The Bourbon Kings #1 (32 page)

“Why don’t you cry,” Lane said roughly as his brother settled on the mattress like his entire body hurt. “Just cry. He’ll stop as soon as you do.”

That was the way it was whenever he and Max got beaten.

“Go to bed, Lane.”

Edward’s voice was exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Lane whispered.

“It’s okay. Go to bed.”

It had been hard to leave, but he’d already screwed up badly once that night and look what had happened with that.

Back in his own room, he’d gotten in between his sheets and stared up at the ceiling.

“Is he okay?” Max asked.

For some reason, the shadows in their room were completely threatening, seeming to have been thrown by monsters moving and lurking on the periphery.

“Lane?”

“Yes,” he lied. “He’s fine—”

“L
ane?”

Lane shook himself, and glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

Lizzie pointed at the microwave. “It’s done?”

Beep …

Beep …

He just stood there and blinked, trying to return from the past. “Right, sorry.”

Back at the table, he put the steaming food down and sat in his seat … only to discover that he’d lost his appetite. When Lizzie reached across and put her hand on his, he took what she offered and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

“What are you thinking about?” Lizzie asked.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Well, didn’t he have so many things to pick from.

As she waited for an answer, he stared at her face for the longest time. And then he smiled a little. “Right now … this very moment … I’m thinking that if I have a chance with you, Lizzie King, I’m going to take it.”

The blush that hit her face was covered when she put her palms up. “Oh, God …”

He laughed softly. “You want me to change the subject?”

“Yes,” she said from hiding.

He didn’t blame her. “Fine, I’m really glad I came out here. Easterly is like a rope around my throat right now.”

Lizzie rubbed her eyes, and then dropped those hands. “You know, I can’t believe about Rosalinda.”

“That is just plain horrific.” He sat back in his chair, respecting her need for another topic. “And get this. Mitch Ramsey, the sheriff’s deputy? He called me on the way here. The medical examiner’s initial thought is hemlock.”

“Hemlock?”

“Her face …” He circled his own with his hand. “That gruesome smile? It was caused by some kind of facial paralysis—which happens to be well documented with that variety of poison, apparently. Man, I’ll tell you what, I’m not likely to forget what that looked like for a very long time.”

“Is it possible she was killed?”

“They don’t think so. You need a good dose of hemlock to get the job done, so it’s more likely she did it herself. Plus her Nikes were brand new and had grass on the bottoms.”

“Nikes? She doesn’t wear anything except flats.”

“Exactly, but she was found with this pair of running shoes on, which she’d evidently just bought and walked around in outside. From what Mitch said, back in Roman times, people used to take the poison and then ambulate to make it work faster. So again, that points to her doing it herself.”

“How … horrific.”

“The question is why … and unfortunately, I think we know the answer to that one.”

“What are you going to do now?”

He stayed silent for a while. And then his eyes lifted to hers. “For starters, I was thinking of taking you upstairs.”

Lizzie blushed again. “And what are you going to do with me on the second floor?”

“Help you fold your laundry.”

She barked out a laugh. “I hate to disappoint you, but that’s already been done.”

“Make your bed?”

“Sorry. Done.”

“Curse your work ethic. Darn your socks? Any buttons that need replacing?”

“Are you saying you’re good with a needle and thread?”

“I’m a fast learner. So … care to sew with me?”

“I’m afraid I’ve got nothing like that to attend to.”

“Is there something else I can help you with then,” he said in a low voice. “Some kind of ache I could soothe. Some fire I could put out—with my mouth, maybe?”

Lizzie closed her eyes, and swayed in her chair. “Oh … God …”

“Wait, I’ve got it. How ’bout I take you to the second floor and we mess up your bed—then we can remake it.”

When she finally looked over at him, her lids were low and her eyes were hot. “You know … that sounds like a perfect plan.”

“I love it when we’re both on the same page.”

They stood up together, and before she could stop him, he went over and picked her up.

“What are you doing?” She pushed at his hold as she started to laugh. “Lane—”

“What does it look like.” He headed out of the kitchen. “I’m carrying you upstairs.”

“Wait. Wait, I weigh too much—”

“Oh,
please
.”

“No, I really—I’m not one of those tiny little females—”

“Exactly. You’re a real woman.” He hit the stairs and kept going. “And that’s what real men are attracted to. Trust me.”

She let her head fall on his shoulder, and as he felt her eyes search his face, he thought of what Chantal had done with his father. Or at least, what she had said she’d done.

Lizzie had never betrayed him. Not in thought Not in deed.

She simply wasn’t hardwired like that.

Which made her a real woman, and not just because she was no hundred-pound, social X-ray.

“No, you don’t have to say it,” he murmured as the old steps creaked under his feet.

“Say what?”

“That this doesn’t mean anything in the larger scheme of things. I know you want me as a friend only, and I accept that. You should be aware of one caveat, though.”

“What’s that,” she breathed.

He let his voice deepen. “I’m prepared to be a very patient man when it comes to you. I will seduce you for however long it takes—give you space if you need it or follow you tight as sunshine on your shoulder if you’ll let me.” His eyes locked on hers. “I lost my chance with you once, Lizzie King—that is not going to happen again.”

A
s Edward sat in his chair, he was floating on a cloud of Beefeater gin, his body numb to the point where he was actually able to entertain a fantasy of potential strength and flexibility. In fact, he could imagine that getting to his feet would be an impulse easily followed, an uncomplicated, unconscious change of location requiring nothing more than a passing thought and a pair of thigh muscles that were happy enough—and capable enough—to do the job.

