Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (8 page)

“
You’re
right for me.”

“No, I’m
not.” She got to her feet, evading him as he tried to pull her to him again.
“I’m bossy and stubborn and don’t know enough to snatch up an exceptional guy
like you when I see one.”

Clay took
her hand, anchoring her in place. “Now that your engagement to Baxter is over,
won’t you give me another chance?”

His
pleading tugged at her heart. They’d always been a team. The last thing she
wanted was to hurt him. But wouldn’t giving him false hope be worse? “We can
spend time together, as friends, as almost-relatives, as we always have, but
that’s all.”

“If you say
so.” His noncommittal response and look of adoration created doubts that he’d
taken this rejection any more seriously than the previous ones. “Want to go to
a movie tomorrow night? I should be finished at the hospital about seven.”

“Okay, but
it’s not a date. I’ll meet you at the movie house.” She raised a hand to
silence him when he started to object. “See you tomorrow. Come on, ‘Duff.” She
left Clay at the gazebo and led the dog back to the carriage house.

Normally,
when she stepped inside her apartment, its walls wrapped around her like a
haven and refuge. But when she was really upset, nothing made her feel better
than retreating to her mother’s pottery studio on the lower level.

The scene
with Clay, on top of everything else, left her less contented than she cared to
admit. After his car pulled away, she put on old jeans and a work shirt and
went back down to the studio.

She kept
some clay on hand to throw when she needed to sort out her problems. Wetting,
kneading, and working it on the wheel calmed her down better than a Xanax.

As she
filled a bucket with water, she compared her mediocre talent against her
mother’s creative brilliance. Mimicking her abilities had been enough for
Gracie once. But now, on her own for so long, she sometimes felt that if she
could only duplicate her mother’s artistic skills, then maybe she would be as
successful in other areas, too.

The
repetition of wedging the clay into a malleable consistency began to work its
magic. Press, fold, turn. Press, fold, turn. If only everything could be
handled as easily. Time... work... men...

Obviously,
she didn’t have her mother’s knack with any of those subjects. Especially men.
Marlene O’Donnell Collier had handled the two loves of her life as effortlessly
as she threw a bowl on the wheel. Or she had handled David that well, anyway.
Gracie wasn’t as sure about her father.

He’d died
before she had a chance to know him, to remember seeing them together, or to
analyze the closeness they’d shared. But share it they did, or so everyone
said.

They’d
married right after her mom graduated from high school. They spent one year
together before her father joined the Navy. He’d been killed in a plane crash
right after basic training, on his way to his first assignment.

He’d spent
a total of thirty days of his life with Gracie. Days her grandparents had done
their best to capture on camera.

Sometimes,
late at night, she looked at those fading images. But she took small pleasure
in the fact that the handsome daredevil with the brilliant eyes who tossed her
in the air was her father. Instead, watching the movies made her sad and angry
to know the potential, the liveliness, the joy that existed in Bobby O’Donnell
had been extinguished before she could experience it firsthand.

Gracie
slapped the ball of clay onto the turntable. With a sharp gesture of
impatience, she wiped away a tear with a muddy finger.

Kicking the
wheel furiously, her thoughts turned to David. He’d courted her mother for
eleven years. Slow and sure, that was David. Apparently, the gentle doctor was
as different from Bobby O’Donnell as sunlight to shadow, but he became a steady
fixture in Gracie’s life. One that never failed her. He’d brought both Clay and
medicine into her life.

With the
wheel spinning around, her thoughts whirled from the past into the present. She
worried that Clay would never realize his true potential if he couldn’t
establish his biological identity. It meant that much to him. Therefore, it
meant that much to her. She would do whatever she could to promote that
outcome. Even if it meant keeping a close eye on Dylan.

An image of
his solid flesh, bone, and muscle formed in her mind. She grew warm with the
realization that keeping her eye on him didn’t revolt her as much today as it
had yesterday.

He hadn’t
gone out of his way to endear himself to her or the community, but then he had
his own agenda. She appreciated that. If family loyalty prevented him from
believing his father had sired an illegitimate son, she hoped he’d man enough
to admit the truth when science confirmed it.

Some men
had trouble admitting the truth. Baxter hadn’t wanted to even when she’d caught
him with his pants down. And once he had admitted his indiscretions, he’d tried
to deflect the blame for his infidelity onto Gracie.

