Текст книги "Daring Dylan "
Автор книги: Jacie Floyd
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“Clayton Harris,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”
Chapter Four
Dylan wiped his mouth with a napkin before he stood. The upper hand would be lost if he revealed the hostility boiling inside him. Instinct urged him to regard the asshole with utter indifference, but contempt for his audacity wrestled with more rational intentions. Sheer impulse advised him to take as much satisfaction as he could from beating the holy shit out of the presumptuous jerk, there and then.
Imposing a rigid guard over his expression, he took the proffered hand and shook it with one quick pump before dropping it like a dead fish. Similar in height, they stood eye to eye, each of them measuring, assessing.
Dylan sneered at the hopes and expectations that leaped to life in the other man’s eyes. “Sorry I can’t say the same.”
“Maybe not,” the man said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”
“Why?” Dylan crossed his arms.
“It means you’re taking my claim seriously. Your mother didn’t.”
“Or it means I’m more serious about disproving it.”
“That won’t be easy,” Gracie spoke up. Both Dylan and Clayton glared at her. Clearly, the down-home beauty didn’t know when to mind her own business.
“I’ve been trying to determine my parentage for years,” Clayton said, “and the trail always leads back to Matthew Bradford.”
Dylan jerked his chin. “Maybe that’s wishful thinking.”
“No.” Clayton’s chin-jerk mirrored Dylan’s. “I’ve tried my damnedest to prove that I’m not the son of a crooked, womanizing politician who wouldn’t face up to inconvenient responsibilities. Now, I’m just trying to resign myself to the truth. So if you can prove otherwise, I’m on your side. But nothing short of DNA tests will keep me from getting the information and acknowledgement I deserve.”
Dylan clenched his fists rather than take a swing at the annoying son of a bitch. His mother had taught him better. She wouldn’t want him to start a brawl in this nice Mrs. Lattimer’s kitchen, no matter how much physical satisfaction he might gain from it. He forced his hands to relax, preparing to leave rather than stay and cause Gracie’s grandmother distress. “Well, now, that’s exactly why I’m here. To make sure you get what you deserve.”
And that was one promise he intended to keep.
The next morning, Dylan washed down a handful of aspirins with a swig of tap water. This headache and lack of sleep could be attributed to the asshole claiming to be his father’s other son as much as the lousy motel.
Anyone so unwise and uninformed as to call his father a crooked politician was too stupid to be taken seriously. If only Clayton’s claim could be dismissed as easily.
Stepping out of the shabby hotel room, he closed the metal door sharply, determined to do whatever he had to do at the cabin to avoid a return stay at the Granite Inn.
After arriving at his newest property, he discovered even worse decay than he’d spotted the night before. The decrepit old place needed more than a thorough cleaning to make it livable.
Still, he wouldn’t mind roughing it if he could get some of the necessities in working order. He climbed back into the Navigator and went into town in search of three things. A phone to replace the one he’d dropped into a puddle the night before, workers to help with the cabin, and some kind of food that would pass for breakfast.
Several hours later, he pulled up Liberty House’s circular driveway for the third time in less than eighteen hours. Never in his life had he returned so often to a place where he felt so unwelcome.
But he was ready to beg if he had to. With his stomach growling in protest to the only food he’d had that day—strong coffee and stale donuts from a Stop’n’Shop on the edge of town—Dylan studied the beautiful old house and grounds.
Liberty House exuded the serenity of an English country manor. Sweet-smelling flowers bloomed along the walk and in window boxes. Crocks of bright geraniums decorated the front porch along with sturdy benches and bentwood rockers. The house stood high on a headland with the relentless sound of the nearby ocean crashing against the granite shore.
The well-maintained establishment was obviously someone’s pride and joy. He bet that if he complimented Mrs. Lattimer on the beauty of her home and livelihood, she’d be eating out of his hand in no time. The older woman had definitely been a softer touch than the younger one. With any luck, Granny would answer the door, and Gracie would be out of sight. If not, he’d be looking for another place to spend the night. Again.
Gracie’s refusal to rent him a room baffled him. Women usually gave him anything he wanted before he even asked. After a mini-pep talk, he hauled himself out of the car and onto the porch. When Gracie answered the doorbell, he somehow didn’t feel as unlucky as he’d expected.
The night before, the fiery brilliance of her wholesome beauty would have appealed to him more if she hadn’t been so infuriatingly disagreeable. This afternoon, as the sun streamed across the threshold, she glowed with a healthy vitality he seldom encountered in the city.
