“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.”