The Bourbon Kings #1 (36 page)

When he was through, he shoved himself off of her and tucked himself away. “I want you to change. Red is vulgar.”

“I will not—”

With a quick move, he grabbed the skirt and ripped it in two, right up the front. Then he jabbed his finger in her face. “You show up in something else red and we shall have words. Test me if you wish.”

Richard left, striding out and shutting the door with a declarative clap.

It was only then that Gin started to shake, her body trembling hard, particularly her open thighs. Sitting up, she felt a welling between her legs.

That was when she began to throw up.

She emptied her stomach into the ruined skirt—not that she’d eaten much in the last twenty-four hours, anyway. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she felt her eyes sting, but she pulled herself back from that ledge.

In her mind, she heard her father telling her she was worthless. That marrying Richard Pford was the only thing she would ever do for the family.

She wasn’t doing it for the family.

As usual, she had made the decision in her own selfish interest.

After much introspection, she had come to acknowledge a fundamental truth about herself: She couldn’t survive in any other world. And Richard could give her this lifestyle she needed—even as her family might no longer be able to.

It was going to cost her, apparently … but she had lost her self-respect years ago.

To sacrifice her body at the altar of money?

Fine. She would do what she had to.

I
n retrospect, it was the very best day to play Hardy Boys with a computer at the Old Site.

As Lane parked Mack’s truck behind the two-hundred-year-old cabin and the various storage barns, there was no one around. No administrators. No floor workers. No one accepting deliveries of supplies. No tourists, either.

“That coffee helped,” Mack said as they both got out.

“Good.”

“You want some of this PowerBar?”

“Not without a gun to my head.”

Heading over to the refurbished log cabin, Lane stood to one side as Mack put his pass card through the reader and pushed his way inside. The interior glowed with old wood carefully tended to, the light from outside passing through bubbled glass that had been added in the late 1800s. Rustic armchairs offered those waiting places to sit, and a trestle table with a lot of modern office equipment was clearly where Mack’s assistant spent her time.

“How long since you’ve been here?” the Master Distiller asked as he hit the light switch.

“Actually, about a day or two.” When the guy looked over, Lane shrugged. “Needed a place to think, so I went and sat around the barrels. I used the old pass code.”

“Ah. Yeah, I do that, too.”

“It didn’t help.”

“Doesn’t work for me, either, but maybe one day.” Mack nodded to the rear of the reception area. “I’m still here in the back.”

The Distiller’s office took up most of the cabin’s interior, and for a moment, as Lane stepped into the space, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The M.D. of the Bradford Bourbon Company was nearly a religious figure in not just the organization, but the state of Kentucky as a whole, and that made this place sacred—accordingly, its walls were covered from floor to ceiling with a pastiche of the company’s liquor labels dating from the mid-1800s all the way up to the early 2000s.

“God, it’s just the same.” Lane looked around, tracing the evidence of his family’s history. “My grandfather used to take me here when they were putting it all together for the first time as a tourist site. I was five or six and he’d bring only me. I think it was because he wanted an architect in the family, and knew that Edward was company bound, and Max wasn’t going to turn into anything.”

“What did you end up doing with yourself?” Mack sat down behind his desk and turned on his computer. “Last I heard you were in New York?”

“Poker.”

“I’m sorry?”

Lane cleared his throat, and felt inadequate. “I, ah, I play poker. Made more money than I would’ve if I’d gotten a desk job—considering I majored in psychology and haven’t worked my entire adult life.”

“So you’re good with the cards.”

“Very.” He changed the subject by nodding at the walls. “Where are your labels?”

The computer let out a
beeeep
, and then Mack signed in at the log-in screen. “Haven’t put any up.”

“Come on, now.”

“My father’s thirty-fifth run of Family Reserve, right over there”—he pointed to the far corner, by the floor—“was the last.”

Lane grabbed a chair from a conference table and rolled it across the bare, polished floorboards. “You need to get your batches counted.”

“Uh-huh.” Mack sat back in the great leather throne. “So what do you need? What can I try to find for you?”

Lane moved in next to the guy and focused on the blue-green glow of the computer screen. “Financials. I need profit and loss statements over time, account balances, transfer records.”

Mack whistled under his breath. “That’s uphill of my pay grade. Corporate’s got all that—wait, the board book.”

“What’s that?” Jesus, shouldn’t he know?

Mack started going through the file system, opening documents, and hitting
Print.
“It’s the materials handed out in advance of the Trustees’ meetings. Senior management gets them—and so do I. Of course, the real stuff happens behind closed doors with the executive committee an hour before the open session, and there are no notes on that. But this should give you an idea of the company—or at least what they’re telling the Board about the company.”

As the man started handing over page after page from the printer, Lane frowned. “What exactly goes down at the executive committee?”

“It’s where they debate the meat of things, as well as the stuff they don’t want anyone else to know about. I don’t think there are even minutes taken.”

“Who attends?”

“Your father.” Over came two more pages. “The company’s general counsel. The board chair and vice chair. CFO, COO. And then there are special guests, depending on the issues. I was called in once when they were debating changing the formula for No. Fifteen. I shot that bright idea down and they must have agreed with me because the folly never
surfaced again. I was in that boardroom only long enough to be heard, and then I was escorted out.”

“Do you know if they have an agenda in advance?”

“I would think so. When I went, there were four other people waiting in the hall with me, so they were working off some kind of plan. It’s all run out of your father’s offices at your house.”

