The Bourbon Kings #1 (19 page)

She was convinced that her father was the one who had had Edward kidnapped.

Her brother had been to South America rather often, and as with American executives of his position and stature, he had always traveled with bodyguards and security hired by the BBC. With that kind of coverage, no one should have gotten within twenty yards of the man, and
yet somehow her brother had been taken—not on the road traveling, or even at some remote destination.

But from his very hotel suite.

How the hell did that happen?

The first thing she had thought of, when she’d finally been told about the ordeal, was that her father had had a hand in it.

Did she have any evidence? No, she did not. But she had spent her childhood watching that man stare at Edward as if he had despised the very air the child breathed. And then later, when Edward had gone to work at the company, she had had the impression that the relationship between the pair had chilled even further, especially as the Board of Trustees had given Edward more and more responsibility.

What better way to get rid of a rival than have him killed overseas? In a way that would make William Baldwine look like a victim because he was a “mourning” father.

God, Edward had nearly been buried there—and when he’d finally come back? He’d been in terrible shape. Meanwhile, her father had been front and center with the media, the Trustees, and the family, but he had not, even once, gone to see his ruined son.

Disgraceful. And confirmation in her mind that William Baldwine had tried to get rid of a corporate threat he couldn’t fire.

No wonder she didn’t trust men.

No wonder she was never getting married.

Especially not to make her father happy.

W
hen Lizzie arrived at Easterly the next morning, it took her two tries to get the Yaris into a proper parking space—which was a sad commentary on her mental state, considering the car was the size of a bicycle. Getting out, she fumbled with her bag and dropped the thing—and as she leaned down to pick her sunscreen off the already hot asphalt, she realized she’d forgotten to bring her lunch.

She closed her lids. “Damn it—”

“You okay there, girl?”

Lizzie straightened up and turned to Gary McAdams. The head groundsman was walking over the grass verge, his gimp foot barely slowing him down, his weathered face wrinkled with concern—like he was assessing a tractor that was about to lose its wheelbase.

Did she look that bad?
she wondered.

Then again, she hadn’t slept at all.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Fine and dandy.”

“You sure about that?”

No. “Yes. How’s your team doing?”

“I got the mowin’ done, the ivy’s trimmed, and I’ma have ’em blow
the terrace after ten.” Because that was when they were allowed to make that kind of noise around the house. “Tents are up, catering area is ready with the grills in place, but there’s a problem.”

Lizzie jogged her bag up higher on her shoulder and thought she was so ready to deal with an issue she could solve. “What?”

“That Mr. Harry is wanting to talk at you. There’s a problem with those there champagne glasses.”

“The placement of them on the tables?” She shut her car door. “Because they’re going to be passed, I thought.”

“No, they done got only half the order. He thinks you changed the number.”

“Wha—why would I do that?”

“He said you was the only person with access to the rental people.”

“I ordered the tents, that’s it. He’s supposed to handle the cutlery and the glassware and the plates—I’m sorry. Am I yelling? I feel like I’m yelling.”

He put his paw on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry ’bout it, girl. Mr. Harry drives me stupid, too.”

“It’s Mr. Harris.”

“I know.”

She had to laugh. “I’ll go deal with him.”

“Anytime you get bored of him, I got a shovel and a backhoe. Plenty of open country at my place.”

“You are a gentleman.”

“Hardly. Gimme your bag, girl. I’ll walk you up.”

“It weighs nothing. I can handle it.” She started toward the pathway that led up to Easterly’s servant wing. “Besides, I can use it to hit him over the head if I have to.”

“Remember my backhoe,” he called out.

“Always.”

With every step on the cobblestones, her chest tightened, and the choking sensation got worse as the vast back of the white mansion came into view in the distance.

After having passed the wee hours staring up at her ceiling, she had
come to no conclusions about her and Lane. What had stuck with her? The sound of him at the end of that call. She remembered that sexy tone in his voice: It had usually meant he was going to find a way to get her alone and undressed ASAP.

It seemed like a complete and total betrayal that her body was nothing but
oh, yeah
—as if her libido had been waiting for the return of its master. But come on, she was so much more, so much better, than a stolen orgasm or two with a man she should be handling with barbeque tongs and a fire extinguisher.

Craziness.

When she finally got up to the house, she went through the side entrance of the garden and cut across to the rear kitchen door just so she could check that everything for the party was where she’d left it the night before.

Which was silly. Like a bunch of elves had come in and f’ed everything up under the moonlight?

Putting the staff entrance to use, she walked into the vast kitchen that was, for the moment, clean and cold and empty, just waiting for the arrivals of the chefs who were slated to work from eight to eight. The place wasn’t completely deserted, however. Miss Aurora was in front of the industrial stove, an iron pan full of bacon crackling to her left, a second one to the right full of bright yellow scrambled eggs. Four plates were set out on the main island’s stainless-steel countertop, along with bowls of fresh raspberries and blueberries, a silver service of sugar, cream, and coffee on a tray, and a basket of some manner of homemade pastries.

“Miss Aurora?”

The woman looked over her shoulder. “Oh, there she is. How you doing? You eat?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not enough. You and Lane, too skinny.” The cook turned back to her eggs and flipped them around with a red spatula. “You should let me feed you.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.” There was a grunt of disapproval,
and before their usual argument started up, Lizzie cut in, “You’re looking so well.”

“I told that butler I didn’t need no ambulance.”

“Clearly, you were right.” And Lane must be so relieved. “Have you seen Mr. Harris?”

