Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2) (29 page)

“Will she
mind if I go to breakfast first? I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“That
should be fine. Are you going to breakfast with Dylan?”

“And his
uncle.”

“Something
odd happened last night,” he said. “I’m not sure how it’s connected or even if
it is, but...”

“What?”

“Henry
Stillberg’s body was brought in this morning. DOA. His car had been run off the
road.”

“That
is
odd.” A battalion of goose bumps
marched down her arms. “I mean, tragic, of course, but odd, too. I just talked
to him last night.”

“It seems
like some of this stuff that’s happening should fit together, doesn’t it? The
fire at the cabin… my mother… now Henry. I can’t help feeling it all ties into
the Bradfords or Old Maine Furniture.”

“I think
so, too. Thanks for the info. See you later.”

Gracie
turned to find Dylan standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing a towel around
his neck and nothing else. “More bad news? Is it David?”

“No.” She
told him about Henry.

He rested
his hands on the ends of his towel, sending muscles bulging everywhere. “Did
Clay say it was an accident?”

“No.”
Pulling her gaze from his well-defined pecs and abs and growing erection, she
bit her lip.
Focus
. “Do you think it
was?”

“No. I
think Henry was a slimy bastard who tried to pull that blackmail scam on the
wrong person.”

He toweled
off and rummaged through his suitcase for clean clothes. His muscles rippled
and stretched in interesting ways. The va-va-voom impact his nakedness had on
her was amazing. She’d never known a man so beautiful and comfortable in his
own skin.

“Like who?”
She tried to continue the conversation, but his body held her interest like a
four-alarm fire to a pyromaniac. She traced her fingers down his bare rib cage.
“Whoever killed Clay’s mother?”

“Maybe.” He
tossed his jeans aside, turned toward her, and circled her waist with his
hands.

“But that
was a long time ago.” She planted kisses at the corner of his mouth, first one
side and then the other. “Why wait to try something like that until now?”

“Who says
he waited?”

He slipped
his hand inside her robe to palm her breast and toy with an eager nipple. Her
breath hitched as desire slammed through her in a white-hot spiral.

“He might
have been blackmailing someone all along,” Dylan said. “With the discovery of
Lana’s body, he raised the stakes.”

“And now
he’s dead. We may never know.” Gracie surrendered her concentration to his
actions rather than his words.

Lifting her
mouth to his, she abandoned the conversation. Dylan filled her mouth with his
tongue. She rubbed against him, creating an erotic friction that begged for
more. Pressing her hips to his, Gracie tightened her grip on his shoulders and
wrapped a leg around his thigh. Cupping her bottom in his hands, he lifted her
up and stepped toward the bed.

“We can do
this.” Leaning her neck to the side as he kissed her shoulder, she caught sight
of the clock. “If we hurry.”

“Why
hurry?” Dylan lowered her to the mattress. “Uncle Arthur will wait.”

Gracie
stiffened in his arms. “Uncle Arthur! Oh, my God, your Uncle Arthur.” She
pushed him away and pulled the edges of her robe together. “What are you doing?
Let me up. I’m not keeping your Uncle Arthur waiting so we can have a quickie.
No telling what he already thinks of me.”

“Hey, you
started this.” Dylan stared down at his erect soldier and groaned. “This isn’t
just about the sex and you know it.”

“I know I
started it, and I don’t know what it’s about any more. I’m sorry, but we can’t
finish it now. We can’t even finish talking about it now.” She retreated to the
bathroom. Her hands trembled as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “I
need to get dressed, or it’ll be noon before I get to the hospital.

“Gracie...”

“Yes?” She
looked at his reflection beside hers in the mirror. Toothpaste foam rimmed her
mouth, making her resemble a mad dog.

“Eventually
we’ll get back to the subject we were talking about before Uncle Arthur called,
you know.”

She bent at
the waist to rinse and spit, and not, as it may have seemed, because she was
unable to meet his eyes any longer. “Unprotected sex? The baby? That subject?”