Her vibrant hair was pulled into a casual topknot. Curling wisps escaped here and there, softening the dramatic lines of her cheek and jaw while emphasizing flashing brown eyes. Her delicate nose stopped just short of an upward tilt, and a scatter of freckles dotted otherwise flawless skin. A smudge of blue paint replaced last night’s streak of grease. The plump bow-shaped mouth curved downward in counterpoint to the determined lift of her chin.
A green surgical shirt and matching cut-off pants covered her gorgeous flesh. No medical professional of his acquaintance filled out a pair of scrubs so well. He took all of it in with a glance, but his body—jaded to the gaunt figures of fashion models and society debs—responded with swift, unexpected pleasure to Gracie’s lush, womanly curves.
Granted, he’d been too preoccupied to take any of his regular partners to bed in the last few weeks, but that was out of choice, not necessity. With his sudden interest bordering on the obnoxious, he turned away and stared across the sweep of lawn while he reined in his untimely erection. Down, boy.
“Well, if you didn’t want to see me, you shouldn’t have knocked on my door,” Gracie said from behind him.
The husky quality of her voice lured him further into the quicksand of desire, but her words grated like sandpaper. Now he remembered what he disliked about her.
Everything… Except her luscious body.
He dared a brief look at her over his shoulder. “I came to see your grandmother.”
“Too bad.” What secret did she hide behind that impudent grin? And why did it make her mouth so tempting? So kissable? “Gran’s not home. Why do you want to see her?”
Leaning against the porch rail, he faced her and concentrated on Gracie’s flawed personality rather than her perfect form. “I want to talk to her about renting a room.”
“Admit it.” Gracie crossed her arms under generous breasts that lifted and swelled. If she kept on flaunting herself like that, he’d be forced to turn away from her again. “You thought she’d be easier to talk into giving you a room than I would.”
He’d be damned before he’d admit anything of the kind. “I need somewhere to set up my laptop until I can get the water and electricity turned on at the cabin.” Both utility companies had told him it would be a week before he could expect service. But he had no intention of divulging those details to Gracie.
“So you don’t want to sleep here?”
“No, I want that, too.”
“What about the Granite Inn?” Amusement softened the challenge in her voice. “Didn’t it meet the high Bradford standards?”
The Granite Inn barely met the standards of a wild boar. He scratched his chin through the new goatee he’d mistakenly started growing as a disguise. Everywhere he’d been this morning, people had recognized him. Not that his identity had earned him any preferential treatment. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d gotten a cold shoulder more often than not. “Liberty House is more convenient for overseeing renovations at the cabin.”
At the word “renovations,” she tilted her head to the side and more tendrils escaped her topknot. “You really intend to fix up the place?”
“That’s the plan.”
As she opened her mouth to respond, a crash and a woof interrupted them. Gracie turned and made a dash for the stairs. “MacDuff!”
Dylan followed the flash of legs as she disappeared up the steps. After crossing the spacious entry and climbing the wide stairway, he took a left at the split landing, trailing her voice to a door at the end of the hall.
Canvas drop cloths covered most of the room. Sky-blue paw tracks decorated most of the drop cloths. Gracie scooped the dog out of the paint pan, petting and scolding him.
Meanwhile, Dylan checked out her legs.
For years, he’d maintained a mental list of World-Class Legs. The criterion for inclusion was brief with length-of-leg being the primary factor. After his first glance at Gracie’s, he’d have to revise the list and the criteria on her behalf. Length became secondary. Shape became all-important.
Even her slender bare feet, arched provocatively on the rough canvas, conjured toe-sucking fantasies. Well-turned ankles glided upward into luscious calves. Normally, no matter how great the legs, points were deducted for knees. Gracie gained points for hers. Smooth and rounded, dimpled skin rose to a playground of sinewy thigh that awakened dark, erotic thoughts.
And while her skin looked as soft and supple as satin, the muscles underneath flexed with the definition of a practiced equestrienne. The mental image of those thighs gripping the flanks of a spirited mount made his stomach clench with desire all over again. Damn.
“You are such a bad boy,” Gracie rebuked.
Chapter Five
Dylan’s head jerked upward before he realized she was chastising the dog, not him. The Scottie looked up at Gracie with adoring eyes. She encouraged his non-repentance with a friendly ear scratching as she cuddled him to her chest. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“You shouldn’t have left him in here alone.” Dylan envied the dog and his position between Gracie’s breasts.
“Go away,” she huffed. “I’m busy.”
He crossed his arms and lounged against the doorframe. “I think I’ll wait to talk to your grandmother.”
“She won’t be home until later. You’re welcome to come back and try to persuade her to let you stay, but I don’t have time for this.”
As she brushed past him, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. The innocent touch shot a jolt of fire to the same stomach muscles that had barely had time to unclench. Didn’t she feel the heat that sparked between them? If so, she managed to ignore her reaction to it.
