by Jacie Floyd
She snuggled closer to her husband and turned to Dylan. “Why do you think Lawrence wants to see us after the will’s read today?”
“Maybe he intends to advise us on investments or tax issues.”
“You’re the financial whiz kid. He’s more likely to ask for your advice.” She rested her crossed arms on her tummy and studied him. “You know more than you’re saying, don’t you? Tell me.”
“Go ahead,” Linc urged. “You know she won’t let up until you do.”
“Mother warned me that Karen Hammonds—”
“Dad’s publicist, before he died,” Natalie explained to Linc.
“—has penned an exposé of life on the campaign trail with Dad. You know how protective Mom was of his reputation.”
“That witch!” Natalie bit out. “Who cares what she has to say after all this time? Anything she knows about Dad is more than twenty years old and probably a lie.”
“If there was any dirty laundry lurking around out there, someone would have aired it a long time ago. So Lawrence’s request to meet with us may not have anything to do with Karen.” Noting the circles under his sister’s eyes, he wished he hadn’t speculated. “How are you holding up? If you want to skip out on this appointment today, just say so. I can handle it alone. Or Lawrence will wait, if we ask him to.”
She crossed her eyes at him. “Dylan, I’m pregnant, not incapacitated.”
Sympathy would fail beneath her hormonally rampant mood swings, but he gave it a shot. “Yesterday’s funeral has worn us all down, especially after the strain of Mother’s illness. Pregnancy must increase the pressure.”
Natalie pursed her lips. “Actually, the pregnancy soothes me, the way being with Josh does. It makes me feel a special bond with Mom and Dad. And kind of proud to know that I’m extending their legacy.” Tears welled. “Does that sound like the ultimate conceit?”
“Not at all, love.” Linc gave her his handkerchief along with a reassuring squeeze. “It’s sweet.”
And just like that, Dylan felt that pang again. The one he’d felt a lot lately. The one that made him feel isolated and alone.
Elegant as a maestro, Lawrence Sutton arranged himself behind the Louis XIV desk that now belonged to Natalie—along with the rest of Margaret Bradford’s New Haven estate. Natalie and Linc sat opposite the attorney in matching Chippendale chairs. Too tense to sit, Dylan hovered behind them.
All of the will’s bequeaths and legacies had been announced earlier. No big surprises, but now Dylan geared himself up for whatever bombshell Lawrence had saved just for them.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your mother’s death.” He removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his aristocratic nose. “I served her interests to the best of my abilities and pledge to do the same for both of you, as long as you require my services.”
“Thank you,” Natalie said. “Mother appreciated your loyalty, and so do we.”
The old man steepled his fingers together and drew a deep breath. “There are two final pieces of business your mother wanted me to share with you in private. One of them is regarding a holding she left for Dylan.”
“What else is there?” For tax purposes, she’d divvied up most of her personal property years ago. He and Natalie needed or wanted nothing else. And the Matthew Bradford Foundation was well-funded.
“The cabin in East Langden, Maine.” The attorney drew the words out with all due gravity. “Where your father died.”
Gripping Linc’s hand with white knuckles, Natalie gasped. “That can’t be right. The family camp there belonged to the Bradfords.”
“I guess it belonged to Dad, and she inherited it after he died.” Dylan’s thoughts raced full speed ahead, but only questions with no answers emerged. “Why didn’t she get rid of it? It seems like it would have been more appropriate for Grandfather or Uncle Arthur to have maintained it all this time.”
Natalie frowned. “And why not tell us about it?”
“As far as I know, she’d only been there a handful of times, and that was before Dad’s death.” Dylan rubbed his temple where pulsing tension had developed into a sharp staccato.
“Can’t you picture Mother dressed in Versace and cooking a gourmet meal in a kitchen that hadn’t been remodeled since the Truman administration?” His sister threw him a nostalgic grin.
Propping his shoulder against an eighteenth-century armoire, Dylan turned back to Lawrence. “What more do you know about this?”
