Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (7 page)

He looked
around curiously. Either the sun had chosen that moment to drop below the
horizon or Gracie’s departure caused the light in the room to dim.

A couple of
hours later, Dylan drove the Navigator down East Langden’s main commercial
strip looking for dinner. All five blocks of it. He drummed his fingers against
the steering wheel, keeping time to a tune on the rental car’s radio.

The street
exuded an odd combination of prosperity and decay with signs of renovation
interspersed among empty storefronts. A trendy coffee shop sat opposite an
old-style bakery. A dusty hardware store rubbed up against a Fresh Market.
Boutiques and antique shops interrupted a block of unoccupied buildings like
the intermittent teeth in a jack-o-lantern’s smile.

Vague
memories had haunted him when he drove through town earlier that day. A nagging
recollection of holding his father’s hand while visiting local stores. His
mouth watered, remembering a double-chocolate brownie he’d devoured while natives
tousled his hair and shook hands with his dad in the yeasty-smelling bakeshop.

He added a
stop at the bakery to his list of places to visit. Maybe that would jog loose
other memories of his father. He had so few. If a closed sign hadn’t hung on
the door, he would have circled right back to it.

Stomach
growling, he turned his attention toward locating his next meal. A faded diner
with plastic booths didn’t appeal to him. McStone’s Pub across from the town
hall seemed the most promising until he reached the waterfront. A weathered
sign that read Lulu’s Lobster Pot drew his eye. A steady stream of customers
paraded through the building’s front door, encouraging him to give it a try.

Inside,
rows of trestle tables marched down each side of the dining room. Framed and
autographed photos decorated one long wall. A line of locals snaked beside it,
waiting to give their orders to a woman behind the counter wearing a hairnet
and Betty Boop make-up. Dylan scanned the menu painted on the wall above her
head.

The choice
was limited to small, medium, large, or jumbo lobster, herb bread, and the
day’s side dish scrawled in chalk beneath the permanent menu. Not exactly fine
dining. It looked clean and smelled delicious, but waiting in line didn’t
appeal to him. He began backing out the door when an elderly foursome crept in,
blocking his path. While he waited for them to clear the path, a raised hand to
his right drew his attention.

Gracie.

She waved
at him and pointed him out to Mrs. Lattimer and an older man. And Clayton.

Damn. The
very person he’d hoped to avoid. He could leave with a clear conscience if he
pretended not to see them. Dylan edged toward the door, but a barrel of a man
emerged from behind the service counter and rolled forward.

“Dylan
Bradford!” A meaty paw landed on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. “I’m
Jake Armstrong, the owner and proprietor of the Lobster Pot, as long as Lulu—”
he nodded toward the Betty Boop up front “—doesn’t hear me say so. The wife
likes to think she’s in-charge just because her name’s on the sign.
Har-har-har.” The booming laugh and elbow in the ribs underscored the jest. The
brawny fellow drew a kerchief from his back pocket and blotted his red face.

“I knew
your father. A fine man. Come with me. I’ll fix you up with the best and
biggest lobster that ever found its way out of the sea and into your mouth.”

By this
time, others in the restaurant had turned to point and stare. Dylan decided to
bail out of The Lobster Pot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Armstrong.
Thanks for the offer, but I’m—”

“He’s
meeting friends, and he’s late.” Gracie stepped up and linked her arm through
his. “He’ll have the Number Three, Jake. We’re already seated, so if you’ll
bring his order over when it’s ready, we’d be grateful.”

“Wonderful,
wonderful!” Jake hustled away. “The Number Three! With extra bread! Coming
right up.”

“Thanks...
I think,” Dylan said out of the side of his mouth as Gracie led him forward.
Despite her motives, it would be rude to decamp now. “Where are the taciturn
natives I’ve heard so much about?”

“Oh, they
exist,” she said, “but Jake’s only lived here thirty years, so he doesn’t
count. Sit there by Gran.”

At least
she hadn’t placed him next to Clayton, although sitting across from him might
be worse. Now the Bradford wannabe could glare at him throughout the meal.
After Gracie settled on the bench beside the man, she introduced Dylan to the
fourth member of the group.

“This is my
stepfather David Collier.” Gracie smiled warmly, but the older man’s stony
expression didn’t alter. “David raised Clay after his mother’s disappearance,
you know.”

“How do you
do, Dr. Collier?” Dylan recognized the name from the detective’s report, but he
pounced on the new information that Clayton’s foster father was also Gracie’s
stepfather. So what did that make Gracie and Clayton? Closer in more ways than
Dylan had originally thought. Maybe not so close in others.

The older
doctor nodded as they shook hands. David Collier had the kind of wise,
distinguished face that Dylan always pictured his father having, if he had
lived another couple of decades. But even when his father had died in his
forties, the corners of his eyes held crinkles from smiling, and this man’s
never would. No matter how long he lived.