“It’ll be easier if you just agree now.”
“For you, maybe, but not for me or Gran. Just look.” A sweeping gesture of her arm indicated the state of the room. “This isn’t the only one of Granddad’s chores left unfinished. I’ll have my hands full getting the rest of them done before we open this weekend. Visiting at the hospital has Gran behind schedule, too. If you move in, that will add to her regular work and she’ll feel obliged to prepare meals. It’s too much for her right now.”
Surely those weren’t insurmountable obstacles. She was halfway down the stairs before he stopped her with the magic words. “I’ll pay anything you want.”
“Anything?” She looked him up and down from a few steps below. Calculating… Assessing… judging him.
He stood taller. Confidently. Few had ever found him or his wallet lacking.
An unholy gleam in her eyes forecast the devil of a challenge, but Grandfather had always said, “A Bradford never refused a dare. Or lost one.”
He squared his shoulders. “Anything.”
“Okay,” she said with relish. “Triple the usual rate, no meals included, and you have to finish the painting.”
“Done.” He reached out to shake her small but capable blue-spattered hand and seal the bargain. “I’ll arrange for someone to come out and finish the painting right away.”
Her fingers escaped his grasp. “Oh, no. The deal is that you have to do the painting.”
Dylan took a quick look over his shoulder, searching behind him to locate whoever she was really talking to. He pressed his fingertips to his chest. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Suit yourself.” She turned with a shrug and continued downward. “Your room might still be available at the Granite Inn.”
Following her to the laundry room, Dylan considered his options. With MacDuff licking her chin, she set the plug and ran water into a big sink.
“I’ve never painted a room before. Why do you want me to do it?”
“Painting builds character.”
“You don’t care about my character.”
“The truth is I’d have hired someone else if I could, but no one’s available.” She chuckled and unfastened the Scottie’s collar. Her lilting laugh momentarily charmed Dylan into forgetting how she irritated the crap out of him. “But never mind. If you’re that inexperienced, I’d just have to redo it anyway.”
All right, now she’d gone and pricked his pride. And Bradfords were known to have more than their fair share of that commodity. Anything she could do, he could do. Better. “Are you saying you don’t think I could manage such a menial task?”
Twin spots of color flared in her cheeks. “In East Langden, we don’t consider performing manual labor an insult.”
“Calm down.” He directed the words to himself as much as to Gracie, remembering the Chinese water torture that passed itself off as a leaky faucet at the Granite Inn. Even smelling of paint, the accommodations of Liberty House were vastly superior. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Gracie thrust MacDuff into the sink. He scrambled up the sides faster than she could dunk him. From the stiff set of her shoulders, Dylan expected her to subject him to the silent treatment. But as she squirted liquid soap onto blue paws, she relented. “My grandfather got hurt painting that room, and there’s not a finer man alive. If the work wasn’t beneath him, it’s not beneath you.”
Dylan rolled up his sleeves and reached in to steady the dog. The wriggling canine soon had them both sopping wet as Gracie scrubbed and rinsed away the paint and suds.
“I’m sure painting requires enormous skill and talent.” He doubted any such thing.
“The Colony Room isn’t the Sistine Chapel. If you really don’t know how to paint, I can get you started, if you’re game.”
Her primary focus centered on her pet, not Dylan. He doubted she had the least notion of how waterlogged the front of her shirt was, but he did. And he considered renouncing his lifelong fascination with legs in favor of breasts.
Before she kicked his ass out of there for leering at her like she was the grand-prize winner of a wet T-shirt contest, he turned to grab a towel from a nearby rack.
She held up MacDuff while Dylan draped the writhing fur ball in terry cloth. “Having that room painted is my most pressing need at the moment. So take the offer or leave it.”
Since they’d both get what they wanted out of the deal, Dylan disregarded his own most pressing need and the fact that she had so neatly maneuvered him into doing her bidding. That didn’t happen very often. “I’ll take it. When do you want me to start?”
By late-afternoon, Dylan had so much high-gloss on him he could be mistaken for one of the Blue Man Group. At least the stains wouldn’t ruin the work clothes Gracie had loaned him to wear while painting.
When he ventured out of his newly assigned room for the painting lesson, she’d looked at him and gave a sniff of disapproval, like he’d failed the dress code. “Those designer clothes will be ruined. Hang on while I get you something of Granddad’s.”
The old man’s paint-speckled T-shirt strained against Dylan’s shoulders and hovered around his navel. The white painter’s pants were perfect for high tide, while the waistband offered at least an inch or two of extra material. Since Gracie also insisted he remove his leather belt, the pants rode low on his hips every time he raised his arms above his head. Which was pretty often.
