by J. R. Ward
The relief was enormous. And so was the warmth that bloomed between them.
After a long, long time, he separated their mouths. "Dinner?"
"Yes, at my place in town."
"Privacy?"
"We're going to need it."
As his body hardened for her even more, he smiled. "I like the way you think." But then he frowned. "There's just one thing."
"What is that?"
"That sweatshirt has got to go." He shook his head and motioned to the logo. "I mean, I can't look at that. It's making me sick."
"Well, guess what?"
"What?"
She leaned into him. "I'm not wearing anything under it. So yeah, there's that happening right now."
As Edward groaned, she batted him on the butt. "Get in my car, Baldwine. And brace yourself. I'm going through any red light we come up to."
He limped around and opened his door. "Just an FYI, as someone who's recently gotten out of jail, I can tell you the sleeping arrangements and the food are not what a woman of your stature is used to. So you may want to abide the traffic laws."
They got in together and she looked across the seat. "Excellent point."
Getting serious, he brought the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you."
"For bailing you out? You know, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but it's something that's on my bucket list. So we can check that right off."
"No, for waiting for me."
Sutton grew grave, as well. "I was trying not to."
"Do I need to put a hit out on our governor? 'Cuz I will. I'm kind of the jealous sort."
"Dagney is a very nice man. But he always knew where my heart was--and so did I."
Edward smiled. "Good, that means I can be civil to him the next time I see him. As opposed to kicking him in the nuts."
Her eyes searched his face. "I've always been yours, Edward. That's just the way it's been."
As he stared at her, he thought about all the things he'd been through. And all the years ahead of him in a body that wasn't ever going to work quite right. Then he imagined waking up to her every morning.
"I am the luckiest man, I know," he whispered.
After all, money could come and go, as could health and wellness, and destiny was a fickle master, for sure.
But to be loved by the one you loved?
It was the optimism in the midst of crisis; it was the food when you were starving; it was the air when you could not breathe, and the light that led you from the darkness.
All that mattered was in his woman's eyes, and broken though he might have been by any objective measure, Sutton Smythe made him whole.
Three days later, Gin picked Amelia up at the airport. And come to think of it, it was the first time she had ever retrieved anyone from there, having always allowed the chauffeurs to do the deed--plus, she wasn't at all familiar with the commercial arrivals area, having previously done the private jet routine. She followed the signs, though, and kept the Phantom at a slow speed, falling in with the other people providing rides.
Amelia was not at the curb on the first pass, so Gin went around the loop again, and as she did, she thought about the last couple of days. Richard Pford had kept his promise and signed the annulment papers that Samuel T. had drawn up, and the man had let her keep the ring, thank God.
Wouldn't that have been a cause for awkward conversation if he hadn't.
And Samuel T. had agreed to see Amelia immediately, assuming that was what their daughter wanted.
Gin checked the clock on the dash. Three in the afternoon. Samuel T. had said he'd be at his farm by now, having just returned from a trip somewhere out of town. He hadn't volunteered where he had been and Gin hadn't asked--but she had a feeling he had been with a woman: She had called him before the weekend and left a message when he hadn't picked up. It had taken him two days to call her back.
When they had finally spoken, it had seemed a little bizarre that neither of them had talked about what had happened in the marsh with Richard Pford; specifically how, if Samuel T. hadn't shown up right when he had...things would have ended very differently.
Still, he had been perfectly pleasant to her, almost professionally so--and she had endeavored to assume the same affect.
As Gin came through the terminal's cover again, Amelia stepped to the curb and waved, although the girl didn't smile.
Actually, Amelia didn't smile very much, did she. And that was something to mourn--something to own as yet another problem Gin was responsible for creating.
There were so many of them.
Over the past couple of nights, when Gin hadn't been sleeping, she had gone through her failures as a mother, one by one. Literally every single missed opportunity had been reviewed, and there had been a breathtaking number of them: Instances when she had chosen to go out and party when Amelia had been sick, or had homework, or been home alone. Missed plays and performances. Times when Amelia had needed advice, guidance, a smile or a hug, and Gin had either not been around or been completely disengaged.
And the longer Gin ruminated on the memories, the more she recognized that these were regrets she was going to carry with her for the rest of her life.
And in that way, she supposed, she was going to be a little like Edward: Forever changed, although her scars were self-created and she carried them on the inside.
Coming to a stop, she put the Phantom in park and started to get out.
"I got it," Amelia called over the din of other cars and people. "Just pop the trunk."
"I think it's on the handle in the back?"
"Oh, right."
Gin got out anyway and helped Amelia muscle her two rolling suitcases into the boot. Then they got in and Gin eased them away from the curb and over the first of three speed bumps.
"So how was your flight?" Gin asked as she looked around to make sure she could merge back onto the loop.