Like they
were the audience for a dinner theater production, the other diners leaned
forward to listen in on the conversation. So much for Dylan’s plan of nosing
around quietly. “I’d like to speak with you privately in the next few days if
you have the time, sir.”

“All right”
was all Dr. Collier said. At last, one of those taciturn natives.

After
checking out Clayton’s glower and the older doctor’s stoicism, Dylan turned to
the most receptive member of the group. “Thanks for letting me join you, Mrs.
Lattimer.”

Her gray
hair was curled and sprayed, presumably for her hospital visit or dinner out.
She had on the kind of dress Dylan had only seen housewives from the fifties
wear on television.

“Gracie
shouldn’t have left you on your own,” she said. “I was planning to bring
something home for you to eat.”

“I don’t
want to be any trouble.” His gaze shifted toward Gracie, and she rolled her
eyes.

“Left on
your own?” Clayton lowered his voice after Gracie elbowed him in the ribs.
“Tell me he’s not staying with you.”

“I can’t.”
She rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. “He
is
staying with us.”

“That’s
just great.” Clayton’s lobster pliers hit his plate with a clank. “Why didn’t
you tell me?”

“There
hasn’t been time. You just got here.”

“Perhaps we
should wait and discuss it later, dear.” Mrs. Lattimer looked around at the
curious onlookers and nodded pleasant greetings.

A taut
silence commanded the table as Jake appeared with Dylan’s food. “I’ll wager
you’ll not have a better lobster dinner anywhere on the coast. I’m proud you
chose Lulu’s for your first meal in town—not counting the donuts and coffee you
bought this morning, of course. Melvin at the Stop’n’Shop bragged all over town
about you being in there even before your taillights disappeared around the
corner from his place. Har-har-har.” Jake slapped Dylan’s shoulder and
transferred his attention to Clayton. “And this is a fine day for you, too,
isn’t it? Seeing you two boys together like this reminds me of when Matthew and
Arthur came in here all those years ago. They were about the same age the two
of you are now.”

Dylan’s
stomach churned. The detective and Lawrence had warned him that the locals all
supported Clayton’s claim, but Dylan hadn’t realized how galling it would be to
have the tale shoved in his face. Nothing could have made him more determined
to disprove it, but a vocal denial in Lulu’s Lobster Pot seemed likely to add
to the scandal rather than squash it.

Silence
followed Jake’s pronouncement. While Dylan pressed his lips together to hold
back his thoughts, the tension around them skyrocketed.

“I’m sure
you’ll understand,” Gracie spoke up, “if neither of them cares to comment on
the subject.”

“Yes, yes,
of course.” Jake pressed a sausage-sized finger to his lips. “But if you boys
don’t mind, I’d like to get a picture of the two of you to put on the wall of
fame beside your father’s and uncle’s.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
The townspeople gasped audibly at Jake’s brass. The action stunned even Gracie
into speechlessness.

“Not tonight,
Jake,” Mrs. Lattimer said sternly. “Let them eat in peace, please.”

“I’m
finished here, anyway.” Clayton lurched to his feet. “Are you coming with me,
Gracie, or staying with
him
?” He
jerked his chin at Dylan.

“If David
will make sure Gran gets home...” Gracie looked to the older doctor for
confirmation.

“She can
ride with me.” Dylan smiled benignly, eager to rile his supposed half-brother a
bit further.

“Don’t
worry, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer said. “Someone will make sure I get home safely.”

Gracie removed
her plastic bib and came to her feet. Her napkin slid from her lap to the
floor. When she leaned down to pick it up, her shoulder jostled the table, and
her plate skittered toward a glass of water. The glass wobbled and Gracie,
Dylan, and Clayton all reached for it.

“Whoa
there,” Dylan said.

“I’ll get
it,” Clayton said.

“Aah!”
Gracie squeaked as three hands collided, and water splashed down her front.

Wet T-shirt time all over again
.

“Oh, dear.”
She dabbed at the ribbed cotton with one of the napkins thrust her way. “At
least it was water and not butter. Come on, Clay, let’s go before I get up
close and personal with David’s cherry cobbler.” She stopped and gave her
stepfather a peck on the cheek. “Take care. I’ll call you tomorrow. See you
later, Gran. Dylan, enjoy your lobster.”

“I’ll be
along shortly, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer answered. “‘Night, Clayton.”

Dylan
wasn’t sure if it was because she had elected to go with Clayton, because he
knew how pissed Clayton was about him staying at Liberty House, or because he
plain didn’t like Clayton, but he couldn’t resist adding, “See you at home,
Gracie.”

But when
Clayton responded by looping his arm around her shoulder in an all-too
proprietary—and non-brotherly—way, Dylan regretted opening his big mouth.