After Gracie showed him the ropes and left him on his own, he’d fallen into an automatic rhythm. As his body went into auto-pilot with the paint roller, his thoughts drifted to Gracie O’Donnell and Clayton Harris. The two topics most certain to disrupt his peace of mind.
No matter how often he grappled with the subject of Clayton, he wasn’t prepared to give the fake Bradford an inch. And Gracie’s inexplicable allure nagged at him like a bad rash that would spread into the most irritating places if he scratched it.
Just how close were those two? She’d seemed awfully protective of him. He shook his head. Much better not to think about them.
He pushed the roller through the pan, climbed the ladder, and turned to paint the section above the door.
Rapid footsteps approached. He put his hand out just in time to prevent Gracie from shoving the door into the ladder. She edged through the six-inch opening and pirouetted slowly to take in the entire room. Fresh and delicious, she had showered and changed into a floaty floral skirt and a skinny-ribbed pink top.
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the bare windows, gilding her movements. The front and sides of her stunning hair were caught in a clip at the back of her head. Fiery streaks of red and gold glinted through the very touchable curls. Not that he cared.
Stepping off the ladder, he poured a final puddle of paint into the pan. The tail of his shirt rode up and the waist of the pants rode down, as they had been doing all afternoon. As he straightened, Gracie’s gaze swept up and down his body and returned to settle on his eyes.
“Everything looks great,” she said.
“Thanks.” Her unexpected approval warmed him as no one else’s had in a long time. Looking around, he took a measure of satisfaction in the nearly finished project. “I think I got the hang of it after a while.”
“You sure did.” She pursed her lips as she trained her attention on him. “The question is, what do I do with you now?”
That was a burning question. Of all the possibilities, his first choice was that she feed him. Okay, maybe not his first choice, but it came in a close second.
He laid the roller in the pan. “Do you have any other pressing needs?”
Her natural color heightened, and he grinned. He’d never learned to curb the tendency to flirt with any available female, but this one wasn’t his type. In spite of those great legs. And luscious tits. “I mean, what’s the problem?”
She twisted a strand of her glorious hair around a finger. “Since you’re a working guest, I can’t leave you here alone.”
He leaned back to check for streaks in the fresh paint above the door. “Afraid to trust me with the family silver?”
Her husky laughter jolted Dylan with a straight shot of eighty-proof lust.
“I’m sure your family silver would put ours to shame. And do I trust you?” She pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m reserving judgment.”
“Well, that’s progress. Yesterday, you wouldn’t have had to think twice about it.” He hiked the baggy pants up to his waist from his hips. “I didn’t see your car in the lane earlier. Did you get it fixed?”
“Turley towed it to the garage this morning.” She picked at the loose end of a strip of masking tape in the corner of the room and started pulling it off the trim.
Certain she would end up covered with paint, Dylan took the tape from her and turned her hands palms-up to check. Sure enough, blue stripes. He handed her a rag from his back pocket. “Is it being repaired?”
“No.” Her bottom lip dipped down into a brief pout. “The transmission’s shot. Turley said it would cost more to fix than it’s worth.” Wiping her hands on the cloth, she pulled back a tarp corner to sit on the edge of the bed.
He took over the tape-removal task, eager for a diversion that turned his attention away from her body. “So, do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I have Gran’s car.”
“Are you going out? Will you be gone long?” Will you bring back food, he almost asked, but remembered the terms of his occupancy. No meals.
“I’m going to visit Granddad.” She folded her hands in her lap a little too studiously. “And then Gran and I are going out to dinner.”
The forced nonchalance warned him something was up. “With a friend?”
“Yes and my stepfather.” The sweetness of her smile would have surpassed those of angels. “Would you like to join us?”
He scowled. “Is Clayton the friend?”
She hesitated before admitting, “Yes.”
“Then, no.” He’d rather eat ground glass than have Clayton’s company for dinner.
“You’ll have to face him sooner or later.”
“Not tonight.” He tossed the ball of masking tape into a trash bag. “I need to take a shower and check on how the market closed.”
“Ri-ight.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, obviously not buying his excuse.
“Where’s MacDuff? You want me to keep an eye on him?”
“He’s over at my place.”
“Your place? Where’s that?”
She moved toward the door. “Over the carriage house. It’s where my mom and I lived when I was growing up. Gran saves it for me to use when I’m here. Nearby but separate.”
Good. They wouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof. Less temptation that way. “See you tomorrow then.”
“There’s a spare key on a hook in the laundry room. Lock up if you go anywhere.” She wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder as she left.
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.”
