Текст книги "Daring Dylan "

Автор книги: Jacie Floyd

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

Gracie and her grandmother’s chatter dwindled to a murmur as Dylan stumbled to his room. He did have a migraine and nausea gripped him. Collapsing backward across the bed, he tried to organize the thoughts whirling through his head.

With his hands clasped behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling and let the images flow.

He had been eight years old when his father died. Old enough to remember the smell of his aftershave, the full-bodied sound of his laugh, and the crease between his eyebrows when he gave someone his full attention. Some of Dylan’s recollections—like the causes Matthew Bradford supported, the speeches he gave, and his political aspirations—were public record.

Most of what he knew about his father had been passed along by his mother. The devotion to his parents, constituents, and children. And despite the rumors, she had never doubted that he had been a faithful husband.

Dylan’s mind skated closer to the yawning abyss. A fierce tension coiled inside him. He jerked upright and sprang off the bed to pace the room. Emotional turmoil hurled him from wall to wall with frustrating swiftness. He needed to get some exercise or explode.

Changing into shorts and cross trainers, he left through the front door to avoid bumping into anyone. At first, the repetitive beat of his feet pounding on the pavement held his attention. Then, matching his breathing to his tempo became a suitable focus.

Half a mile later, his thoughts caught up with him. He ran faster, trying to out distance his demons. But they kept pace, threatening to trip him up with every step.

Even after Dylan was old enough to know the score, he had preferred to believe his father was different from other wealthy and powerful men who considered it their birthright to use women for fun and games.

If his father, legendary womanizer that he had been during his bachelorhood, could find real love and happiness and settle into family life, then it just might be possible for Dylan to do so, also. That thought had given him hope for his own future.

Without doubt, without hesitation, he championed his father’s reputation and accepted his mother’s account of their marriage. Never had he allowed his faith to be shaken.

Until now.

Today, he had seen the resemblance to himself in the picture of the young boy roller-skating alongside Gracie. Dylan’s own family albums contained pictures of him and Natalie at similar ages. Gasping for breath, he forced himself to acknowledge that Clayton looked like him. Enough like him to be his brother.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Lana Harris’s picture had detonated a landmine of memories. The accusations of another woman in his father’s life took on greater significance when faced with a photograph of a real, red-blooded woman. And the allegation of Clayton being Matthew’s son grew in proportion with the knowledge that the woman in the picture was Clayton’s mother.

Was Dylan’s belief in his father’s integrity based on nothing more than family solidarity? The question made his heart churn with betrayal. His mother had expected him to keep the memory of his father intact. And now, if Dylan didn’t run faster, fast enough to escape his treacherous thoughts, he’d be contemplating going against her wishes. Her express wishes.

But what if her version of the past was wrong?

His feet flew across the pavement. He willed his mind to clear, turning himself into an automaton with no thoughts, no feelings, no suspicions, and no fears. He headed up the rutted drive that led to the old Bradford camp. Slowing his pace to a walk, he circled the building.

Sweating and gasping for breath, he dropped down onto the crumbling porch steps. Elbows propped on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands.

He’d failed to accomplish a single thing he’d set out to do. If Gracie owned this place, she wouldn’t be waiting around for someone else to do the work for her. His lack of practical skills compared to hers was starting to make him feel like a total wuss.

He’d be damned if he’d sit around any longer.

Going inside, he surveyed the damage. Maybe the debris and graffiti left behind by twenty-some years of trespassers made it look worse than it actually was. Prepared to do anything to keep from acknowledging the possibility of an unthinkable relationship between his father and Clayton Harris, Dylan began picking up cans, bottles, condom wrappers, and fast food containers. The pile of refuse grew along with his doubts.

According to Uncle Arthur, Dylan had been to the cabin with his father on several occasions. Dylan remembered only one. A beautiful crisp fall weekend. Arthur and his son Frank had been with them.

Seized by the memory that replayed in his mind, Dylan moved toward the dock. The overgrown path faded in and out, but he managed to find his way to the water. The old dock was still there along with the dilapidated boathouse where they used to keep a small skiff.

