by Jacie Floyd
“I’ll have to call the hospital first.” She bashed down the tentacles of embarrassment waiting to rise up and prevent her from ever facing Arthur again. “Depends on David.”
“I’ll meet you at the diner in an hour,” he said into the phone. “Gracie may or may not be with me.”
She grabbed her own phone and called Clay, Dylan headed for the bathroom. Finally, Clay came on the line and reported on David’s great improvement.
“Are you ready for a break?” she asked.
“I’m going to grab a nap and a shower before my morning rounds. Tanya’s coming back, and she’ll stay with David till you get here.”
“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.
Chapter Twenty-eight
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 poss
ibility. 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 b
etween 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.”