She
flinched away from his final hurtful comments on her sexual inadequacies. The
inclination to accuse Baxter of worse disabilities loomed pointless and
childish. She preferred to concentrate on ailments she could cure instead of on
the hopeless.

After
dampening the drying clay with her sponge, she reduced the form to a round
blob. She slowly pushed her fingers inward, the way she would press against the
abdomen of a child with a tummy ache.

The
indention deepened and transformed the clay into a lopsided bowl. Pulling
outward, she reduced the object into a plate, then brought her fingers up,
creating a ridged vase and fluting the rim outward until the sides collapsed.

She slowed
the wheel to return the shape to a lump then cupped her hands around it,
kicking up speed while the clay climbed into a thick cylinder with a bulbous
top.

It reminded
her of the day she and her best friend Tanya had created outrageously large
penises. They had tried to pass off their handiwork as an anatomy project, but
Mother had dubbed the day their Phallic Period. She said no female artist worth
her salt could resist the temptation to create the perfect male organ.

The same
temptation gripped Gracie again. She extended the height and refined the shape.
Leaning back, she assessed the result from arm’s length. Not bad. Bigger,
better than any real one she’d ever seen. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

Absorbed in
the moment, she only noticed the exterior door standing open when a draft began
drying out the clay. She turned rather guiltily to face her grandmother. But
Dylan stood with one foot crossed over the other, a broad shoulder propped
against the doorframe.

A smirk on
his otherwise gorgeous mouth made Gracie’s cheeks flame, much more embarrassed
than she’d been when her mother had caught her red-handed at the same activity.
In one motion, she flattened her design.

“Ouch,” he
said with a wince. “I hope that wasn’t symbolic of some deep-seated need to
emasculate.”

Gracie
dreamed big, Dylan would give her that. He admired women with great
expectations. But if she’d actually known a man of such epic proportions, he’d
have to admit to the classic case of penis envy.

“If only it
were that easy.” A flare of defiance replaced her embarrassment. “Ever notice
how many men think having a dick gives them a license to act like one?”

He shoved
his hands into his pockets instead of forming a protective shield over his
jean-clad crotch. “A Bradford,” Grandfather always said, “never allowed himself
to show fear.”

“You have
anyone specific in mind?” Dylan asked.

She ticked
off a list on her muddy fingers. “Sexual predators who prey on innocence,
doctors who think that earning a medical degree turns them into gods, and my
former fiancé.” The forced smile became a grimace. “Oops, the last one was
redundant.”

Former
fiancé?
Interesting
. Dylan tucked
that information away for future reference. “I’ll try to remember not to get on
your bad side.”

“Smart
man.” Gracie reformed the squashed clay into a ball. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t
sleep.”

After he’d
brought Mrs. Lattimer home, he’d been drawn into the night as thoughts about
his father and Clayton tumbled through his head. He’d headed toward the shore,
but beyond the well-lit perimeter of the inn, the dark, unfamiliar coastline
appeared sinister and threatening. The glistening tail of a skinny sliver of
moon turned the water into a cold, remote, and endless force.

He’d moved toward
the light in the carriage house like a masochist gravitating toward pain. Half
expecting to find Gracie entertaining Clayton, Dylan had been relieved to look
through the window and discover her alone.

Now, as she
scraped the blob off the wheel, disappointment tugged at him. “Don’t stop on my
account. I was enjoying the show.”

She peeked
at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m done for tonight.”

“You’re
very good with your hands.” Her calm, efficient movements as she stroked,
massaged, and manipulated the clay were more erotic than the suggestive subject
matter.

While she’d
been absorbed in the creative process, he had studied her face. Expressions
ranging from melancholy to delight chased across her features as her hands
morphed the clay from one utilitarian shape into another. Not until she began
forming the fantasy-sized cock did the work really grab her attention. Total
concentration had required her to hold the tip of her tongue to the corner of
her mouth.

“My
technique’s not bad, but the finished product doesn’t have any real...
passion.” She held out her hands as if trying to grasp an invisible object just
outside her reach.

“That last
piece looked passionate as hell.”

Instead of
laughing as he’d hoped she would, her lips compressed into a disapproving line
while she moved around the work area, cleaning and storing her equipment.

