The Bourbon Kings #1 (34 page)

As she saw the conservatory looming on the far side of the garden, she braced herself. Her partner had to be in there already, was no doubt picking over all of the bouquets, making sure that not a single wilted petal or leaf marred the perfect presentations before they were taken out to the tables.

She’d probably been here since 6:45.

Just as Lizzie should have been.

And would have been, except for that whole Lane-in-her-bed thing.

“I’m a grown woman,” she told herself. “I say who, I say when, I say …”

Great. She was quoting
Pretty Woman
.

The problem was, if her business partner asked her why she was late, things were going to go from really bad to totally worse. She was a horrible liar, and all the tomato red that was going to hit her face before she could stutter out a non-answer was going to give her away like a billboard.

I SPENT ALL NIGHT BONING LANE BALDWINE.

Or whatever German phrase came close to that.

Squaring her shoulders, Lizzie hiked her bag up a little higher on her shoulder and marched over to the double doors.

As she opened them and stepped into the fragrant, thick air of the conservatory, she decided to lead with—

“You’re a grown woman,” Greta blurted as she looked up from a bouquet. “And I’m sorry. I had no right to … you’re a grown woman and you’re entitled to make your own decisions. I’m really sorry.”

Lizzie released her breath on a oner. “I’m sorry, too.”

Greta pushed her tortoiseshell glasses higher on her nose. “What for? You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—look, I’m ten years older than you. So it’s not just that I have more wrinkles on my face or more wear and tear on my body. I feel like I have to take care of you. You haven’t asked me to, and you probably don’t need it, but that’s how it is—”

“Greta, really. You don’t have to apologize. We’re both under a lot of stress—”

“And besides, I heard he served her with divorce papers yesterday.”

“Word travels fast.” She put her bag down. “How did you find out?”

“One of the maids saw her throw the papers at the deputy.” Greta shook her head. “So classy.”

“I told him not to do it because of me.”

“Well, whatever his reasoning, he followed through on it.” Greta resumed working her way down the tables. “Just promise me something. Watch out for him. This family, they’ve got a history of treating people as disposable, and that never goes well for the toy of the moment.”

Lizzie put her hands on her hips and stared down at her work boots. Which she’d put on in front of Lane—giving him a show that he’d been very vocal about enjoying.

Ouch,
she thought. Her chest really hurt at the very salient reminder that with them resuming their physical relationship, things had changed totally … and not at all.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt like that again.” Greta cleared the emotion out of her voice. “Now, let’s get to work—”

“He’s not like his family. He isn’t.”

Greta paused and stared out at the garden. After a moment, she shook her head. “Lizzie, it’s in his blood. He’s not going to be able to help it.”

W
hen Lane got back to Easterly, he parked his Porsche off to the side, in the shadows of the paved lane that led around back to the garages.

“I’m home now,” he said into his phone. “You want me to come up and re-explain the plan?”

His sister took a while to answer him, and he could just picture Gin shaking her head as she pushed her hair over her shoulder.

“No, I think you’ve covered everything,” she intoned.

He repositioned his U of C baseball cap on his head and stared up at the sky so high above. He’d put the top down as he’d left Lizzie’s, and the roar of the wind as he’d sped home had given him the illusion of freedom he’d been looking for.

God … Lizzie. The only reason he was going to get through today in even halfway decent shape was because of the night he’d spent with her. He’d made love to her for hours … and then, as she’d slept, he had stared up at that ceiling of hers and figured out, step by step, how he needed to proceed.

“Are you going to talk to him today?” Gin asked him roughly.

For once, the “him” was not Edward.

“I want to.” Lane ground his molars. “But not yet. I’m not saying one thing to Father until I know the scope of it all. If I have that conversation before I can prove anything? He’s just going to slash and burn whatever he hasn’t shredded already.”

“So when will you get with him?”

He frowned. “Gin, you say nothing. Are we clear? Do not say one goddamn word—especially to Father.”

“I hate him.”