“Not much, but I believe it ties in with this other business.” The lawyer squared his shoulders. “Last year, your mother received a letter of inquiry from a young man claiming to be your father’s son.”
“That’s impossible.” Dylan looked to his sister for agreement.
Natalie and Linc wore matching expressions of disbelief. Linc slipped his arm around her and pulled her against him.
She echoed Dylan’s opinion. “Impossible.”
He turned back to Lawrence. “What type of ‘inquiry’?”
“Yes, and by whom?” Linc asked.
“What does the claimant want?” Natalie finished. “Money?”
The old man opened a file on the desk. “His name is Clayton Harris. He said he’d simply like to have the matter of his paternity confirmed. Apparently he bears a marked similarity in appearance to the Bradford men. And it’s long been the rumor in the town where he was raised.”
“Rumor!” The word burst from Dylan’s mouth like a curse. “Why the hell would you allow Mother to be distressed during her last months over a bloody rumor?”
Lawrence stiffened at the criticism. “She corresponded with the young man without immediately taking me into her confidence.”
“She wouldn’t have done that,” Natalie insisted. “She always said that acknowledging rumors only gave them credence.”
“Apparently, the gist of her response was that there was no truth to the story and the young man should look elsewhere for his paternity.” The attorney’s lips thinned into a disapproving line. “He threatened to take your father’s estate to court if she didn’t take the allegation seriously.”
Another recent memory slipped through Dylan’s confusion and clicked into place. “That explains why Mother asked me to promise not to let anyone dishonor Dad’s name. I thought she was concerned about the Karen Hammonds tell-all.”
Natalie sniffed at the reference to their father’s flamboyant ex-press secretary.
“I guess it was this jerk she feared.” Just then another possibility reared its ugly head. “Wait a minute, who’s his mother?”
Lawrence flipped through the document. “The woman’s name was Lana Harris.”
“Never heard of her.” Dylan remained slouched against the armoire, only slightly relieved to hear that Karen Hammond wasn’t involved in the scam. Not at first glance, anyway.
“Does she claim she slept with Dad before or after he married Mother?” Natalie asked.
“After, of course.” Dylan didn’t hesitate to make the guess. “It wouldn’t be scandalous or noteworthy otherwise.”
“Actually, the woman hasn’t claimed anything,” the attorney said. “She lived in East Langden but disappeared exactly one week before your father’s death.”
“Curious timing,” Natalie murmured.
Hair stood up on the back of Dylan’s neck. Neither the family nor the authorities had ever been satisfied that all the facts had been uncovered regarding Matthew Bradford’s drowning twenty-five years earlier. Now, a new wrinkle added to the mysterious circumstances.
“What steps have you taken to discredit this lie?” Natalie asked.
“We hired a detective.” Lawrence dipped his chin and looked at the trio over his reading glasses. “The investigation has been inconclusive, I’m sorry to say.”
“Have you asked Uncle Arthur about it?” Their father’s younger brother would be the obvious source of information.
“Your mother wanted to hold off on that, but I’m afraid we ca
n’t put it off much longer. The matter has suddenly become more urgent.”
“Why?”
“With her death, the young man is no longer prepared to wait. If there’s no word from the Bradford family before the foundation awards ceremony on July first, he says he’ll take his story to the press.”
“But that’s only five weeks away.” An uncharacteristic curse escaped his sister’s lips. “Normally, I’d say let the jerk do his worst. But I don’t want the awards diminished because of some disgruntled nutcase.”
The old man nodded. “The negative publicity would certainly tarnish the event’s image.”
“Has he requested DNA testing?” A slow anger at the bastard’s audacity scalded its way through Dylan’s stomach.
“Ultimately, I believe that’s what he’s after, but no papers have been filed.” Lawrence blinked. “If you wish to lay the matter to rest, the request could come from the Bradford family.”
“No.” Dylan rejected the idea with a slash of his hand.