"Good." Amelia took out her phone and started texting. "I'm glad finals are over with. And I shipped the rest of my stuff home. What happened to your head? Why is it bandaged?"
"It's nothing." Gin cleared her throat. "Listen...could you put that down for a sec?"
Amelia lowered the iPhone and glanced over. "What's up? And I already know about Uncle Edward. Is it true he's out of jail? I mean, and Miss Aurora, are you kidding me? It's like something out of CSI."
"Actually, this concerns something else. But you and I will talk about all that. There's been a lot going on."
"Too right."
As they got onto the highway, Amelia frowned. "So what is it?"
"I've gotten an annulment from Richard Pford."
"Thank you, God. He was a total douche."
"Yes, I'm afraid my decision making has not been the best at times. I'm trying to make up for it, though."
"Well, you've never picked me up before. For anything. So there's that."
"Ah, yes, it's true. And, ah, I'm really going to try to make a lot of things up to you." Gin glanced over and then refocused on the traffic. "Along those lines...so you and I have never really spoken about your father."
Even as Gin made her way into the center lane, she was very aware of the girl going completely still and staring across the seat.
"I want to be very clear here," Gin said into the suddenly thick air. "It was my bad choice not to tell him about you and my bad choice not to tell you about him. I am..."
As tears threatened, she cleared her throat. "I will never forgive myself."
"He didn't know about me, either?"
"No."
"So it wasn't...that he didn't want me," Amelia said in a small voice.
Gin reached over and squeezed the girl's hand. "No, not at all. I'm the bad person here, I was in the wrong. It was not your fault and it was not his fault. And you don't need permission from me or anybody else to be really angry at me for that."
Amelia took her hand away and put it in her lap. Then she shrugged. "It just kind of was the way it was, you
know?"
Gin gripped the steering wheel hard. "I guess my question to you is, would you like to meet him?"
Amelia jerked back around. "Like...when? Where?"
"We can do it right now, if you want--"
"Yes. Yes, now. I want to know now."
Gin briefly closed her eyes. "I had a feeling that was the way it was going to be."
"Do I know him?"
"Actually..." Gin took a deep breath. "You do."
--
"Getting ready for someone special?"
As Samuel T. checked his bow tie in the glass door of the microwave, he tried to smile in the direction of his estate manager. But his throat was dry, his eyes were wet, and his digestive tract seemed to be on the verge of letting lunch out prematurely.
It was just a question of which end it was going to use.
"She must be someone real special." The woman nodded at the fruit and cheese plate he had made. "I mean, for you to cook for her? Wow."
Okay, so "cook" was maybe taking things a little far. But he had certainly unwrapped the Brie, washed the green and purple grapes, and taken the sleeve of Carr's water crackers out of the box. What the hell did teenage girls eat, anyway?
"We'll see how it goes," he said.
"Well, I appreciate the afternoon off. I've got some shopping to do. 'Bye now--oh, and the dry cleaners called to say they got the stain out of those white pants of yours. You must have had a heck of a weekend."
"It was interesting."
"I'll bet. Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."
As the woman left through the garage door, Samuel T. reread the text that Gin had sent and rechecked the time it had come through.
Any minute, they would be here.
He re-examined his bow tie in the micro-mirror and then headed out onto the porch. Proceeding down to the end with the stairs, he sat on the steps and stared off across his land to the county road they would be coming in on.
His weekend had been interesting. That was no lie--just not for the reason his estate manager thought it had been. In fact, it had been the first time ever that he'd not had a drink during a rager, and what do you know, that kind of changed the whole experience. As it turned out, his friends were not quite as fun when you were the one sober guy out of twenty. And Prescott had further surprised him by proving to be a far more well-rounded person than he had expected. She was a marathon runner, a classics major--and the reason she had been eyeing his hills as she had after that first night? She was a fox hunter and had been wondering if he might be amenable to her club coming onto his land in the fall for a lease fee.
That wine stain?
A waiter had tripped on the corner of a rug and had dumped a glass of Pinot Noir on Samuel T.'s thigh.
Prescott had wanted them to stay together, but he had gotten them separate rooms--and not just because he didn't feel like having sex with anybody. He had stayed up all night, both nights, trying to remember what his parents had done right with him for all those years. And then he'd reviewed how other folks who had raised halfway-decent human beings had approached things.
He had read articles on the Internet.
Watched episodes of Full House and Home Improvement--because he wasn't a TV watcher and thus had no idea what contemporary family shows were good to see, and those two had been what was on when he'd been a teenager.
No Facebook back then. Or cell phones. Or Twitter, Insta--
Yeah, those shows were maybe not real relevant as it turned out. But then again, he'd saved them for the four-to-six-a.m. insomnia shift when he'd been brain-dead anyway.