“I don’t
want him staying here,” Clay grumbled again as they pulled up outside the
carriage house. His tone conjured up memories of the insecure boy Gracie had
met all those years ago, overshadowing the accomplished doctor he’d become. Few
others saw that abandoned-child side of him anymore.

“I know.”
She was hanging on to her patience with a thread. “But it isn’t up to you.”

She had
been in kindergarten and Clay in first grade when his mother disappeared and
David took him in. He had been in desperate need of a friend, and even then
Gracie liked being needed. If he had grown up wanting their relationship to be
more than that, she had told him repeatedly that it would never happen. Still,
he persisted. Most of the time, the attention was more annoying than
flattering.

“Thanks for
the stirring display of loyalty.” He slapped his palm against the steering
wheel and turned toward her. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“Yours, of
course. Always.” She unhooked her seatbelt and opened the car door. “Why would
you think otherwise?”

“You’re
aiding and abetting someone who’s here to discredit me.” He joined her at the
front of the car.

“I’m not
aiding or bedding anyone,” she said, but Clayton scowled at the attempted
humor.

“Don’t be
shortsighted. Dylan can make it possible for you to get the real family you’ve
always wanted. Remember when you wrote to Mrs. Bradford? This is what you hoped
would happen.”

“I don’t
know why I let you talk me into mailing that letter.” He followed her up the
outside stairs to her apartment.

“Oh, come
on.” She opened the door to an ecstatic MacDuff. He frisked about in a
welcome-home-puppy-dance while she retrieved his leash from the hook by the
door. “I encouraged you to write to her when you asked my opinion. I didn’t
talk you into anything.”

“You
could’ve tried to talk me out of it.”

An
exasperated sigh slipped past Gracie’s lips. For a person of such exceptional
intelligence, sometimes he was really dense. They trooped back down the stairs
to walk MacDuff in the garden. “You’ve wanted your biological father’s identity
confirmed your entire life. You need to know and you deserve to know. You know
how important family history can be to your physical and psychological well-being.”

“Dylan
doesn’t believe I’m his father’s son.” He kicked a clump of grass like a little
kid. “He won’t even listen to my side of things.”

“Give him a
chance. He doesn’t know anything about you except that you threaten the memory
of the father he probably idolizes. At least he’s here. Letting him stay at
Liberty will give you the opportunity to get to know him and present your
case.”

“I thought
I could do that when he showed up, but everything about him—his snotty
attitude, his designer clothes, even his expensive haircut, for God’s sake—all
make my blood boil.”

“But it’s
in your best interest to set that aside. And while he’s staying here, I can
keep an eye on him.”

Clay
dropped down onto the gazebo steps and stretched out his long legs with a bark
of disbelief. “What? You intend to spy on him?”

She pulled
on the leash to bring MacDuff to heel. “I might.”

Clay’s
displeasure undulated toward her like a snake in the water. “You’re too honest
to be a good spy. And you’re not used to men like him. He goes through women
faster than MacDuff goes through kibble.”

Gracie
didn’t see what Dylan’s reputation had to do with anything. She had about as
much in common with the women he dated as cottage cheese had to ice
cream—opposite ends of the same basic food group. “I’d never be attracted to a
man who treats women like a commodity. Besides, he’s not interested in me.”
Perish the thought.

“He wants
you to think he’s not, but when you start to trust him, bam! He’ll make his
move.”

“And his
move will be right back to New York, not in my direction.” She was more than a
little annoyed that Clay thought she’d be gullible enough to fall for a line as
practiced as Dylan’s. Too much like Baxter, by far. She took a seat on the step
beside him while MacDuff sniffed around the daffodil shoots. “You’d be more
receptive to him if you got past this idiotic jealousy. And there’s absolutely
no basis for it. There’s nothing between you and me—or Dylan and me—to warrant
it.”

“Nothing
between us? How can you say that?” He pulled her into his arms and captured her
mouth with his.

And here we go again
. Clayton always wanted
the man-woman stuff to supersede their true friendship. She knew the biology
behind the sexual exercises backwards and forwards, but the ethereal magic
celebrated in songs, books, and movies continued to elude her. Maybe Baxter was
right and there was something fundamentally wrong with her.

After the
initial surprise had worn off, she tried to stop thinking and let herself get
caught up in the moment. But instead of the fabled heat and desire everyone
raved about, nothing but a twinge of distaste remained. Not that Clay’s
technique was at fault, but the idea of kissing him always seemed slightly
incestuous. She could’ve broken the contact easily enough, but she waited it out,
hoping he’d realize as she did that no spark flared between them.

When he
lifted his head, he frowned down at her. “You call that nothing?”

For the
good of their relationship, she’d try to explain it to him one more time. “I
call it friendship and history and the affection of two people raised almost as
brother and sister. I’m sorry you want more than that, but the sooner you
accept that it will never happen, the sooner you’ll find the one person who
really is right for you.”