Most other
women would’ve shot back a flirtatious response, but he’d already noticed that
Gracie wasn’t like other women. She held her own in any conversation, but there
wasn’t a drop of coyness about her. She wouldn’t put up with any foolishness.
Was that her natural response or a defense erected after the breakup with the
boyfriend?

He peeked
into the cold, empty kiln. “This is a pretty elaborate set-up for someone
without talent.”

“My mother
was the artist, not me.”

“Are those
her pieces displayed in the house?” Fabulous examples of freeform and
traditional pottery decorated every room of the B&B.

“For the
most part.” Pride radiated from her eyes as Gracie rinsed out her bucket and
sponge.

“They’re
excellent.”

“See?
That’s what I mean about passion. She breathed emotion into the clay as she
shaped it.”

“How long
since she died?”

“Nine
years.”

Obviously,
the recent death of his own mother made him sensitive to Gracie’s pain. Nothing
else he could think of explained his urge to take her into his arms and comfort
her. The stiffness of her spine informed him that she’d reject any but the most
impersonal expression of sympathy. He crossed his arms and refrained. “That
must have been tough for you.”

“Tougher
for her. She was only forty-two and still had a lot of living she wanted to
do.” Gracie soaped up her hands and arms like a surgeon, rinsing and re-rinsing
until the muddy residue washed away. Reaching for a towel, she turned toward
him. Her denim shirt held very few clean or dry spots. Streaks of dry clay
decorated her cheek.

He took the
towel from her, dampened one corner, and then tilted her chin up. “You missed a
spot.”

“I usually
do.” She stood still while he ministered to her as if she were a
chocolate-smeared child.

Her gaze
met his across the scant inches that separated them. Another impulse to hug her
came upon him so strongly that he had to lean back to keep from pulling her
against him. He’d never seen eyes so clear and easy to read, so completely
lacking in artifice. They were deep and warm, honest and... vulnerable?

The tension
pulled taut between them until Gracie blinked and broke the moment. Before she
could turn away, he replaced the towel on her cheek with his thumb, pretending
to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot. She had the softest skin he’d ever
touched.

“This stuff
dries like glue.” If he continued to scrape, he’d erase a freckle. But he
hadn’t reached his fill of touching her. His hand traced down to the curve
between her shoulder and neck. Her pulse beat visibly in the hollow of her
throat, and a silver chain disappeared inside her shirt. He imagined the end
nestling somewhere between her breasts. The urge to follow it to its hiding
place became overwhelming.

As his
finger began to trail the links, she swallowed, gave him a reproving look, and
stepped away. A strong sense of loss echoed through him when she removed
herself from his touch.

“Ti-time to
close up shop.” Her aloof statement almost caused him to doubt the heat that
had arced between them. Almost… if her voice hadn’t broken on that first word.
She switched off the light. “You ready?”

“Getting
there.” The night air felt blessedly cool as he stepped outside.

“‘Night,
then.” She dismissed him without a backward glance. Too quickly and completely
to suit him.

He stood at
the bottom of the stairs with his hands hooked in his pockets. He wrestled with
a selfish desire to follow her inside, take her clothes off, and find out if
she was as unmoved by him as she pretended.
Bad
idea
.

Sex with
Gracie might be great, but she was definitely not his type. And everything
about her screamed lingering complications.

Once he got
back to the city where he belonged, he could have all the sex he wanted with
women who knew the score. Gracie might not qualify as a virgin, but she was an
innocent in his world where sexual games were the norm. And screwing with
innocence had never appealed to him. He always remembered Grandfather
Bradford’s advice about not playing hardball with amateurs.

“Maybe we
should talk,” he heard himself suggest.

She froze
midway up the stairs. “About what?”

What did
they have to talk about that would keep her from disappearing upstairs without
him? “Clayton and the fact that the whole town believes he’s my brother.”

She tilted
her head to the side. He could almost hear the wheels turning. Finally, she
sighed and motioned him upward.

Dylan
stopped dead still inside the door. He had never seen an apartment quite like
hers. Squeaky clean, but a jumble of possessions and collections and glaring
contrasts. A lava lamp sat on top of a DVD player. A rotary phone rested beside
a laptop. Carved wooden toys and X-boxes were stored side by side. More
pottery. Bright color and cozy comfort everywhere.

“Back in a
sec.” She opened a door off the living area. “Have a seat while I take off this
shirt.”

