The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (36 page)

“I ate before I came.”

“How long are you here for?”

“I don’t know. Long as I can stand it.”

“In that case, we might as well say our good-byes now,” Lane said dryly.

Funny, his brother’s roughneck exterior belied the fact that Max had a Yale education behind that scruff. Proof positive you shouldn’t judge books
by covers, et cetera … although maybe the guy had done so many drugs that he’d rusted all that higher learning out of his brain cells.

“You know …” Max cleared his throat. “I have no idea why I came back.”

“Well, a piece of advice. Find that out before you leave. It’s more efficient. Oh, but make sure you say hello to Miss Aurora, okay? She’s going to want to see you.”

“Yeah. And yes, I know she’s ill.”

For a split second, a flag got raised, but Lane lost track of the warning or instinct or whatever it was. And then a flash of silver blue outside in the circular drive caught his eye. It was Sutton Smythe out in the rain, her hairdo ruined, her fancy suit soaked, her high heels splashing through puddles. She wasn’t running, though. She was walking as slowly as if it were just the gloaming on a summer night.

“Sutton!” Lane called out as he rushed for the doorway. “Do you want an umbrella?”

Dumbass question. It was way too late for that.

She turned to him on a startle, and seemed to recognize where she was for the first time. “Oh, ah, no, thank you. I appreciate it, though. My condolences.”

Her chauffeur jumped out from behind the wheel of the C63 she’d come in. Then doubled back and fumbled for an umbrella. “Miss Smythe!”

“I’m fine,” she said as he ran over to her. “Don, I’m fine.”

As the man got her into the backseat of the car and then the Mercedes took off down Easterly’s hill, Lane stayed in the mansion’s entrance, the breath of the storm hitting him with a wet kiss. When he finally eased back around, Max was gone and so was the duffel he’d brought with him.

No doubt he’d proceeded down to the kitchen.

Putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Lane looked around at the empty rooms. The waitstaff had removed the bars and returned the furniture to its proper place. His mother had retired upstairs once again, and he had to wonder when, if ever, she would come down once more.
Lizzie was off somewhere, likely organizing the rented tablecloths, napkins, and glasses for pick-up to keep herself from jumping out of her skin.

And Edward? He must have left.

All around him, the mansion was quiet as the wind battered the highest point in Charlemont, as the streaks of deadly lightning lashed out, as the thunder cursed and swore.

Taking his cue from Sutton, he walked out of the door and lifted his face to all the fury. The rain was cold against his skin and spiked with hail. The gusts battered his body. The threat of a strike increased as the core of the storm rolled ever closer.

His clothes slapped and flapped against him, reminding him of the fall from the bridge. The sting in his eyes made him blink, and a sense that he was plummeting made the drop down to the river below seem as close as his own hand.

But there was a truism that kept him upright, a strength that he tapped into, a power that came from within.

As Easterly withstood the onslaught … so would he.

W
hen Edward returned to the Red & Black, he parked Shelby’s truck in front of the caretaker’s cottage, killed the engine and shucked the key from the ignition. But he didn’t immediately get out. Not because of the storm, though.

As raindrops pelted the windshield like God was angry at him but couldn’t get His hands on anything better to throw, images of Sutton lying back on that conference table, her body so gloriously naked as she gasped and moaned, replaced even the overwhelming storm that was rushing over the land.

Looking through the deluge to the cottage, he knew Shelby was waiting for him there. With dinner. And a bottle of alcohol. And after he finished eating and drinking, they would go back to that bedroom and lie together side by side in the darkness, him sleeping and her … well, he didn’t know if she slept or not.

He had never asked.

Tucking the key into the visor, he disembarked and was pushed against the wet flank of the truck bed by the wind. Throwing wide a steadying arm, he didn’t want to go inside. But staying out here—

Promptly,
all was forgotten.

There was some kind of chaos going on at Barn B. All the lights in the place were on, for one thing, which was rare. But even more alarming, there were a dozen people swarming around the open doors at the rear.

Pushing himself off the truck, Edward limped across the grass toward the drama, and soon enough, even over the wind, he heard the shrieks from the horses.

Or, rather, one particular stallion.

When he got to the nearest door, he hobbled inside as fast as he could, passing through the tack and supply room, pushing out into the stalls area and going down the aisle—

“What the
hell
are you doing?” he hollered over the screaming and the yelling.

Nebekanzer was spooked wild in his berth, the stallion bucking and thrashing, his back hooves having splintered the bottom door to the stall. And Shelby—like a complete raving lunatic—had climbed over the top of the bars that were still in place and was trying to catch his bridle.

Stable hands and also Moe and Joey, were right there with her, but the bars were separating them, and oh, God, she was right in range of the stallion’s gnashing teeth and thrashing head, the one who was most likely to get thrown to the ground and have her head cracked open like a melon on the cement if she went one way—or trampled under those hooves if she went the other.

Edward moved before he was conscious of making the decision to get all up in there, even though Joey was closer, stronger and younger than he was. But by the time he got all the way down to …

Shelby caught the stallion’s bridle.

And somehow, as she made eye contact with the beast, she managed to hold her body in place upside down by squeezing her thighs on the top of the bars, and simultaneously arch down and start blowing directly into the horse’s nostrils. This gave the stable hands just enough time to open the ruined door and get it out of the way so that the wood splinters didn’t cut Neb any further and replace it with a sturdy nylon webbing.
At the same moment, Shelby threw her hand out through the bars and one of the men put a head mask in it.