He was not drunk enough to actually give it a try, however—

The sound of a knocking on his door brought his head up.

Well, well, well. Given that he wasn’t prepared to try the whole verticality thing, at least this arrival represented another alternative reality he could partake in.

And this one he would not deny.

With a grunt, he tried to sit a little straighter in his chair. There would be no going and opening the way for the woman, and he felt badly about that. A gentleman should always perform such a service for a member of the fairer sex, and he didn’t care that his guest was a prostitute—the female deserved to be treated with respect.

“Come in,” he called out, slurring his words. “Come on in …”

The door opened slowly … and what was on the other side, standing directly under the porch light was—

Edward’s heart stopped beating. And then began to hammer.

“They got it right,” he breathed. “Finally, Beau got it right.”

The woman blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said roughly. “What did you say?”

The voice, too. How had they matched the voice?

“Come in,” he rasped, motioning with his free hand, the one that didn’t have the glass in it. “Please.”

And do not be afraid,
he thought to himself.

After all, in his current position, he was sitting in darkness, the illumination on the countless trophies in those shelves not quite reaching his face or his body. Which was deliberate, of course. He didn’t like looking at his own self—there was no reason to make the whore’s job harder by forcing her to have a clear picture of him.

“Edward?” she said.

In his drunken haze, all he could do was close his eyes as he went both limp … and hard in a very critical place. “You sound … as beautiful as I remember.”

He hadn’t heard Sutton Smythe’s voice in person since before his trip down way south, and after he’d returned, he’d been unable to listen to any of her voice mails.

To the point where he’d ended up throwing that particular phone and number away.

“Oh, Edward …”

Dear Lord, there was pain in that voice. As if the woman were looking into his soul and responding to the tangle of anguish he’d carried around with him since he’d been told he was, in fact, going to live.

And indeed, it was so close to what Sutton actually sounded like. Funny, during his captivity, he’d lost consciousness three times over the course of the eight days he’d been held. Each time he had been in the process of fainting, Sutton had been the last thing he’d thought of, envisioned, heard, mourned. It hadn’t been his family. Not his beloved business.
Not the house he’d grown up in, nor the wealth, nor all the things he was going to leave undone.

It had been Sutton Smythe.

And that third time? When he’d been unable to see anymore, when he’d been unable to tell what was his sweat and what was his blood, when the torture had taken him to a place where the survival switch had been flipped off and he no longer prayed to get free, but for death …

Sutton Smythe had, once again, been the only thing on his mind.

“Edward—”

“No.” He held up his hand. “Don’t speak anymore.”

She was doing so well already. He didn’t want the woman to get ahead of herself and screw it all up.

“Come here,” he whispered. “I want to touch you.”

Opening his eyes, he drank in her approach. Oh, what a perfect silver dress that was, the hem of the gown down to the floor, her surprisingly tasteful jewels sparkling even when the light was behind her. And she also had the kind of clutch Sutton had always taken with her to formal events, the small, silk-covered square perfectly dyed to the hue of the dress even though, as she herself had always said, “matchy-matchy” was “so fifties.”

“Edward?”

There was both confusion and yearning in his name.

“Please,” he found himself begging. “Just … no talking. I only want to touch you. Please.”

As her body trembled before him, he felt reality shift and he allowed himself to go with the ruse, falling into a fantasy that it actually was Sutton, that she had come to him, that they were, finally, going to be together.

Even though he was ruined.

God, it was enough to make him teary. But that didn’t last long … because she stumbled and her eyes grew impossibly wide.

Which meant she had seen his face.

“Don’t look too hard,” he said. “I know I’m not as I used to be. That’s why the lights are low.”

Edward reached out and showed her his hands. “But these … these are unmarred. And unlike many parts of me, they still work just fine. Let me … touch you. I’ll be careful—but you have to kneel down. I’m not too well on my feet anymore, and I must confess to having imbibed.”

The prostitute was shaking from head to toe as she started to lower herself, and he sat forward, offering her his arm as if she were a lady disembarking from a car—as opposed to a working girl who was prepared to let a cripple have sex with her body in exchange for a thousand dollars.

When he eased back again, a sudden wave of dizziness came over him, testament that more of the alcohol was pumping into his system. Like all drunks, however, he knew that that was a temporary glitch that would self-regulate.

Especially given all that he had to focus on: Even with his fuzzy vision, even with the dimness, even being drunk off his ass … he was in awe.

This one was so beautiful, almost too beautiful to touch.

“Oh, look at you,” he whispered, reaching out to brush her cheek.

Her eyes flared again, or at least he thought they did—maybe he was just imagining things because of the way she drew in a quick breath. It was so hard to know, hard to track what was happening … reality was going all wonky on him now, twisting around on itself until he wasn’t sure how much the prostitute actually looked like Sutton and how much he was projecting onto her just because she had long dark hair, and arching brows, and a mouth that was Grace Kelly perfect.

The woman’s hair was down, just as he’d asked it to be, and he brushed his hand over the waves until he felt the curve of her shoulder. “You smell so good. Just like I remembered.”

And then he was touching more of her, his fingertips traveling across her collarbone, over her diamond necklace, down to the curves of her décolleté. In response, she began to breathe harder, the pump of her lungs bringing her breasts close to his palms.

“I love this dress,” he murmured.