“What’s up?” she asked, pleased to note that his color looked good. “Have you walked and done your exercises?”
“Ay-uh. Nora marched me around like a drill sergeant.”
“Good for her. I wish I’d seen that.” Gracie crossed to the window and adjusted the blinds to keep the late afternoon sun from glaring across the television. “Clay only let you come home because you promised you’d stick to the rehabilitation schedule.”
“I will,” he grumbled. “Sit down and talk to me. I don’t need anybody else fussing.”
She dropped into Gran’s rocker. “Anything on the news about the festival?”
“A nice piece about the boat race, and they mentioned the ice cream booth and the Political Softball game.”
“With all the publicity and the nice weather, we probably have a success on our hands.”
His eyebrows beetled together. “CNN had a story about the fire at the Bradford place.”
“Shoot, I wonder if Dylan knows reporters have been here.”
“They also mentioned the discovery of Lana’s bod—skel—remains. Hell’s bells, there’s not a good name for what they found, is there? It’s just a sorry waste, that’s what it is. She was a woman with flaws, but she had a good heart.”
She shook her head glumly. “Clay and David were both devastated, and there was nothing I could do to help them.”
“You always help, whether you know it or not, just by being there. You care a lot, and your friends and family know it. Your patients, too, I imagine.”
His compliment made her smile. “I try, but sometimes it doesn’t seem like enough.”
“I don’t hear anyone complaining but you.”
She sighed. “I came to check on you, not for a pep talk.”
“You don’t have to check on me, girl, and I’m always here for you.”
“You’re the best.” Just being around him cheered her up.
His hands moved skillfully over the wood, and he resumed whittling. Gracie’s eyes turned to the news credits scrolling across the television. She started to switch to her grandfather’s favorite game show when a tabloid news show came on. The screen filled with the image of Dylan’s burned out cabin, an image of Dylan stamped in the corner, and her hand stilled.
A toothy reporter described the “latest Bradford tragedy” in sensational tones before the coverage returned to a shellac-haired anchorwoman. She relayed the tale of arson and Lana’s remains in sketchy, but dramatic detail. Glued to the set with the fascination a passerby has for a car wreck, Gracie watched with growing dismay. Poor Clay.
Poor Dylan.
She didn’t know how he put up with this kind of intrusion into his everyday life. No wonder he found the hint of any kind of publicity unbearable. As she reached for the remote again, another image filled the screen. A fashion model of almost ethereal beauty paused outside a New York apartment building amid a sea of microphones.
“Was Dylan at the cabin at the time of the fire?”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“Why aren’t you there with him?”
A caption identified the woman as Maya Griffin, Dylan Bradford’s fiancée. Gracie almost howled in disbelief.
Tall, willowy, and swan-necked, the supermodel raised her pampered hand for silence.
“I talked to him this morning.” Her studied frown included equal touches of possessiveness and concern. “He was in the cabin when the fire broke out, but managed to escape unharmed, thank God.” She touched a pampered hand to her heart, drawing attention to her chest. “After he clears up a few details, I’ll be joining him.” Clearly anticipating the follow up question, she answered before it was asked. “At an undisclosed location.”
She turned away, about to move with sensual fluidity through the doors of the building. The reporters clamored again, but one especially resonant question rose above the others.
“When will the two of you be getting married, Maya?”
She opened her full, perfect model’s mouth as if the answer hovered there, ready to be announced. But the beauty stopped before committing to any specific confirmation, lips formed into a mysterious smile.
The talking head reappeared and begin moving her mouth. But Gracie couldn’t hear the commentator’s words above the buzzing in her ears. When she’d asked Dylan if he had any special relationships going on in New York, he’d responded, “Nothing serious.”
Nothing serious? Who did he think he was kidding? Apparently, like Baxter, Dylan didn’t let the technicality of having a fiancée hamper his style.
Was she one of the “details” which kept him tied here for the weekend? Probably not. Since he was going to be around anyway and she made it so easy for him, he wouldn’t see any reason not to continue screwing her.
She felt like such a fool.
No matter how much her experience with Baxter had taught her about bastards like Dylan, here she was, right back in the same situation. Only this time, she was the other woman instead of the gullible fiancée.
His footsteps sounded in the hall. She composed herself before he stuck his big fat, deceitful face inside the room.
Stepping in, he greeted her grandfather first. “Looks like you’re feeling better, sir.” Turning to Gracie, he flashed her a possessive smile, one loaded with male satisfaction and desire as well as promises of secret pleasures remembered and those yet to come. “Gracie, you ready to go?”
“Sure.” Using all her willpower, she resisted the urge to rip his smug eyes out, then and there.
Chapter Twenty-three
Gracie dropped a kiss on her grandfather’s forehead. “You behave now.”
She brushed past Dylan and bolted down the hall. Outside, she headed for the B&B truck while he veered toward his. He detoured and caught her in the middle of the drive.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” He curled a hand around her neck to bring her mouth toward his. “I missed you.”
Ducking away from the kiss, she withdrew from the playful, affectionate gesture that came so naturally to him, but meant so little.
“I thought we were riding together.” His mouth pulled down in a puzzled frown.
“Change of plans.” She dug in her purse for her keys.
“Why?”
Should she play the role of injured party? No, she didn’t play roles well. Her chin jerked up. “There was a report on the network news about the fire at the cabin.”
“Sorry, I should have warned you about that.” He grimaced and reached out to pull her into his arms. Gracie stiffened and sidestepped him. “Are you worried about running into reporters? Because if you are—”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
Now that the moment of truth had arrived, she found it harder to accuse him of cheating than she’d expected. Harder than it had been to confront Baxter. Still, she rose to the challenge. “There was also an interview with your fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” His deep voice climbed up a notch. His shock appeared genuine, she’d give him points for that. But then, how many times had Baxter looked her straight in the eye and told her he’d been working when he’d really been working his way through the newest crop of medical residents? “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Cheating was bad enough, but lying made it worse. Throat constriction almost prevented her from speaking. “Think hard.” She pushed past him, moving toward the Liberty House truck. “I’m sure the name will come to you.”
He stood in the middle of the drive with his hands spread wide. “I don’t have a clue.”
“Gorgeous blond… angelic features… neck like a damn swan. Does that narrow it down for you?”
“Maya Griffin?” He followed close behind her.
“Bingo. You got it in one.” She climbed into the truck, eager to put a physical barrier between them. He reached out a hand to stop her, and she felt a moment of bloodthirsty anticipation, picturing his fingers smashed in the doorframe. Fortunately, he managed to pull them away before she slammed the door.