It took her a split second to get the contraption over Neb’s eyes and secured under his throat.

Then she kept blowing into those flaring nostrils, the stallion settling down, his panicked, blood-streaked flanks falling into a twitching display of partially leashed power, his belly pumping in and out … even as his steel-shod hooves became still in the sawdust.

Shelby righted herself with the grace of a gymnast. Climbed down. Ducked into the stall.

And Edward realized for the first time since he’d been kidnapped that he was terrified about something.

One of the few rules he’d given Jeb Landis’s daughter when she’d started to work here was the same across-the-board that applied to everybody at the Red & Black: No one got close to Neb but Edward.

Yet there she was, a hundred pounds of five foot five, in an enclosed space with that killer.

Edward hung back and watched her smooth her palms down the stallion’s neck as she spoke to him. She wasn’t stupid, though. She nodded to one of the hands, who unhooked the netting on the side closest to her. If Neb started going at it again, she could get to safety in the blink of an eye.

As if sensing his regard, Shelby looked over at Edward. There was nothing apologetic in her stare. Nothing boastful, either.

She had saved the horse from seriously injuring—or even killing—himself in a professional, expert fashion, without putting herself at undue risk. After all, Neb could have punctured an artery on that shredded, knife-sharp ruined door, and she could very easily have been terribly hurt as well.

It was beautiful to see, actually.

And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

Joey, Moe’s son, was standing on the periphery and staring at Shelby with an expression on his face that suggested the twenty-something man had regressed to being a sixteen-year-old boy again … and Shelby was the prom queen he wanted to dance with.

Which
was proof that we were always every age we had ever been.

And also not something Edward particularly appreciated. With a frown, he was struck by a nearly irresistible urge to put himself right between the pair of them. He wanted to be a billboard with H
ANDS
O
FF
on it. A living, breathing caution tape. A foghorn of warning.

But the protective instinct was rooted in the concern of a big brother watching out for his little sister.

Sutton had reminded him, in the most basic of ways, that she would forever be the only woman for him.

U
pstairs in whoever-the-hell-Bradford-ancestor’s bedroom, Jeff hit print and put his hand out in front of the Brother machine. The ink-jet made a rhythmic whirring sound, and moments later, a perfect line-up of numbers came out. And then another. And a final one.

There were tiny words on the three pages, too, explanations for line items, notations he had spent the last two hours typing out on a laptop.

The most significant thing on the sheet, however, was the title.

BRADFORD BOURBON COMPANY

OPERATIONAL DEFICIT SUMMARY

Jeff put the document down on the desk, right on the keyboard of the open laptop. Then he looked over the snow pile of papers, notes, account reports, tables, and charts on the antique desk.

He was done.

Finished.

At least with the part where he traced the rerouting of accounts receivable payments and operating capital.

On second thought … he picked up the report, and made sure he was logged out of the laptop. He’d changed his password. Encoded all his work. And only sent his private e-mail account an electronic copy.

Pulling out the flash drive he’d used from the USB port, he put the thing in the pocket of his slacks. Then he went over and sat at the foot of
the messy bed. As he stared at the desk, he thought … yup, just like his office in Manhattan.

Where he worked for a corporation. Along with a thousand other human calculators, as Lane put it.

Across the way, his packed luggage was lined up by the door. He’d been fishing through it all for whatever he needed, knowing he wasn’t staying.

The damn things looked like they were mortally wounded and bleeding his clothes and toiletries.

At the knock on the door, he said, “Yup.”

Tiphanii walked in, and wow, her jeans were as tight as skin and her loose top was as low cut as a string bikini. With her hair down and her make-up done, she was youth and sex and excitement all in a naughty little package that she was happy to have on display for him.

“Congratulations,” she said as she shut the door and locked it. “And I’m glad you texted for me to come celebrate.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He moved back on the bed and nodded at the report. “I’ve been working non-stop. Feels weird not to have it hanging over me.”

“I snuck up the back stairs,” she said as she put her purse down.

“Is that a new Louis?” he drawled as he nodded to the thing.

“This?” She picked the printed LV satchel back up. “It is, actually. You have good taste. I love men from the city.”

“That is my home.”

Tiphanii’s lips went into a pout. “Does that mean you’re going to be leaving soon?”

“You going to miss me?”

She came over and stretched out on the bed next to him, rolling over onto her side and flashing her breasts. No bra. And she was clearly aroused already.

“Yes, I will miss you,” she said. “But maybe you can bring me up there to see you?”

“Maybe.”

Jeff started kissing her, and then he was getting her naked … and then
he was getting naked. They had done this enough now so that he knew what she liked. Knew exactly what to do to get her off quickly. And he was turned on. It was hard not to be. Even though his eyes were wide open as to why she was here, what she wanted, and how exactly she was going to use him—he was good with currency exchanges and rates.

He was a banker, after all.

And after she spent the night? After she snuck out in the morning early to go put her uniform on and pretend that she hadn’t been in bed with him? After that, he was going to sit down with Lane and make his full report. And then he had a piece of business he needed to take care of.

As he mounted Tiphanii and she purred into his ear, he was still not sure what he was going to do about the equity offer. Lane had seemed serious, and Jeff knew the company inside and out now. There was risk involved, though. A possible federal investigation. And he’d never really managed anyone before.

It was a The Clash problem. Straight up.

Should I Stay or Should I Go …