Daring Dylan (The Billionaire Brotherhood Book 2)

by Jacie Floyd

  “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.

  “Gosh, no, Marvin,” she said. “He loves country music. He meant he couldn’t stand to go another minute without hearing some more Garth. Thunder Rolls is his favorite, and you haven’t played that more than five or six times.”

  Marvin unclamped his hand from Dylan’s shoulder, rolled his beer bottle between his palms and squinted suspiciously at Dylan. “That right, pal?”

  This time Dylan had no doubt about whether it was relief or humiliation he felt toward Gracie. Humiliation definitely prevailed. Laced with strains of annoyance. Maybe even anger. Why did she keep interfering? Not once, not twice, but three times in one night. That was one thing he’d straighten her out about when they got home. He didn’t need anyone to keep him out of trouble, let alone the aggravating little Dr. Fix-It.

  And looking at her in the dim light of the pub, all happy-faced and smiling, he realized she didn’t have a clue she’d done anything wrong. She’d been doing what Gracie liked to do best. Step in to fill a need, avoid trouble, and smooth things over for a friend.

  And he was the friend. He liked the sound of that. Maybe what she’d done wasn’t so bad after all. But he’d still talk to her about it. Later. For now, he’d go along. Again.

  “That’s right,” he agreed, glad he wasn’t under oath. “Love that Garth.”

  “Hell, Gracie.” Marvin beamed at her with a gold tooth gleaming in the front of his mouth. “You should have said somethin’. Stick around. Thunder Rolls is comin’ up next.” He tipped his beer bottle back and drained it, belching loudly before swaggering away to rejoin his friends at the pool table.

  With the show over, everyone else heaved sighs of relief or disappointment and returned to his or her own business.

  “I’m going to stop in the restroom,” Gracie said, “but I’ve got the truck, so you guys don’t have to wait.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Tanya headed for the ladies’ room.

  “I’ll wait,” Dylan and Clayton said in unison.

  Arms crossed, they glowered at one another. They tapped their toes to the song Dylan presumed was his new favorite and glowered some more.

  “You can leave any time,” Dylan said. “I’ll follow Gracie to make sure she gets home safely.”

  “That’s okay.” Clayton enunciated each word with exaggerated precision. “I b’lieve in seeing my date home.”

  “You’re on a date? And a threesome, at that. Is it common here to let your dates entertain another man while you sit at the bar and drink?”

  “Tanya’s not with us. I mean I’m not with Tanya.” The idea seemed to alarm him. “Gracie just invited her along becaush—because she felt sorry for her. The same reason she invited you to join them.”

  “Okay.” How many beers Clayton had put away?

  “I wouldn’t go getting any ideas about Gracie if I were you.” A hiccup punctuated the advice. “You can’t expect her to like someone who spent the night hiding behind her skirt.”

  “Haven’t you been doing that your whole life?” Dylan asked with a smirk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The punch came out of nowhere and slammed into Dylan’s nose with a sickening crunch. Seeing stars at the same time blood spurted everywhere, he returned the blow with a stirring sense of exhilaration. Finally, someone had obliged him with a fight. One he didn’t have to start, and one that Gracie wasn’t around to stop. Clayton stepped in close, pounding precision blows into Dylan’s ribs. Clayton grunted when Dylan pummeled him in return.

  By the time they broke apart, Dylan’s vision had cleared. Clayton groaned, held his right hand gingerly and covered his eye with his left. Dylan slumped against the table searching for something to staunch the blood flowing from his nose.

  A weight with the force of an anvil landed in the middle of his back. He crashed into the table, flipping it over. Dishes flew in every direction, and Gracie shrieked in the background. Before he got to his feet, she had launched herself onto the back of his assailant, the biker named Marvin.

  “Cut it out, Marvin. Don’t hurt your hands!”

  Dylan wrapped his arms around her waist to haul her out of harm’s way. Clayton reached for her at the same time.

  “Leave her alone.” Clayton tried to push Dylan away.

  “You leave her alone.” Dylan returned the shove.

  Clayton responded with a swing. Dylan ducked. The fist landed in Marvin’s side instead, and he folded in half with an ooph! All hell broke loose as the other bikers and some roughnecks from the bar joined in.

  Punches landed indiscriminately before Guidry pulled Marvin off Clayton, breaking Clayton’s grip on Brinker, Brinker’s arm lock on Dylan, and Dylan’s chokehold on one of the bikers. Guidry thumped heads together like melons, and the brawlers lost interest fast.

  “Get out, all of you.” He steered Dylan and Clayton to the door with a firm hand on Dylan’s elbow and a steadying arm around Clay’s shoulders. The bikers and others who had jumped into the fray stumbled out the door and scattered, hooting and hollering as they went.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, Guidry,” a biker said.

  “Didn’t know you packed such a wallop, Clay,” one of the fishermen called out.