“Why not?” Natalie asked. “That might be the quickest way to disprove the accusation.”
“That would imply we’re entertaining the possibility of a link between this man and our father. I think it’s too soon for that. Let’s make him produce something more substantial than a ‘rumor’ before we give him what he wants.”
“I agree,” Linc offered. “If you don’t insist on hard evidence, you’d be laying the groundwork for anyone out there with blue eyes and big feet to claim a relationship.”
A familiar expression of Bradford stubbornness stole across Natalie’s face. “What could be more decisive evidence than a DNA test?”
“Mother asked me to protect and honor our father’s good name. I didn’t know this threat existed, but she wouldn’t want me to allow the first schemer to come along to muddy Dad’s reputation within a week of her death.”
“You’re pretending to be reasonable, but you’re seething inside,” Natalie observed. “That’s never a good sign.”
Because she was right, Dylan ignored the comment. The discontent that had dogged him lately, combined with the sorrow and helplessness over his mother’s death, now coalesced into a plan. Propelled by his mother’s last request of him, along with his own desire to preserve his father’s reputation, adrenaline shot through him. He shook off the emotional and physical lethargy that lingered after the inactive weeks spent at his mother’s side.
“Let’s see the detective’s report.” He loosened his tie and reached for the folder.
Natalie studied him. “What are you cooking up?”
He understood her dread that his restlessness would lead him into trouble, but he also knew she’d chafe at being sidelined by her pregnancy. The two of them had raced neck-and-neck in their quest for adventure most of their lives. But now, her focus had narrowed to her own little family. Just as it should. Dylan would handle of the bigger picture. “Maybe I should take a look over my East Langden property.”
Her eyebrows flew up to her hairline. “When?”
“The sooner the better. Apparently, we don’t have much time.”
“Tell me what you’re planning,” she said, still skeptical.
I owe her the truth. They weren’t children anymore, and this wasn’t a prank. He told himself that this was something he had to do. For his parents and for himself. For Natalie and her children. “I’m going to do my damnedest to blow Clayton Harris’s claim sky high.”
Chapter Two
On a back road in Maine, Gracie O’Donnell’s spirits sank as her twelve-year-old Ford lost speed. An unexpected and impatient SUV roared up behind her, honked and sped around, as she steered her elderly, but previously dependable, car off the road. Before the vehicle ground to a complete halt, the odometer hit just shy of two-hundred-thousand miles. She shut off the engine and restarted it, but the Taurus refused to move another inch.
“What?” she muttered to the pile of metal and chrome. “You can’t make it three more miles to Liberty House?”
Earlier, she’d notified her grandmother that a six-year-old’s ruptured appendix had delayed her departure from Hartford. But with rush-hour traffic, her revised time of arrival at her grandparents’ East Langden bed and breakfast had come and gone. And now this.
Just her luck. It was dark and late, and her cell phone was out of juice. Not that it got anything better than spotty reception on these back roads even when fully charged. She should have guessed that after one of the most excruciating weeks of her life, if something else could go wrong, it would.
But things could be worse. It wasn’t far to Gran’s. She could walk if she had to, dark or not. But first, she’d check under the hood.
“You stay here,” she told her Scottish terrier, MacDuff, as she retrieved a flashlight from the glove box. “I don’t want you running off while I’m distracted.”
The dog cocked his head reproachfully.
“Don’t look at me like that.” She scratched the magic spot between his ears that turned him into a mop of doggie adoration. “Remember how long it took to get the burrs out of your coat when you chased that woodchuck last fall?”
As Gracie hopped out of the car, the delicious fragrance of spruce and pine laced with an underlying hint of salt and sea assaulted her. She inhaled deeply, and her spirits lifted a bit just from breathing in the familiar scents of home.
While she checked the dipstick and jiggled wires, a big fat raindrop landed on the crown of her head. A second one plopped on her shoulder, and then a deluge of water plastered her T-shirt to her spine like a frigid sheet of shrink-wrap. With a perturbed squeak, she dove back into the car.