“Then take the long view. If you want him to get what’s coming?
You need to let him hang himself. Do you understand what I’m saying? You confront him, you’re actually helping him. I’m going to take care of this, but there’s a process. Gin? Do you hear me?”

After a moment, there was a soft chuckle. “You sound like Edward used to.”

For a split second, he felt a bolt of high-octane pride. Then again, every one of them had always looked up to Edward.

“That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he muttered gruffly.

“I mean it.”

“So radio silence today, Gin. And I’ll let you know how we’re progressing.”

“Okay … all right.”

“Good girl. I love you. I’m going to take care of us. All of us.”

“I love you, too, Lane.”

Lane ended the connection and kept watching the clouds. Off in the distance, he could hear the patter of talk, and as he leveled his head, he saw down by the garage a vast group of uniformed waiters clustered around Reginald, the lot of them getting their marching orders.

Gin better keep her mouth shut,
he thought.

William Baldwine was already going to be twitchy from Rosalinda’s death. If Lane—or God forbid Gin, with the likes of her mouth—came at him? He would hide things, disappear records, destroy details.

Assuming anything like that was left.

Lane lolled his head to the side so that he stared at Easterly. How much of this would be left, he wondered.

God. He never would have imagined that thought ever going through his mind.

Well, one thing was clear: William Baldwine’s reign was about to come to an end. Whether it was payback for what the man had done to Edward for all those years … or the fact that his mother had been disrespected … or the reality that it was likely Rosalinda had killed herself because of him …

Funny, that stuff with his own
wife
was the least of what was getting him vindictive.

Had Chantal really gone for his father? And gotten herself pregnant?

Unbelievable.

Made him think he should give his lawyer a little heads-up. A woman capable of that could pull anything out of her derby hat—

Wait, hadn’t Samuel T. said that adultery could be used to reduce alimony?

“Sir? Would you like me to park this car?”

Lane glanced at the uniformed parker who’d walked over. As opposed to the crew of fifty down at the bottom of the hill, there was only one guy stationed up here—and his sole purpose was to handle the University of Charlemont men’s basketball coach’s car. Oh, and route the Presidents’ and the various Governors’ teams of cars and SUVs around.

But Coach’s sedan was the primary and most important priority.

“No, thanks.” He took off the baseball cap and rubbed his hair. “I’m gonna leave—”

“Oh, Mr. Baldwine. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Why would you.” Lane got out and offered his palm. “Thanks for helping us today.”

The young kid stared at the hand he’d been offered for a moment, and then he moved in slowly, like he didn’t want to mess things up or look like an idiot. “Sir. Thank you, sir.”

Lane clapped the parker on the shoulder. “I’m just going to leave her here, okay? I’m not sure whether I’m going to the track or not.”

“Yes, sir. She sure is pretty!”

“Yeah, she is.”

As soon as Lane stepped through the front door, that English butler came forward with a stern expression on his face—as if he’d had to turn a number of people away already. That act was dropped immediately when he saw who it was.

“Sir, how are you?”

“Well enough. I have a request.”

“How may I serve you?”

“I need a suit—”

“I took the liberty of ordering you up a seersucker, blue, with a white shirt—French collar and cuffs—and a pink bow tie with pocket square. It was sent over late yesterday afternoon and pre-tailored to the specifications that Richardson’s had on file. If you require further adjustment to jacket or slacks, I shall send up a maid. And there are also silk socks in pink and a pair of loafers.”

What do you know—that efficiency act might be more than an illusion.

“Thank you so much.” Although he didn’t need it for the Derby and that was clearly what the butler was thinking. “I’ll—”

The sound of the knocker pounding on that massive door made them both turn around.

“I shall take care of that, sir.”

Lane shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was time for him to go through those dressers of his and throw on another change of clothes—

“Brunch workers are to go to the rear entrance,” the butler said in a haughty tone. “You shall have to—”

“I’m here to see William Baldwine.”

Lane froze as he recognized the voice.

