The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (17 page)

Even that English butler was
in absentia
. Although that was less eerie so much as appreciated.

Outside, night was falling, the darkness easing over the land, smudging the edges of Charlemont’s extraordinary trees and the Ohio’s liquid low point with gray and black pastels.

Checking his phone, he cursed that Edward had yet to call, and to excise his unease, he opened a set of French doors and stepped out onto the terrace that overlooked the garden and the river down below. Walking over to the far edge, his loafers marked the flagstones with a sharp sound that made him think of cursing.

It seemed unbelievable that the grandeur surrounding him, the trimmed flower and ivy beds, the old stone statues, the flowering fruit trees, the pool house, the majesty of the business center … was anything other than rock solid. Permanent. Unalterable.

He
thought of everything that was inside the house. The Old Masters paintings. The Aubusson and Persian rugs. The Baccarat crystal chandeliers. The Tiffany and Christofle and even Paul Revere sterling. The Meissen and Limoges and Sèvres porcelain. The Royal Crown Derby sets of dishes and countless Waterford glasses. And then there was his mother’s jewelry, a collection so vast, it had a walk-in safe as big as some people’s clothes closets.

There had to be seventy or eighty million dollars in all those assets. Well over triple that, if you counted the paintings—after all, they had three properly documented Rembrandts, thanks to his grandparents’ obsession with the artist.

The problem? None of it was in cash form. And before it turned green, so to speak, there would need to be valuations, estimates, auctions arranged, and all of that would be so very public. Plus you would have to pay a percentage to Christie’s or Sotheby’s. And maybe there would be faster dispositions with private sales, but those, too, would have to be brokered and would take time.

It was like bringing blocks of ice to a fire. Helpful, but not urgent enough.

“Hey.”

He pivoted toward the house. “Lizzie.”

As he held his arms out, she came to him readily, and for a moment, the pressure was off. She was a breeze through his hair when it was hot, the sweet relief as he put a load down, the exhale before he closed his eyes for sleep desperately needed.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” she asked as she stroked his back.

“I don’t know.”

“We can, if you want. Or I can go and give you some peace.”

“No, I want to be with you.” And as he ran his hand up and down her waist, he just wanted to get closer. “Come here.”

Taking her hand, he led her around the corner and into the garden she had masterminded, the pair of them going past the formal greenhouse and hooking up with the brick path that led to the pool. His body heated
up even further as they closed in on the changing house with its awnings and lanai, its loungers, bar, and grill. The pool itself was lit from down below, the aquamarine glow getting stronger as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared over the Indiana side of the river.

Crickets sounded, but it was too early in the season for the fireflies to come out. The enchantment of the soft, humid night was everywhere, though, a melody that was as sexual as a naked form even though it was invisible.

Inside the pool house, there were three dressing rooms, each with its own shower and bath, and he picked the first one because it was the largest. Drawing Lizzie into the sitting area, he shut and locked the door.

He left the lights out. With the pool’s glimmer coming through the windows, he could see plenty well enough.

“I’ve been waiting to do this all day long.”

As he spoke, he pulled her in to his body, feeling her against his chest, her hips on his, her shoulders under his hands.

Her mouth was soft and sweet, and as he licked his way inside, she whispered his name on a gasp that made him want to go so much further so much faster. But there were things he needed to tell her. Suspicions he feared but had to share. Plans to be made.

“Lizzie …”

Her hands went through his hair. “Yes?”

“I know this is the wrong time. On so many levels.”

“We can go back to the house to your room.”

Lane broke away and started pacing around the cramped space. Which was like someone trying to go for a stroll around the inside of a gym locker. “I wanted this to be perfect.”

“So let’s go back.”

“I wish I had more to offer you. And I will. After all this. I don’t know what it will look like—but there will be something in the future.” He was aware he was prattling on, talking to himself. “Maybe it’s that farm in your daydreams. Or a grease-monkey garage. Or a diner. But I swear, it’s not always going to be like this.”

And he’ll be divorced. Damn it, maybe he should wait?

Except
no, he decided. Life felt very precarious at the moment, and he had always regretted the time they had missed. Waiting to do the right thing, to do what you wanted and needed for yourself and the one you loved, was a luxury for the lucky clueless who had not yet had tragedy in their lives.

And also he wanted to start their future away from Easterly and Charlemont right here, right now. He wanted her to know, on a visceral level, that she was a priority to him, too. Even as Rome burned, she was important, and not because she was some kind of plane ticket out of hell for him. But because he loved her and he was more than looking forward to building a life together with her.

In fact, he was desperate for the freedom he was trying to earn during this awful grind.

As he glanced at her, Lizzie just shook her head and smiled at him. “I don’t need anything more than you.”

“God … I love you. And this should be perfect.”

As in happening in a different place. With a ring. And champagne and a string quartet—

No, he thought, as he properly focused on his Lizzie. She wasn’t Chantal. She wasn’t interested in that country club check list of stuff just so she could share it with her friends in the Wedding Olympics.

Sinking down onto one knee, Lane took her hands in his and kissed each one. As her eyes flared, like she suddenly guessed what was coming and couldn’t believe it, he found himself smiling.

A pool house. Who knew that this was going to happen in a pool house?

Well, better than in front of half the Charlemont Metro Police Department with their guns drawn.

“Will you marry me?” he said.