Oh, great, now what?
Walking or waiting seemed like her only options. If she waited, it could be hours before the rain stopped and possibly morning before anyone passed by. This road didn’t lead anywhere except to the B&B and the long-abandoned Bradford place a couple of miles further down. Her grandfather was in the hospital, her grandmother didn’t drive at night, and their place wouldn’t be open to the public until the end of the week.
She shivered inside her wet shirt. Okay, I’ll walk.
It couldn’t be helped, even though the Doggie Prince hated to get his paws wet. She groped under the front seat to retrieve her umbrella just as unexpected headlights approached. Hope flared. Maybe Gran had sent someone to search for her. Her stepfather David, perhaps, or her best pal Clayton.
No. The hulking SUV heading her way looked like the same upscale model that had passed her earlier. Too new, too expensive, and too ostentatious to belong to anyone from East Langden.
But if this was her only chance to get help, she’d grab it. Gracie slipped on her jacket, zipped it, and stuck MacDuff inside. Grabbing her keys, she leaped out of her car, hoisted the umbrella, and planted herself at the side of the road. She blinked her flashlight on and off so she wouldn’t be mistaken for a wandering moose. When the vehicle skidded to a stop, she approached the driver.
The window slid part of the way down. Even with the rain-distorted view and indirect light, Gracie recognized the famous face that had constantly made the news in the weeks since his mother’s death. A thatch of thick, dark blond hair fell from a high forehead above slashing eyebrows that accentuated deep-set eyes. One supercilious brow hooked upward.
“Trouble?” The tinted window masked his nose and mouth.
“Yep.” She did all she could to maintain a friendly demeanor while staring into the face of upper-crust condescension. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“It isn’t working.” He held up the palm-sized gadget and shook it.
Right, like that would help.
If she had been in the city, or if the motorist had been a complete unknown, Gracie would have asked him to drive on and call Triple A at the first opportunity. But this wasn’t an unknown motorist and she could guess what had brought him to the area. For Clay’s sake, she shouldn’t pass up the opportunity to interrogate a Bradford—especially if she could get him
to agree to give her a lift.
“You lost?” she asked.
“Why would you think that?” His irritatingly precise prep-school diction reminded her of Baxter, her faithless ex-fiancé. Not a happy comparison.
“It’s a good guess that if Dylan Bradford is wandering around on this road for the first time in decades, he’s bound to be looking for something.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?”
At the sharp tone, MacDuff poked his nose out and growled. “Hush.” She gave him an absent pat. “The bona fide Bradfords may not have graced East Langden with their presence in over twenty years, but if one of you belches, it still makes the local news.”
“Hmmph,” he muttered, just this side of a snort. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“I think it’s the transmission. Want to take a look?”
How many jet-set playboys does it take to check a dipstick? There had to be a good punch line in there somewhere.
His gaze moved from her damp curls to the squirmy lump inside her jacket, passed over the threadbare knees of her jeans, and on down to her muddy discount sneakers.
Instinctively, she knew he wasn’t scrutinizing her the way a man sized up an attractive woman. This was the kind of guarded assessment a cop would make before frisking a suspect for weapons. With his history, maybe he suspected she had a hidden microphone or camera.
Understanding his concern didn’t keep her from fidgeting under the visual inspection. She tilted her umbrella back to allow him a clear view of her face. The gesture sent rain dripping down her neck. She shimmied her shoulders to halt the icy trickle dribbling down her spine.
“If you’ll give me a lift to my grandparents’, I can make sure you get to your cabin.” A flash of lightning and boom of thunder accentuated the offer. “It’s not out of your way.”
Maybe he recognized her for the honest person she was. Maybe he took pity on her predicament, or maybe he was blessed with a more helpful disposition than she supposed. For whatever reason, just as she began to think he’d leave her to her fate, he shrugged. “Hop in.”