“Right. The
sixty-percent possibility of a baby.” His breath tickled her neck as he stepped
closer to her, pressing against her back. Her knees weakened as he reached a
hand around to rub her tummy, as if a baby nestled there already, a
fait accompli
instead of a scientific
odd’s-on favorite.

Even
favorites didn’t always pay off, though, and she was pretty sure this one
wouldn’t. She crossed her fingers.

“If the
possibility becomes a reality, you’ll let me know.”

She
swallowed hard, reluctant to think beyond this moment to a terrifying,
miraculous day when she might give birth to his child. “Why? What would you
want to do about it?”

“Consider
our options,” he said with a crooked version of that heart-stopping grin.

Gracie had
left her car at the church the night before. Planning to retrieve it after
breakfast, she rode into town with Dylan. For once, she had little to say and
that gave him plenty of time to think.

One thing
he knew about himself was that he would never walk away from a child. If Gracie
were pregnant, he would do the right thing. If he knew what that was. And if he
knew her, she’d have firm thoughts on the subject. The idea was still too
obscure to dwell on, but his mind kept circling back to it. Maybe because he’d
been taught that family was the most important thing in life. Grandfather
always said, “Family is worth more than money, fame, or power. The one thing
worth fighting for.”

He had
plenty of family already, and he thought he knew them well. But he didn’t know
them as well as he thought. Obviously, his mother had kept secrets from him.
His father’s and her own. And maybe he didn’t know Arthur very well either.
Dylan intended to make it his business to find out more about his uncle. Today.

Dylan
parked at the curb. They went into an original fifties-style diner that was too
authentic, too worn and seedy to be considered retro. Arthur was already there,
camped in a red vinyl booth with his back to the door.

Dylan and
Gracie slid onto the bench across from him. After the three of them had placed
orders, the waitress delivered coffee all around. Uncle Arthur asked about
David.

“Clay says
he’s much better this morning. But I’m anxious to get there and see for
myself.”

“Of
course.” Arthur sipped his coffee. “And how’s Clayton this morning?”

“Clay?”
Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise. “He’s as relieved as I am and a lot more
tired. Have you met him?”

“No, but
I’ve heard a lot about him.”

“Really?”
Gracie frowned. “How? Why? The paternity issue?”

“You might
get to know him, Uncle, if it turns out he’s a relative of ours.” Dylan watched
him closely. “Natalie and I’ve decided to go ahead with the DNA testing.”

Was Arthur’s hand trembling a bit as he lifted
the cup
?
“I thought you were opposed to the idea.”

“Maybe it’s
just being here in this town where everyone assumes he’s a Bradford, but I
believe it’s a possibility. But you’ve never given me your opinion. Do you
think Clayton Harris is a Bradford?”

Arthur tipped
his head back and forth as if weighing the question. “I don’t think he’s your
father’s son, no.”

Dylan
nodded. “But there are other possibilities, aren’t there? Gracie and I were
discussing who else the father might be the night the fire broke out at the
cabin.”

“I still
can’t believe a fire destroyed the old place. What a terrible waste. Although
the value is all in the property, not the structure. It won’t be a financial
loss.” Arthur stirred sugar into his coffee. “I’ll drive out there this morning.
Do you have time to come with me?”

“Probably.”
Dylan didn’t even blink at his uncle’s change of topic. “Do you want to go
straight from here?”

“Sure. That
would be—“He broke off and lifted his phone from his shirt pocket, checking the
display. “Damn, it’s the office. If you’ll excuse me. I’ll have to check in.”

“Did you
hear his phone?” Dylan asked after Arthur stepped away to make his call in
private.

Gracie
shrugged. “Maybe it’s set to vibrate instead of beep.”

She chatted
with the waitress who delivered their food. Dylan kept a close eye on his
uncle.

“Sorry,
sorry,” he said, returning to the table but not resuming his seat. “I’m going
to have to take a conference call with some committee members. Why this
couldn’t have been set up yesterday when I was still in DC, I don’t know. You
two go ahead and enjoy your meal. I’ll catch up with you later.” He tossed some
bills on the table.

