she decided as she looped Hank’s laces into a serviceable bow. And wow, was the man good at butlering. He totally sounded like someone who was being paid good money to be cool and detached.
“Mr. Dunbarton,” Gus replied.
Oh. Okay. Not the butler. Brent’s brother. She couldn’t remember what Brent’s voice had sounded like, but she was sure it hadn’t been anywhere near as solemn.
Laces tied, Clara stood to greet their host, and... And took a small step backward, her breath catching in her chest. Because Hank’s father had risen from the grave, looking as somber as death itself.
Or maybe not. On closer consideration, Clara saw little of Brent in his brother’s blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair. Brent’s eyes had laughed with merriment, and his hair had been long enough to dance in the ocean breeze. The salient cheekbones, trenchant jaw and elegant nose were the same, but none were burnished by the caress of salt and sun. And the mouth... Oh, the mouth. Brent’s mouth had been perpetually curled into an irreverent smile, full and beautiful, the kind of mouth that incited a woman to commit mayhem. This version was flat and uncompromising, clearly not prone to smiles. And where Brent had worn nothing but T-shirts and baggy shorts, this man was dressed in charcoal trousers, a crisp white Oxford shirt, maroon necktie and black vest.
So it wasn’t Zombie Brent. It was Brent’s very much alive brother. Brent’s very much alive twin brother. The mirror image of a man who had, one summer, filled Clara with a happiness unlike any she had ever known, and left her with the gift of a son who would ensure that happiness stayed with her forever.
A mirror image of that man who resembled him not at all.
* * *
She wasn’t what he’d expected.
Then again, Grant Dunbarton wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected the mother of Brent’s son to be. His brother had been completely indiscriminate when it came to women. Brent had been indiscriminate about everything. Women, cars, clothes. Friends, family, society. Promises, obligations, responsibilities. You name it, it had held Brent’s attention for as long as it interested him—which was rarely more than a few days. Then he’d moved on to something else. He’d been the poster child for Peter Pan Syndrome, no matter how old he was.
Actually, Grant reconsidered, there had been one way his brother discriminated when it came to women. All of them had been jaw-droppingly beautiful. Clara Easton was no exception. Her hair was a riot of black curls, her mouth was as plump and red as a ripe pepper and her eyes were a green so pale and so clear they seemed to go on forever. She was tall, too, probably pushing six feet in her spike-heeled boots.
She might have looked imperious, but she had her arm roped protectively around her son in a way that indicated she was clearly uncomfortable. Grant supposed that shouldn’t be surprising. It wasn’t every day that a woman who’d been spawned by felons and raised in a string of sketchy environments discovered she’d given birth to the equivalent of American royalty.
Because the Dunbartons of Park Avenue—formerly the Dunbartons of Rittenhouse Square and, before that, the Dunbartons of Beacon Hill—were a family whose name had, since Revolutionary times, been mentioned in the same breath with the Hancocks, Astors, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. Still, Grant admired her effort to make herself look invulnerable. It was actually kind of cute.
And then there was the boy. He was going to be a problem. Except for his hair and eye color—both a contribution from his mother—he was a replica of his father at that age. Grant hoped his own mother didn’t fall apart again when she saw Henry Easton. She’d been a mess since hearing the news of Brent’s drowning off the coast of Sri Lanka in the spring. It had only been last month that she’d finally pulled herself together enough to go through his things. Then, when she came across the will none of them knew he’d made and discovered he had a child none of them knew he’d fathered, she’d broken down again.
This time, though, there had been joy tempering the grief. There was a remnant of Brent out there in the world somewhere. In Georgia, of all places. Grant had been worried they’d need a paternity test to ensure Henry Easton really was a Dunbarton before they risked dashing his mother’s hopes. But the boy’s undeniable resemblance to Brent—and to Grant, for that matter—made that unnecessary.
“Ms. Easton,” he said as warmly as he could—though, admittedly, warmth wasn’t his strong suit. Brent had pretty much sucked up all the affability genes in the Dunbarton DNA while they were still in the womb. Which was fine, because it left Grant with all the efficiency genes, and those carried a person a lot further in life. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You, too,” he told Henry.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Dunbarton,” Clara said, her voice low and husky and as bewitching as the rest of her.
A Southern drawl tinted her words, something Grant would have thought he’d find disagreeable, but instead found...well, kind of hot.
She nudged her son lightly. “Right, Hank? Say hello to Mr. Dunbarton.”
“Hello, Mr. Dunbarton,” the boy echoed dutifully.
Grant did his best to smile. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Dunbarton. You can call me...”
He started to say Uncle Grant, but the words got stuck in his throat. Uncle wasn’t a word that sat well with him. Uncles were affable, easygoing guys who told terrible jokes and pulled nickels from people’s ears. Uncles wore argyle sweaters and brought six-packs to Thanksgiving dinner. Uncles taught their nephews the things fathers wouldn’t, like where to hide their Playboys and how to get fake IDs. No way was Grant suited to the role of uncle.
So he said, “Call me Grant.” When he looked at Clara Easton again, he added, “You, too.”
“Thank you...Grant,” she said. Awkwardly. In her Southern accent. That was kind of hot.
She glanced at her son. But Henry remained silent, only gazing at Grant with his mother’s startlingly green eyes.
“Come in,” he said to all of them.
August Fiver did, but Clara hesitated, clearly not confident of their reception, her arm still draped around her son’s shoulder.
“Please,” Grant tried again, extending his hand toward the interior. “You are welcome here.”
Clara still didn’t look convinced, but the intrepid Henry took an experimental step forward, his gaze never leaving Grant’s. Then he took a second, slightly larger, step. Then a third, something that pulled him free of his mother’s grasp. She looked as if she wanted to yank him back, but remained rooted where she stood.
“My mother is looking forward to meeting you,” Grant said, hoping the mention of another woman might make her feel better. But mention of his mother only made her look more panicked.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Easton?”
By now, Henry had followed Fiver through the door, so the three of them looked expectantly at Clara. She glanced first at her son, then at Grant. For a moment, he honestly thought she would grab her son and bolt. Then, finally, she strode forward. Again, Grant was impressed by her attempt to seem more confident than she was. This time, though, it didn’t seem cute. This time, it seemed kind of...
Hmm. That was weird. For a minute there, he felt toward Clara the way she must have felt when she roped her arm protectively around