“That is absolutely not possible. Mr. Baldwine is not receiving privately—”

Lane wheeled around and recoiled at the sight of the lean, dark-haired man in the disheveled clothes and the expensive leather boots. “Mack?”

“—remove yourself immediately from the—”

Cutting the butler off, Lane went over to a guy he’d grown up with. “Mack? Are you all right?”

Okay, the answer to that was clearly “no.” Bradford’s Master Distiller was looking worse for wear, his normally sharp eyes hung with dark circles, a shading of stubble on his handsome-as-sin face.

“Your father is ruining this company,” Mack blurted out in a series of slurs.

“I’ve got this,” Lane said, dismissing the butler and taking the distiller under the arm. “Come with me.”

He dragged the drunken man up the grand staircase and then frogmarched him down the hall to his bedroom. Inside, he led Mack over to the bed, sat him down, and turned away to shut the door—

The
thump!
of deadweight hitting the floor resounded all around the room.

With a curse, Lane doubled back and lifted the guy off the carpet and back up onto the mattress. Mack was babbling about the integrity of the bourbon-making process, the importance of tradition, the lack of reverence that management was showing the product, how much of a cocksucker someone was …

They were going to get nowhere like this.

“Time to wake up,” Lane said as he got his old buddy up on his feet again. “Come on, big guy.”

Mack had been to the house countless times, but never pickled like this—well, not since they’d transitioned into adulthood. You coupled that with Rosalinda’s information and the fact that the distiller thought William was ruining the company?

Another piece of the pie,
Lane thought. Had to be.

In the marble bathroom, he cranked on the shower and shoved Mack under the cold spray fully clothed.

The howl was loud enough to shatter glass, but at least the shock got the guy to stand up on his own.

Leaving him under the water, Lane went over to the
petit déjeuner
closet in the corner and got to work on the coffee pot, firing up the Keurig.

“You awake now, Mack?” he asked as he brought a mug with the Bradford crest on it into the bath. “Or should I add some ice to the mix?”

Mack glared through his wet hair and the spray. “I should punch you.”

Lane opened the shower’s glass door. “How many of me are there?”

“Two.” The man accepted the mug with his wet hands. “But that’s down from four and a half.”

“So it’s working.”

Mack took a draw of the java at the same time he reached around and juiced the “H” handle. “Coffee’s not bad.”

“Would you know if it were paint thinner?”

“Probably not.”

Lane pointed over his own shoulder. “I’ll be in there, waiting. Robe’s on the back of the door. Do me a favor and don’t come out naked.”

“You couldn’t handle me.”

“Too right.”

Closing things up, Lane went into his closet, put on a set of fresh clothes and then took a load off where Mack had failed to retain verticality. A little later, the Master Distiller made his grand, robed appearance.

The two of them had played basketball together for Charlemont Country Day before they’d gone to college, and the guy was as athletic as he’d always been, with no fat on him and the lanky build of a man who could play golf like a pro, run a marathon better than idiots ten years younger than he was, and still plow the lane on a b-ball court.

Oh, and there was still nothing stupid in those unusual, pale brown eyes. In a romance novel, Mac’s peepers would have been called whiskey or something—but it wasn’t the uncommon color that had gotten all those women into the guy’s bed.

No, there had been so much more to all of that.

And people called him a lady’s man?
Lane thought to himself. Edwin MacAllan was worse.

“You got any more of this?” Mack held the mug up. “I think another gallon should do it.”

“Help yourself. It’s single-serve, in there.”

The guy glanced over at the open door to the little kitchen. “Right, I make bourbon. I should be able to handle caffeine.”

“On that note, let me do the duty again. I need some myself, and burning down the house this morning would be a buzzkill.”

The two of them ended up in the chaise lounges over by the windows like a pair of little old ladies. Little old ladies who both needed a shave.

“Talk to me.” Lane plugged his elbows into his knees. “What’s going on at the company.”

Mack shook his head. “It’s bad. I’ve been drunk for two days.”

“Like the latter’s ever stopped you before. We went on spring break together, remember? Six times. Of which only two were actually on the school calendar.”