled and
added an extra fifty dollars. “As long as I’m spending Bradford money, I might
as well be generous with it.”

“Thanks!”
the waitress said as she turned away.

“Yeah,
thanks,” Dylan said grudgingly. “I’ll pay you back.”

Their eyes
met and held. For a second, he wanted to abandon his dinner, take her by the
hand, and go someplace to feast on her. He couldn’t ask her to dance because
they were playing country music. He couldn’t lean over and brush his lips over
hers or the kiss would be reported on the front page of the local paper.
Without cash or credit cards, he couldn’t even offer to buy her a beer. This
night just kept on sucking.

“And I was
hoping Mr. Bradford Bigbucks would buy
me
a drink.” The redhead slipped into the chair she’d vacated earlier. “But
everybody knows doctors have plenty of money. I guess I’ll have to ask Gracie
to buy me one instead.”

“Please,
don’t. I owe a fortune in student loans, and I’ll have to pay Dylan’s bar tab,
too.”

“He sure
knows how to attract attention, doesn’t he?” The woman leaned across and
stretched out her hand. He thought she intended to offer to shake, but she
snitched a French fry instead. “I’m Tanya Turnbaugh.”

Now, here
was a beauty worthy of a real smile. “Help yourself to my fries.”

“Technically,
they’re Gracie’s, and she would want you to share.” The redhead had a pretty
terrific smile, too. And a body that wouldn’t quit.

As outgoing
as Gracie usually seemed, she appeared almost subdued compared to Tanya’s
vivaciousness. The woman reminded him of microwave popcorn, neatly contained,
but only seconds away from bouncing all over the place.

With a
little prompting from Gracie, Tanya told Dylan about her plans to open a
florist shop. “I’m managing the hospital gift shop while I get the financing
together.” She crossed her fingers for luck. “I would ask if you’d lend me the money,
but we all know you’re a little strapped for cash just now.”

Dylan liked
her. Plus, she was a friend of Gracie’s. Maybe he could do something for her.
“There are ways I can help you without making a loan. What bank are you using?”

She sneaked
the last of the fries and sucked ketchup from the end of it. “The only one in
town.”

“There are
some low-interest small-business loans available for women,” he told her. “Are
you familiar with those?”

The last
bit of potato disappeared into Tanya’s mouth and she licked salt off her index
finger while batting her eyelashes. “Yeah, but there’s so much red-tape. Every
time I fill out one form, it comes back with a request for five others. It’s a
real pain in the caboose to get the information together. Luckily, Guidry gave
me a business plan.”

“Guidry
who?

“The
bartender. He’s Gracie’s cousin.”

Dylan
compared the bearded mountain man in the flannel shirt with the delectable
Gracie. No visible family resemblance that he could see. “I’m sure being
Gracie’s cousin is a wonderful recommendation, but how does being a bartender
make him a sound financial adviser?”

“It
doesn’t.” Gracie gave him one of the stiff-faced smiles he thought they’d put
behind them. “It’s the MBA from Penn that qualifies him.”

“The
bartender has an MBA from Penn?” Dylan tried to control his incredulous
expression. “What’s he doing here?”

“I think
it’s called burnout,” Tanya said. “After he made his first ten million and his
wife left him for her masseuse, big-time business just wasn’t fun for him anymore.”

“This bar
belonged to my uncle,” Gracie explained. “Guidry came home to sell it after his
dad died last year. Somehow, he started running the bar instead, fixing the
place up, helping local people out with money and loans, and working on the
revitalization of the town. Being an all-around good guy.”