That weekend, they had taken the boat out to fish, returning late in the afternoon. At seven years old, Dylan had boasted about the number of fish he’d caught. As they started toward the cabin, a woman had emerged from the woods. His father and uncle exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Damn. Why is she here?” his father had muttered. “She shouldn’t show up here during family time.”

“I’ll deal with her,” Uncle Arthur had said. “Take the boys up to the cabin.” He steered them in that direction, but the woman was almost upon them.

“Don’t rush off,” she called. A broad smile made her face a caricature of friendliness. The fading light cast menacing shadows across her features, and her voice echoing off the water lent a threatening air to the otherwise lilting tone.

“Who’s that?” Frank asked.

Dylan’s father stepped closer to both boys. “Just a woman from town.”

“Don’t you gentlemen want to introduce me to your sons?” she said. “I have a little boy they might want to meet.”

The scrutiny she gave him and his cousin made Dylan squirm with discomfort. “Come on, Dad.” He’d pulled on his father’s hand. “Let’s clean the fish.”

“Okay, son. Take care of this, Arthur.”

Before Dylan’s uncle answered, the woman interrupted. “I don’t have anything to say to him. You’re the one I want to talk to, Senator.”

“Now, see here.” Arthur’s face turned lobster-red. “This isn’t the time or place to be bothering my brother.”

“Oh, I think it is, and I think he’ll see me, won’t you, Senator?” Her hand on her hip was as cocky as the smile on her face. “Or I can talk to the press. You Bradfords can make the choice.”

“Arthur, go with the boys.” His father had turned back to the woman. “Make it fast.”

For all his previous rush to get away, suddenly Dylan refused to budge. His uncle and cousin started up the hill, but Dylan stayed where he was until Frank came back for him and pulled him by the arm. Dylan turned and looked back to see his father on the rocks beside the woman in the tie-dyed T-shirt. Clayton Harris’s mother.

“You obnoxious, arrogant bastard!” Gracie’s friend Tanya Turnbaugh hissed at Clay across the table in McStone’s Pub.

To Gracie’s knowledge, the label had earned more than a few people a bloody nose over the years. The insult rocked Clay back in his seat. She couldn’t believe a mere difference of opinion over the action movie the three of them had just seen could lead Tanya to hurl the ultimate slur, but her friends had been at each other’s throats all night. Everyone within earshot waited for his response.

“My mother’s marital status at the time of my birth is public knowledge,” he said through gritted teeth. “How do you explain being such a bitch?”

Her glinting smile mocked him. “It’s due to the company I keep.”

“If you’re implying that your personality defects are my fault, I’ll be happy to stay as far away from you as possible.” Clay pushed away from the table. With his head high and his shoulders stiff, he stalked across the room, took one of the few empty seats at the crowded bar, and ordered a beer from Gracie’s cousin Guidry.

She turned back to Tanya. “What in the bejesus was that about?”

Her friend chewed her lip with something like regret, then gave her curls a defiant toss. “I told you when you asked me to join you that he wouldn’t be pleased.”

Gracie hadn’t guessed how accurate the prediction would be. The two women hadn’t had a good chance to talk since her return to town. When she ran into Tanya leaving the hospital, Gracie thought a third party would make the outing with Clay seem less like a date. But Tanya and Clay obviously had a boatload of negative history Gracie knew nothing about.

“You’ve been goading him all evening,” she said.

Her petite friend slumped in her chair and pouted like a three-year-old. “He started it.”

“You two used to get along great. What happened?”

Tanya’s brown eyes flashed with anger and hurt, unable to conceal her emotions. Born Tanya Nadine Turnbaugh, her initials said it all. Their high school yearbook had called her “TNT, a tiny mite in an explosive package”. What mischief Gracie hadn’t thought up over the years, Tanya had. Clay had always curbed their wilder flights of fancy.

After high school, their paths separated as they headed off to different colleges. At first, they’d kept in close touch. But after a while, less often. Eventually, Tanya had dropped out of school and landed in a bad marriage. Then, two years ago, she had returned to town, divorced and with custody of a year-old son.

Thinking back, Gracie couldn’t remember another time that she, Tanya, and Clay had been in town together since their high school graduations.

She looked over to make sure Clay’s attention remained on his beer. Gracie sure hoped it would cool him down.