“Want to
meet us at the festival this afternoon?” Dylan asked.

“Perfect.”
Arthur checked his watch like any busy man with a full schedule. “Where should
we meet? The south side of the town square? Three o’clock?” He backpedaled
toward the door, opening it as Dylan called out his agreement.

“Did that
interruption seem a little coincidental to you?” Gracie asked.

“What are
you suggesting? That my uncle would use government business as an excuse to
avoid further questioning?” He watched out the window as his uncle bowled into
someone on the sidewalk. A tallish woman with cotton-candy blond hair. Instead
of hurrying on, Arthur paused.

“You know
him better than I do,” Gracie said. “What do you think?”

“Last week,
I would have said no way. But today, I’m not so sure. Hang on a second.” He
stepped over to the window, getting a glimpse of the woman on the street as she
and his uncle walked away together. She undulated her hips and fluttered her
hands as Arthur strode stiffly along. “Karen Hammonds,” he muttered. “Damn! Why
does she keep turning up? And what is she doing in town?”

Dylan
returned to Gracie and their meal. She remained quiet while he became lost in a
tangled maze of thoughts about his father, his uncle, Lana Harris, Karen
Hammonds, Clayton, David, the fire, and Henry Stillberg. He looked up between
bites to find her watching him, worry lines tucked between her brows.

He twined
his fingers through hers. “I guess I’m not being good company.”

“I’m a good
listener if you want a sounding board.”

She’d done
plenty to earn his confidence. He decided to try out one of his more
far-fetched theories on her. “Okay. I think you’re—”

“Police
chief,” Gracie said under her breath, then smiled at the big man heading toward
them. “How are you? You didn’t get much more sleep last night than you did the
night before, did you?”

“You heard
about Henry?” he asked, hat in hand.

She nodded.
“From Clay. What happened?”

“I don’t
know yet.” He turned to Dylan. “I’d like you to come over to my office to
answer a few questions.”

“Me?” Dylan
pressed fingertips to his chest. “Why?”

Fleming
gestured toward the door. “Just come with me.”

Dylan
prepared to follow, a sense of dread settling uneasily on top of the blueberry
pancakes he’d polished off.

“I’m
coming, too,” Gracie said.

“No need,”
Dylan told her, but being Gracie, she joined them anyway, haranguing the police
chief as they marched the two blocks across town.

Dylan tried
again after she joined him in the cluttered office. “David and Clay need you
more than I do.”

“No, they
don’t. I called Clay again, and everything’s under control. And you may need an
alibi.” She whispered the last as if it were a big secret.

Dylan
smiled at her melodramatic tone. “I’m sure the police chief will know where to
find you if he needs you.”

She poked
him with her elbow. “Yes, because I’ll be right here beside you.”

“Gracie,
you don’t need to be here,” Chief Fleming said as he returned to his office.

Dylan gave
her an I-told-you-so-look, although he liked having her at his side. She knew
the police chief and small town expectations better than he did, her
intelligence was off the charts, and he’d come to appreciate her people skills.

“Does Dylan
need an attorney present?”

“I don’t
know, does he?” Fleming countered from behind a desk strewn with papers, files,
framed photos, coffee cups, and a half-eaten Danish.

A sliver of
alarm sliced through his stomach. “Are you arresting me?” He hadn’t considered
the possibility.

The police
chief waved the question away. “We aren’t anywhere near that point. Yet. You
can have an attorney present if you want, but it’s not necessary.”

Dylan let
out the breath he’d been holding. “What’s this about?”

Fleming
picked up a file and perused the first page. “Someone ran Henry Stillberg’s car
off the road near Liberty Bluff. Mind telling me where you were last night
between eleven and one?”

He paused
to marshal his thoughts.

Next to
him, Gracie drew in a sharp breath. “He was with me,” she stated, flashing
Dylan her own version of I-told-you-so.