  “Helluva good fight,” Marvin muttered, slapping Dylan on his back as he passed by.

  “You sure your hands are all right, Marvin?” Gracie asked.

  “They’re fine.” He waved away her concern.

  The roar of Harleys and pickup trucks faded into the night. Guidry started in on Clayton, who required a steadying hand to keep him upright. Gracie and Tanya eyed Clayton and Dylan with reproach, but remained silent.

  “Doc, you know better than this. I thought you were here with Gracie. You should’ve quit drinking about three beers ago if you intended to drive home.” The bartender fished in Clayton’s jacket pocket and extracted his keys. “You either find yourself a ride, or I’ll call the police chief to come see the damage you and your buddy caused.”

  “Not my buddy,” he mumbled through swollen lips. �
�I’ll walk home.”

  “I’ll take him.” Tanya’s offer surprised everyone. Especially Clayton, if his slack-jawed expression was any indication. “Looks like he’ll need some tending when he gets there, and since I have a three-year-old, I’m pretty handy with a Band-Aid.”

  “Gracie can patch me up.” Clayton tried to stand without Guidry’s support and failed.

  “She’s going to have her hands full with Dylan.” Tanya accepted the brunt of Clayton’s weight from the bartender. “And he’s going her way. You’ll just have to put up with some TLC from plain little ol’ me instead of the love of your life.”

  “I can take care of myself.” He failed to evade the grasp of a dynamo half his size.

  “I’ll just push you out of the car when we get to your driveway.”

  Their bickering carried through the night air until two car doors slammed, one after the other.

  “And as for you...” Guidry turned to Dylan.

  He raised his hands to ward off a lecture. “I can drive. I only had two beers.”

  “Then what’s your excuse for trashing my bar?” The man could have squashed him on the sidewalk like a bug, and he looked like he might be thinking about doing it, too.

  “No excuse.” Dylan pushed his hair off his forehead and winced. He couldn’t tell which hurt worse—his nose, ribs, or hand. “I didn’t know how drunk he was or that he has such a short fuse, but it shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

  Guidry crossed his immense arms and looked even more threatening. “Who’s going to pay for the damage?”

  “Surely you have insurance,” Gracie said, stepping between them. “You shouldn’t expect—”

  Dylan’s tolerance for her interference snapped. “Stay out of this, Gracie. I don’t need your help.”

  Damn, the pain in her eyes dulled their sparkle. He hated knowing he’d caused that.

  “Oh. Well. Excuse me.” Physically, she turned her back on him. Emotionally, she moved a million miles away.

  He doubted if slashing her with a knife would have wounded her more. “Gracie...”

  Dropping her chin, she dug around inside her purse. With Guidry waiting for a reckoning, Dylan postponed his apology to Gracie until later.

  “I’ll have my assistant call you about the bill in the morning,” he told Guidry.

  A grunt was all the appreciation the offer received. “Stay out of my bar until I get the money.”

  “‘Night, Guidry,” Gracie said.

  “You gonna be around next Saturday for Marley’s wedding?” he asked as she turned to leave.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your kid sister’s wedding for anything. I still can’t believe the little squirt’s getting married.”

  “Tell me about it. She’s twenty-two now, with a degree in marine biology.”

  “Amazing. And to think I used to babysit her.” Gracie shook her head. “Tell Aunt Betty I’m available if they need help at the church or the reception hall next week.”

  “Will do.” The bartender disappeared through the door, leaving Gracie and Dylan alone on the sidewalk.

  Her features sharpened with disdain. “Can you drive?” She’d withdrawn into someone cold and aloof. Someone very unlike the real Gracie.

  “Sure.” He made a heroic effort not to whimper.

  She waited beside him as he hauled himself into the Navigator. His ribs protested the effort. Under the streetlight, he noticed the wet spot on the front of her blouse. If it wouldn’t hurt his face to do it, he’d grin. “Somebody spill a drink on you?”

  She looked down and wrinkled her nose as she sniffed. “Smells like beer.”

  He turned on the motor and leaned out to close the door. Pain shot through his side, taking his breath away. He hugged his rib cage, closed his eyes, and waited for the ache to subside.

  When his breath returned to his lungs, he opened his eyes. Gracie lingered beside him. Although she kept her hands clasped, he could see them twitching with the instinct to offer assistance. One moment of silence stretched into two.

  Gracie moved to close the car door. “See you later, then.”

  A tough as nails stance was all well and good, but what was the point if it meant going home alone? She remained by the Navigator waiting for him to drive away, but he couldn’t do it. None of his extremities would do as they were told. Well, hell, if she wanted to help, he’d let her.

  He powered down the window. “All right, you win,” he said as if she’d been haranguing him for hours. “You can drive me home if you really want to. My car or yours?”

  “Yours.” She tried to hide her smug smile, but he spotted it.