Lane started going through the papers that were still warm from having been through the machine. Minutes of the previous meeting. Attendance. Updates on operations that he didn’t understand.

He needed a translator.

Who he could trust.

And greater access.

Mack went on to print out the previous three board meetings’ worth of materials. Clipped it all together. Put it in files.

“I need to borrow your truck,” Lane said as he stared at the pile.

“Drop me at home and it’s yours. I should try to sober up, anyway.”

“I owe you.”

“Just save this company. And we are more than even.”

As Mack put his palm out, Lane shook it. Hard. “Whatever it takes. No matter who it hurts.”

The Master Distiller closed his eyes. “Thank you, God.”

L
ike watching exotic animals at the zoo, Lizzie thought.

Standing at the very edge of the tent, she watched the glittering people wind in and out of the tables she and Greta had set up. The talk was loud, the perfume thick, the jewels flashing. All of the women were in hats and flats. The men were in pale suits and a couple even wore cravats and bowlers.

It was the kind of fantasy life that so many thought they wanted to live.

She knew the truth, however. After all these years working at Easterly, she was well aware that the rich were not inoculated against tragedy.

Their cocoon of luxury just made them think they were.

God, those spreadsheets that Rosalinda had left behind—

“Quite a sight, isn’t it.”

Lizzie looked over. “Miss Aurora—I can’t believe you’re out here. You never leave the kitchen during the brunch.”

The woman’s tired eyes surveyed the guests, the setup, the uniformed waiters with the sterling silver mint julep cups on sterling silver trays. “They’re moving my food.”

“Of course they are. Your menu is exquisite.”

“The champagne flutes are holding.”

Lizzie nodded and refocused on the crowd. “We’ve got about a hundred in reserve at the moment. The waiters are doing a great job.”

“Where’s your partner?”

For a split second, she almost gave the woman a Lane update. Which was crazy—and wouldn’t have amounted to much. All she knew was that he’d left with Edwin MacAllan, the Master Distiller, about an hour ago. Or had it been two?

“Greta’s over there.” She pointed to the opposite corner. “She’s riding herd on the flutes. Says finding the used ones that have been set aside is an Easter-egg hunt on steroids. Or … at least I think that’s what she said. Her last report had a lot of German in it—usually not the best sign.”

Miss Aurora shook her head. “That wasn’t who I was asking about. It was good to see you and Lane in the same room again.”

“Ah …” Lizzie cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“He’s a good boy, you know.”

“Listen, Miss Aurora, there’s nothing going on between him and me.” Other than eight hours of sex the evening before. “He’s married.”

“For now. That woman is trash.”

Can’t disagree there,
Lizzie thought. “Well …”

“Lizzie, he’s going to need you.”

Lizzie put up her palms to try to derail the conversation. “Miss Aurora, he and I—”

“You’re going to have to be there for him. There’s a lot that’s going to fall on his shoulders.”

“So you know? About … everything?”

“He’s going to need someone with a level head to stand by him.” Miss Aurora’s face became very grim. “He’s a good man, but he’s going to be tried in ways he never has been. He’s going to need you.”

“What did Rosalinda tell you?”

Before Miss Aurora could answer, a tall, striking brunette woman came up out of the crowd. And instead of passing by, she stopped and put her hand forward. “Lizzie King, my name’s Sutton Smythe.”

Lizzie recoiled—but then got with the program and accepted what was offered. “I know who you are.”

“I just wanted to tell you how incredibly beautiful these gardens are. Astonishing! You and Mrs. von Schlieber are true artists.”

There was nothing lurking behind the woman’s open expression, no falsity, no ulterior anything—and the lack of shady made Lizzie think of Chantal’s fake lady-like stuff.

“That’s very kind of you.”

Sutton took a sip from her mint julep cup, and the massive ruby on her right ring finger glowed. “I’d love to have you over to my property, but I know better—and I respect those boundaries. I did have to let you know how much I respect your talent, however.”

“Thank you.”

“You are so welcome.”

Sutton smiled and walked off—or at least tried to. She didn’t make it far, people crowding around her, talking at her, the women sizing up her clothes, the men sizing up her non-financial assets.

“You know,” Lizzie murmured, “she’s a nice person.”

When there was no reply, she looked over. Miss Aurora was heading back for the kitchen’s door, her gait slow and unsteady as if her feet hurt—and why wouldn’t they. Plus come on, she’d been in the ER how many days ago?

Lizzie was glad the cook had come out for once to see the grand finale of all their collective effort. Maybe next year, they could get her to stay for a little while longer.

Across the tent, Chantal was sitting at a table with seven other
women who were versions of her, namely brightly colored, expensive birds with their plumage largely paid for by the men in their lives. In twenty years, after whatever children they had had washed out of their households, they were going to look like wax figurines of themselves, everything jacked up, and filled, and enhanced.

And actually, they did work: Their profession was breeding and remaining attractive to their husbands.

A lot like the mares that had given birth to the thoroughbreds who were racing on that track in a couple of hours.

Lizzie thought of her farm, which she had paid for herself. No one could take that away from her—she had earned it.

Far better than being a perpetual suck-up.

As she took out her phone and checked to see if Lane had texted her, she told herself it was different between the two of them because she didn’t need his money, she didn’t care about his position, and she wasn’t going to be told what to do by anybody.

When she saw there was nothing on her phone, a stabbing sensation hit her chest—and she studiously ignored it as she put her cell away.

It
was
different between her and Lane—

Crap. Why was she thinking as if they were back together?