E
dward
took the long way home, coasting over the rural lanes that wound in and out of Ogden County’s famous horse farms, the headlights of Shelby’s truck the only illumination anywhere in the rolling landscape, the window all the way down beside him. The air was warm and gentle on his face and he breathed deep a lot … but his hands were tight on the wheel, and his gut was rolling.

He kept thinking of Sutton with that politician of hers.

Indeed, from all he’d heard, the Shit Dagney was actually a gentleman. The governor had been faithful to his wife, and unlike a lot of men, after he’d become a widower, he hadn’t run off with some twenty-five-year-old rent-a-fantasy. Instead, he’d focused on his kids and the Commonwealth.

And you could actually believe all that was true because if there had been anything to the contrary, the newspapers would have reported it or the man’s opponents would have brought it out during the campaigns.

So, yes, a gentleman through and through, it seemed. But that didn’t mean he was dead from the neck down. Hell, a man would have to be insane not to recognize Sutton as a full-blooded woman. And the fact that she was worth billions of dollars didn’t hurt, either.

Even
penniless, though, she would have been a catch beyond measure. She was levelheaded. Fun. Passionate. Silly and sweet and smart. Capable of standing up to a man and calling him on his stupidity, while at the same time making you feel every ounce of testosterone in your body.

But she was wrong about one thing. That man, sitting governor or not, was going to make a move on her tonight.

The shit.

The truly pathetic thing was, however, that the governor’s amorous side wasn’t what really bothered Edward. It was Sutton’s rightful response that, as much as he hated to admit it, was the real reason he was out here, going around in circles.

Bottom line, the Shit Dagney was an amazing man, worthy of her in too many ways to count. And she was going to figure that out.

And there was nothing that Edward could do about it.

Or
should
do about it, for heaven’s sake. Come on, what the hell was wrong with him? Why in the good goddamn would he want to cheat her out of a potentially fulfilling, happy, healthy relationship—

Because I want her for myself.

As his inner voice went center stage and bullhorn, the only thing that stopped him from driving into a tree just to shut the thing up was the fact that he had no right to wreck Shelby’s truck.

So he settled for banging the steering wheel a couple of times and carpet-bombing the inside of the cab with the f-word.

Many miles and miles later, when Edward finally decided to actually go to the Red & Black instead of drive around like a sixteen-year-old kid whose cheerleader girlfriend was going to the prom with another football player, he discovered that he’d managed to burn through half a tank of Shelby’s gas. Pulling into a Shell station, he eased up to one of three vacant pumps and went for his credit card—but nope. No wallet.

Cursing, he got back in and went on to the Red & Black’s main entrance. As he turned in between the two stone pillars, he was no closer to feeling at peace, but driving around all night and leaving Shelby on empty wasn’t the solution. All that was going to get him was a hitchhike proposition
and an embarrassing conversation when she and Moe and/or Joey had to go and bring her truck home.

After parking in front of Barn B, Edward took the keys with him and then doubled back to crank the window up. Limping over to the cottage, he opened the door and expected it to be empty.

Instead, Shelby was asleep in his chair, her legs tucked up to her chest and her head kicked to the side. Looking past her, he saw the kitchen had been cleaned up, and he would have bet the last of his mobility that there was a bowl full of that stew waiting in the refrigerator for him.

He shut the door softly. “Shelby?”

She came awake, jumping from the chair with a lithe surge he envied. Her ponytail had gotten shoved out of place, and she yanked the tie free, her hair tumbling around her shoulders.

It was longer than he’d thought. Blonder, too.

“What time is it?” she said as she regathered the waves, tying them back up again.

“Almost ten o’clock.”

“The mare isn’t coming in now, is she?”

“No, she is not.”

“I left you a bowl in the refrigerator.”

“I know.” He found himself tracking her movements, everything from the subtle shift of her feet to the way she tucked that stray hair behind her ear. “I know you did. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

As she went by him, he took her arm. “Don’t go.”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes … they stayed on the floorboards beneath their boots. But her breath quickened and he knew what her answer was going to be.

“Stay with me tonight,” he heard himself say. “Not for sex. Just … stay with me.”

Shelby didn’t move for the longest time.

But in the end, she took his hand, and he followed her into the dim bedroom. The glow from the security lights on the barns bled through the
homemade gingham curtains, casting gentle shadows off the plain bureau and the modest, queen-sized bed that didn’t even have a head-board.

He wasn’t sure there were sheets under the duvet.

He’d been sleeping in that chair a lot since he’d moved in. Or passing out in the damn thing was more like it.

Edward went into the bathroom and used the facilities before brushing his teeth. When he came out, she had pulled the covers back.

“I washed these yesterday,” she said as he approached the other side of the bed. “I wasn’t sure whether you slept in here or not.”

“You shouldn’t take care of me.”

“I know.”

She got in first, fully clothed, and once again he envied her easy movements, her legs stretching out without cracking, her back reclining with no hitches or gasps. His trip to the horizontal, in contrast, was paved with groans and curses, and he had to catch his breath when he finally got his head on the thin pillow.

Shelby turned to him, and her hand moved across his hollow stomach. He stiffened, even though he had a T-shirt on. And a fleece.

“You’re cold,” she said.

“Am I?” He cranked his head to the side to look at her. “I think you’re right—”

She kissed him, her soft lips brushing his.

Inching back, she whispered, “You don’t have to say it.”

“What?”

“You owe me nothin’ ’cept this job. And I don’t need nothin’ from you other than it.”

He grunted as he lifted his arm so he could run a fingertip over her jaw and down onto her throat. He found that he was glad things were dark.