“In his office. You want me to go with you?”

“So you heard about champagne-gate?”

“I was the one who gave Gary the heads-up ’cuz I knew he’d see you first. Didn’t want you to walk in here without being forewarned.”

“I didn’t switch any order.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Miss Aurora lifted up the fifteen-pound frying pan like it weighed no more than a paper plate. As she portioned out the eggs, she shook her head. “And there’s a perfectly good explanation.”

“What is it?”

“Not my business.”

“Okaaaaay.” Lizzie took a moment to give the cook an opportunity to elaborate, but she didn’t. “Well, anyway, I’m going to go take care of this. I’m really glad you’re up and around, Miss Aurora.”

“You’re a good girl, Lizzie. But you’d be better if you’d let me make you some breakfast.”

“Maybe in my next life.”

“You only get one. Then you go to Heaven.”

“That’s what my father always told me.”

“Mine, too.”

Walking over the tiled floor, Lizzie pushed open the double flap doors and went down the staff hall. Mr. Harris’s office was right across from Rosalinda’s, and she knocked on the butler’s door. Knocked again. Tried a third time even though it was a waste of knuckles.

Sniffing at the air, she grimaced and thought that the corridor needed some serious airing out. Then again, the Bradfords refused to put central AC or heat in this part of the house. Staff, after all, could suck it up.

Going over to Rosalinda’s varnished door, she gave that one a try, too, even though the family’s controller was a strict nine-to-five’er, with
a thirty-minute lunch at twelve noon precisely and two fifteen-minute breaks at ten-thirty and three. The regimented schedule had seemed bizarre at first, but however many years later, it was just another of the rules and regs at Easterly. And it made sense—a woman who did nothing but pay bills and add and subtract money out of accounts probably had slide rules in her veins and serious control issues.

Thus, her title.

Putting her hands on her hips, Lizzie knew that the butler was probably waiting on the family in the small dining room. Including Lane.

She checked her watch. She was not going to wait for Mr. Harris to come back here, and there was no way she was having this confrontation out in the open. Plus, there was real work to do—she hadn’t finished the bouquet bowls the night before.

Heading for the conservatory through back channels, she tossed out the tangle in her brain and focused on what she had to do. After the flowers were finally finished, she could put the tablecloths out because there was no chance of rain or wind before the brunch tomorrow. And she was usually in charge of getting all the glassware and plates where they needed to be at the bars and food service stations around the garden. Greta was due in—

“Good morning.”

Lizzie froze with her hand on the conservatory’s door.

Glancing over her shoulder, she met Lane’s eyes. He was sitting off to the side in an armchair, legs crossed at the knee, elbows on the rests, long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before and his hair was a mess, as if he’d slept somewhere other than his bed.

“Waiting for me?” she heard herself say as her heart pounded.

u
p in her bedroom, Gin fisted a Prada blouse and crammed the thing into the corner of her Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase. “Tissue paper … you’re supposed to put tissue paper in here. Where is …”

Going on the hunt, she found the pastel pink sheets with her initials stamped on them in a large, flat drawer in her wardrobe room. Back at where she was packing, she licked her forefinger, peeled one free and a waft of Coco tickled her nose—because her maid had sprayed each one individually when they’d arrived. Stuffing the delicate paper around the wad of silk, she backed that up with a McQueen skirt.

Repeating the process until she had four outfits in there, she leaned back and checked out her work. Horrible. Nothing like what Blanche did for her, but she was not waiting until that woman came in for her shift at noon.

Gin was in the process of closing things up when she realized she had no underwear, no shoes, no bra, no toiletries.

She took out a second LV roller, and screwed the tissue paper.

What did she care, anyway. She was just going to buy whatever else she wanted.

When she was finished, she picked up the house phone over by her bed, dialed Rosalinda’s office, and couldn’t believe it as voice mail kicked in. “Where the hell is that woman—”

A quick glance at the Cartier clock on her desk and she discovered it was just eight-thirty. God, she hadn’t been up this early in how long?

Arrangements for the jets could also be made through her father’s executive assistant—and that robot was always at her desk. But Gin didn’t want him to know she was leaving until she was halfway to California, and undoubtedly his bulldog in a skirt would hop right on the phone to him if she called.

God, that expression on his face last night had made her blood run cold. She’d never seen him so furious.

But, again, she was nothing if not her father’s daughter: As with hatred, two were going to play at this game of chicken.

Ten minutes later, Gin pulled out the handles on her luggage and tripped over the damn things as she rolled herself out into the corridor. With her matching monogrammed bag slapping against her side and one of her heels popping out of the back of her Louboutins as she shut her door, she cursed the lack of a bellman.

But she didn’t trust that butler, either.

As a matter of fact, she trusted no one in the house.

Before she took the elevator down to the basement level, she went to Amelia’s room and opened the door up.

For the first time, the decor truly registered on her.

The pink and white canopied bed was a queen size even though her daughter barely weighed more than a pillow, and there were no Taylor Swift or One Direction posters on the walls. The vanity was French and antique, the en suite bathroom was marble and brass that was sixty years old, and the chandelier in the center was Baccarat and suspended on a silk-sheathed chain below a handmade, gold-leafed medallion.

It was more the suite of a fifty-year-old than someone who was fifteen.

Sixteen, as of last night, Gin reminded herself.

Tiptoeing across the needlepoint rug, she took her favorite picture of her dark-haired little girl, who was now not so dark haired as she was getting blond highlights every six weeks and hardly so little given that she was a sophomore at Hotchkiss.