Diverting
his thoughts into areas that didn’t focus on Gracie topless in the next room
presented a challenge.

Locating
the sofa was another one, but he found it buried under a pile of pillows,
throws, and sleeping animals. Well, just MacDuff. He’d lifted his head when
they came in, but then yawned and resumed his nap.

Dylan
gravitated to the shelves to examine the wooden toys. Rotating propellers
adorned hand-carved airplanes and helicopters. Dogs and cats rolled their eyes
and wagged their tails. A train engine’s chimney bobbed up and down when
nudged.

As he
rolled a duck with flapping feet, Gracie returned, wearing cut-off shorts and a
faded T-shirt that declared, “Trust me. I’m a Doctor.”

“Really?”
He pointed to the T-shirt, assuming it had been her former fiancé’s. “You’re a
doctor?”

“I am. Do
you want to consult with me about a physical problem you’re having?”

“God, no.”
He winced. That probably came out wrong, but he didn’t want her looking at him
naked except for purely recreational purposes.

“Good,
because you’ve outgrown my specialty.”

He raised
an eyebrow. “Which is what?”

“Pediatrics.”

“I’ll bet
your patients are crazy about you.”

Her eyes
lit up. “I’m crazy about them.”

“Where do
you practice?”

“A clinic
in Hartford. I’m taking a couple of weeks off to help out here. I already miss
it, but it’s been forever since I’ve had a break. I’ll keep in touch and
consult as needed.”

“Impressive.”
Sexist of him, sure, but he didn’t know many women doctors. He didn’t know many
children either. But he did know one. He pointed to the toys. “My nephew would
love those.”

“If you’re
serious, you can buy them in a gift shop in town.”

“Really?
They look like antiques.”

“They’re
not
that
old.” She set a propeller
spinning with a flick of a finger. “Granddad made them for me when I was a child.
They were such a hit that he started giving them as gifts to friends and
family. Now he sells them to tourists.” She flipped on her sound system and
headed toward the refrigerator. “Would you like something to drink? Juice…
beer… water…soda?”

“Beer would
be great,” he said, and then “Thanks,” as she handed him one of two long-necked
bottles.

She twisted
the cap off hers and took a swig, but he held the beer without drinking. “I
guess you want a glass.”

“No, this
is fine.” He checked the label. A domestic brew.

She sat in
a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m sorry about what happened at Lulu’s. Jake
can be overbearing, but he means well.”

“
Overbearing
doesn’t begin to cover Jake.
How does he stay in business?”

“The food’s
good, and it’s a town ritual. Not many restaurants stay open in the off-season,
so the locals rotate between the available spots. On Tuesday, we go to the
Lulu’s. On Wednesday, we go to the diner. On Thursday, McStone’s.”

“What if
someone doesn’t want lobster on Tuesday?”

She smiled.
“It’s an accepted practice, not an ordinance. The other places just know
they’ll only get their regulars on certain nights.”

“You mean
there are some people who
weren’t
at
Lulu’s tonight?”

She tapped her
fingers on the table. “Ginger at the diner has a big family, and they always
eat at her place. The pub has a group of diehards who’d rather drink their
dinner than eat, and some people stay home. But pretty much everyone else was
there.”

“Great.”
The outrage he’d experienced when Jake had dished up private Bradford business
along with the lobster returned. He simmered over a couple more slugs of beer.
“My mother’s detective reported that everyone believes Clayton’s my father’s
child, but I didn’t know it was spoken of so freely. And to think I didn’t want
to tip off anyone about what I’m doing here.”

He brooded
over the irony. And he thought reporters were nosy. At least prying into
someone else’s business was their job. For the folks of East Langden, it was an
amateur avocation. “I might as well have called a town meeting.”

“It isn’t
done maliciously.” Gracie jumped in to defend her friends. “Everyone cares
about everyone else. Most of what Clay knows about his past is based on what he
was told by the people who lived here at the time.”

Dylan
believed they’d be a fount of information to one of their own, but how reliable
would their recollections be? “Why is it such an accepted fact that my father
is Clayton’s father?”

“You mean
besides the resemblance?”

He blinked.
“What resemblance?”

Gracie
stopped just short of rolling her eyes. “He looks exactly like you.”

“No, he
doesn’t. What other proof do you have?”