  His ribs seriously protested the effort required in switching seats. Pulling shallow breaths into his lungs, he closed his eyes and reclined the passenger seat while Gracie slid behind the wheel.

  “That was a pretty stupid display,” she said after a few miles of silence.

  “I know.” He winced as she plowed through a three-foot-wide pothole instead of going around it.

  “You were spoiling for a fight when you got to McStone’s, weren’t you?”

  “Yep.” Monosyllables were about all his split lip could handle. He inventoried his teeth with his tongue.

  His ribs protested when she turned off the paved highway onto the rutted road leading to Liberty House. He could have sworn the Navigator had better shocks than this.

  After a few excruciating minutes, she pulled to a stop. He considered getting out of the vehicle, but wasn’t sure he could. He lifted one eyelid to see what mischief Gracie was up to. She didn’t normally remain quiet for long.

  She peered at him from mere inches away, assessing the damage to his face. She bit her lower lip and let one gentle finger tug at his split and swollen one, then tilted his head toward the light. “It’s probably not as bad as it looks.”

  He removed his chin from her grasp. He wanted her to touch him with passion, not clinical detachment.

  She invaded his space once again to unhook his seat belt. The fall of her silky hair brushed his shoulder. The scent of coconut shampoo wafted toward him. He inhaled deeply, groaning when pain knifed through him.

  Gracie’s hand joined his on his rib cage. Her look of concern indicated she intended to poke and prod and ask him if it hurt when she pressed against him there.

  “I’m not a patient.” He swooped in to stop her protest with a kiss.

  At the same moment, she lifted her head and bumped his lip. Ouch! He ignored the pain and angled for better position. Just a brush of lips at first, then he sent out his tongue to lick her. He pulled her more closely to him, opening his mouth over hers.

  Oddly, she tasted metallic, almost coppery. Like blood.

  Shit, no. That was him. “Damn.”

  Gracie tried to duck behind medical neutrality, but her voice quavered as she spoke. “You should have that looked at.”

  Dylan fished a napkin out of the glove box. “Tomorrow,” he said, promising himself that’s when he’d pick up where they’d left off.

  He yanked on the door handle and got out with careful execution.

  She came up beside him. “You might have a broken rib or two.”

  “I can manage.” He waved her off and evaded the hand she tried to hook through his arm.

  It took him about ten minutes to get from the car to his room. It took him most of the night to vanquish his inappropriate thoughts of Gracie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gracie pressed her ear against the door to Dylan’s room.

  Silence. Absolute silence swirled around on the other side. She tapped a brisk, business-like tattoo on the hardwood.

  More silence.

  She chewed her lip, considering her choices. Should she barge in or not? She’d give anything to avoid seeing him, but hanging the new window treatment in his room was the last of the chores on Granddad’s list, and she wanted to be finished this morning. In two hours, Gran needed her to come to the hospital to help transport Gra
nddad home. After that, she was scheduled to fill in for Gran, taking care of the final ice cream production for the festival.

  She hadn’t seen Dylan since he’d limped into the house like the walking wounded last night. He’d made it very clear outside McStone’s, and then again outside the house, that he didn’t want her help. Even if he had deigned to let her drive him home.

  She knocked again and took a deep breath. Now or never.

  Opening the door, she tiptoed inside. Rumpled sheets beckoned from the bed. Dylan’s clothes littered the floor, but the man himself was absent. Thank heavens.

  Her feet paused beside his discarded jeans. A pair of boxer-briefs lay next to them. She almost picked up both items, under the guise of tidying up, but stopped herself.

  She pictured him asleep in the bed, naked. The pillow carried a hollowed-out imprint. She imagined his sun-streaked hair mussed from his night’s sleep, a muscular forearm blocking the sunlight from his eyes. His broad shoulders and chest tapered to slim hips. The sheet covered his hips and groin. Barely. He’d turn over, dislodging the fabric...

  Edging closer, she inhaled. The bedding carried his musky scent. Masculine… delicious. She shook her head at her own foolishness. What in the world was she doing? She had work to do, and it needed to be done. Now. While he was out.

  It took only a minute to move a chair away from the window then bring in her ladder and tools. Perched on a middle rung, she dropped her screwdriver when a cell phone beeped on an end table.

  Debating whether to answer it or not, she heard a splash from the bathroom. While she hovered, paralyzed with surprise, the bathroom door swung open. Dylan appeared, briskly dragging a towel across his wet body. He skidded to a stop when his gaze riveted on her gaping curiosity, then wrapped the luckiest towel on earth around his waist.

  Close… so close to the whole enchilada.

  “What are you doing here?” Dylan barked as he picked up the phone. Dark circles around his eyes gave him an owlish look. Except that she’d never seen an owl in a towel, of course.

  “Hanging drapes.” A sweep of her arm indicated the obvious. “But don’t worry, I’ll go.”