Tanya glanced his way, too, and her eyes softened. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“True. Having someone call him a bastard is the one thing he won’t forgive.”

Her friend’s features sharpened. “He’ll just have to add it to the list of things he won’t forgive me for.”

Gracie’s ears perked up. “What are some of the others?”

Tanya folded a napkin into precise accordion pleats before answering. “You know how I always used to have a crush on him?”

Gracie glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “Yes, but he was just one of many. I never thought you were any more serious about Clay than you were about the others.”

“I was.” The admission seemed to lie on the table between them like a sleeping monkey, inert and vulnerable for the moment, but obviously capable of reeking future chaos. Tanya folded another napkin into an origami crane. “I knew he was crazy about you, but you weren’t interested in him. I was pleased for my sake that you didn’t want him but miffed at you for not appreciating your good fortune.”

Their foreheads almost touched as Gracie leaned in. “Nobody cares about Clay more than I do. I’m just not the right person for him. And I don’t believe he’s as crazy about me as he thinks.”

“He sure gives a good imitation of it.” Tanya took a moment from her napkin folding to look hopeful. “You think he’s faking his interest?”

Clay turned to glare at them from the bar, even though he was too far away to hear them. A twinge of disloyalty filled her for talking about him behind his back, but the tension emanating from Tanya like a bad aura told her the chat went a lot deeper than mere gossip.

“Exaggerating it. My mother, grandparents, and David all planted the idea a long time ago that it’d be just super if we got together. Clay is so desperate to be part of a family that he fell in love with the concept. It’s a safe and tidy dream for him to fulfill expectations set for him by the people he admires.”

Gracie stirred her straw through the melting ice in her glass. “We might do okay as a couple, but it wouldn’t be passionate, thrilling, or eternal. In my opinion, being with someone who doesn’t love you is much worse than being alone.”

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.

Chapter Twelve

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.”

Dylan shook his head, reminded again that he should be looking at the town with an open mind instead of preconceived notions. What else had he overlooked because he hadn’t checked beneath the surface? Damn, no wonder he was turning out to be such a piss-poor detective. “It sounds like you’re in capable hands. But I’m good at filling out forms, if that would help you out.”

“Would you do that for me? How could that help?” The redhead leaned over, giving him an excellent view of her ample cleavage, took one of his hands in hers, and squeezed. Her eyes and body language said she’d devour him as eagerly as she’d devoured his dinner, but her eyes told him she was all show and no go.

“Applying for a government loan is a game with secret rules,” he told her. “Success can hinge on something as illogical as word choice. I’m familiar with the buzzwords they’re looking for and the ones to stay away from.”

Tanya nodded, beamed, and flirted, but he was counting on the fact that she’d been casting anxious glances at someone seated at the bar throughout their conversation.

Gracie, on the other hand, became less animated as the conversation wore on. He almost signaled for another beer when he remembered he was spending her money. And driving. She rested her chin in her hand and looked over at the bar. Dylan followed suit. Clayton yawned and pointed to his watch.

“Getting late?” Dylan asked.

“It is for Clay. He has early rounds tomorrow.”

Said doctor crossed the room, stumbled slightly, and then put his hand on Gracie’s shoulder. “You ‘bout ready to go, darlin’?”

“Sure. What about you, Tanya?”

“I’m ready.” She picked up her jacket and purse, then slid Dylan a sloe-eyed look. “Unless you’d like me to stay longer. We can go over some more of my—assets.”

He laughed, but shook his head. “Tempting, but I can’t listen to this music another minute.”

Without warning, a meaty hand with a tattooed panther coiling around the wrist and up the forearm landed on Dylan’s shoulder and jerked him backward. A monster-sized biker loomed over him. “You sayin’ you don’t like my choice of music?”

Size alone wouldn’t cause Dylan to back away from a fight. He’d been spoiling for one all night, and he could see from the beer belly lapping over the waistband of this guy’s jeans that most of his muscle had turned to fat years ago. Dylan didn’t think he’d be the one to come out on the short end of the stick. But he’d drawn more than enough attention for one night. He wasn’t so juvenile that he’d let some clown lure him into a bar fight just because their taste in music differed. Before he could answer, Gracie jumped in. Again.