Fleming
leaned back and twirled a pen through his fingers. “Were you out of her sight
at any time?”

“Not long
enough to get to the Bluff and back again without her noticing.”

“Where were
you?”

“At the
hospital in Greenley, all the way on the other side of the county from the
Bluff.”

The police
chief leaned forward, concern softening the craggy lines of his face. “I’m
sorry. I heard David was hospitalized again. How is he?”

“Much
better, thanks.”

With the
personal niceties out of the way, the police chief glanced down and adjusted
the file on his desk. When he looked up, he had his game face back on “You
didn’t see Henry Stillberg at any time last night?”

“We didn’t
say that,” Gracie admitted.

“Gracie,
I’m asking Dylan.”

“We talked
to him at the festival, but that was before ten o’clock.”

Craggy
eyebrows hooked upward. “What did you talk to him about?”

Gracie
opened her mouth to jump in, but Dylan nudged her knee with his. “The time he
worked for my father at Old Maine.” Dylan hesitated, but couldn’t see any
reason not to divulge the rest. “I wanted to know if he remembered seeing my
father at the mill the night Lana Harris disappeared.”

“Did he?”

“He said he
might be able to remember something if I paid him for the information.”

“Did you
agree?”

“No.”

Furrows
marched up Fleming’s forehead, and his chair creaked as he leaned back. “You’ve
been running around acting like a fictional detective for the past week,
investigating events that occurred over twenty years ago. Didn’t you think that
might be dangerous?”

“Not until
my cabin burned down.”

“I’m glad
you see the connection.” Fleming shook his head with disgust. “Why didn’t you
leave the investigation to professionals?”

“The
professionals gave up on the case a long time ago,” Gracie reminded him.

The police
chief grunted. “You believe there’s a connection between the late senator and
Lana Harris, and that Henry Stillberg might have known something about it. Am I
right?”

“Possibly.”

“What did
he have on your father to make him think you’d pay him to keep quiet?”

“I don’t
know. I’d never heard of him until a few days ago and never met him before last
night.”

“You’d
never seen this before either?” The police chief pulled a letter encased in
plastic from the file folder and tossed it to Dylan.

Dylan and
Gracie leaned forward to read the crude request for money in exchange for
information that would be
damaging to the
good Bradford name
. Dylan kept his face impassive. “No, I’ve never seen
this before.”

“When did
you last see your uncle?”

Dylan
looked at his watch. “About fifteen minutes ago.”

“He’s in
town? Since when?”

“Last
night,” Gracie said. “We were walking over to David’s when we ran into him, so
he went with us.”

“What time
did he leave you there?”

Dylan
exchanged glances with Gracie. “About eleven, I guess.”

“Where did
he go?”

“He told me
he was staying at Drew Johnston’s in Wallingford.”

“Okay.”
Fleming jotted on a paper in front of him and nodded. “That’s all the questions
I have for you, unless you want to wait around until your uncle gets here.”

While
Gracie and Dylan grew edgier through second and third cups of coffee, the
Senator finally arrived at the police station escorted by a gangly deputy and
accompanied by Drew Johnston. His uncle’s grand senatorial presence dwarfed the
small office.

“Thank you
for coming, Senator,” the police chief said.

“I wasn’t
aware I had a choice.” A jerk of his head toward the deputy explained the
comment. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dylan stood
up to give his uncle his seat, and Arthur patted him on the shoulder. “You all
right, son?” he asked.

“As good as
can be expected. Sorry you got dragged into this.”

“Not your
fault.” Unruffled, he sat down. “I was interrupted during an important
conference call. I’d appreciate it if we can get down to business. For the
record, this is Drew Johnson, my attorney.”

“Fine,”
Fleming said. “For the record, this conversation is being recorded.”

“Then I’d
like to instruct my client not to say anything further.” Drew stood directly
behind Arthur. Johnston was a tax attorney and probably came along for the
ride, but it sounded like good advice to Dylan.