This meeting with Amelia today was happening sooner than he'd thought it would, and he wished he had more time to prepare. Then again, with the way he was feeling at the moment, he could have had another twenty years and would still have felt like he had his head up his--
Out on the county road, a large convertible with a massive grille slowed and then turned in to the allee of trees.
As the Phantom came cruising slowly up the gravel drive, a boil of fine dust kicking up in its wake, Samuel T. fumbled in his suit pocket and popped another Tums in between his molars.
Bad idea. Chalk and dry mouth?
Whatever, too late to fix it, he thought as he got to his feet and went down onto the grass. Overhead, the sun was shining magnificently, the sky was a bright blue, and under his feet, the lawn was green as shamrocks. A light breeze was blowing across the bluegrass, and birds were singing in the trees.
The Phantom stopped halfway around the circle in front of the farmhouse and both doors opened at the same time.
As Amelia got out, she stared at him, her face wary, her eyes narrowed.
Samuel T.'s heart pounded so hard, he was dizzy as he walked toward her. And other than a quick glance at Gin, he didn't take his focus off the girl.
With long strides, Amelia came foward, too, meeting him halfway by herself, Gin seeming to know, for once, that things were not about her.
They stopped with about five feet between them.
"Hi," he said. "I, ah, I'm Samuel Theodore Lodge--"
"I know." Amelia nodded over her shoulder. "She told me--I mean, I know you from around."
They just looked at each other.
"You're tall," the girl said. "Is that where I get this from?"
He glanced down at her long legs. "Yes, probably? And our hair is--"
"The same color."
"Do you like mayonnaise?" he blurted.
"Oh, God--no. No, no, no."
He laughed a little. "My father? He can't stand it, either. His brother was the same. He gave that to me."
"Everyone puts that stuff on everything."
"Unbelievably disgusting."
"Do you--okay, I know this is weird, but do you have trouble with threes?"
"They flip on you, too?"
"All the time! I'm, like, who else deals with this?"
"Phone numbers, right? Receipts? Wait until you start paying for lunches and dinners. It's a pain."
They fell back into silence. After a minute, he gestured over his shoulder. "Do you want to, ah--come in? I mean, I know you've been traveling and all. But maybe I could show you some photographs of your--my family. My side? And, ah, the house has got some hidden rooms that are--I'm babbling here. Do whatever you feel comfortable with. You probably have a ton of friends you're meeting out. I know that's what I did whenever I got home from school."
He braced himself for her to get back in the car and leave him behind, and reminded himself not to take things personally. She was all but a stranger--
"Is this place haunted?"
"Um, actually, yes. I have seen two ghosts. Some people say there are more, but I've only seen two."
"It's beautiful." Her eyes clung to the roofline. Drifted over the farmhouse's face. Lingered on the porch. "I mean, it's so perfect."
Samuel T. had to blink hard. A small part of him would have died in his chest if she had found his legacy a pathetic second fiddle to the grandeur of Easterly.
Amelia cranked around to Gin. "I'm staying. I'll call you later--unless...can you bring me back home when we're done?"
Samuel T. sniffed quick and tried to make it look like his allergies were acting up. "Absolutely."
"In your convertible? I think that is the coolest car I have ever seen. It's totally James Bond."
And then she was setting off for his house, her long, wavy hair bouncing in the sunshine.
Samuel T. glanced back at Gin. She looked...ruined, her face downcast, her eyes pits of sorrow. He didn't know whether she was mourning her sins, or scared of losing the girl, or...terrified that she was going to be in last season's fashions as her family's fortunes declined.
But none of that was his concern.
"I'll drive her back," he said. "And I'll text you if it looks like she's staying for dinner."
He expected Gin to try to draw him into her emotional state. That had always been her specialty before.
Instead,
she nodded. "Thank you. Thank you very much."
She got back into the Rolls like an old lady.
He didn't watch her go. Instead, he went around to the porch and smiled as he found Amelia on the bedding platform.
"This is awesome!" the girl said as she swung back and forth.
Samuel T. nodded. "You know, that's my favorite spot, too." He had to smile. "I used to sleep out here when I was your age. Now that I've taken this house over from my parents, I should do that again, huh."
"A person can sleep out here?"
"Mosquito net keeps the bugs off. And it's real quiet. Peaceful."
Amelia looked over the land. After a moment, she asked, "Can I paint this view sometime?"
Samuel T. took in a deep, ragged breath. He had expected to feel curious and nervous.
But it had never dawned on him that he would want to keep her as much as he did: His daughter, his own flesh and blood, was sitting on his porch, doing what he had done when the house had been his father and mother's.
"Anytime you like," he said in a voice that broke. "You can come here and paint that view...anytime you like."
"Okay, so here are our three piles."
Across the CEO's office in the business center, Lizzie started to go Vanna White at the stacks of documents on the conference table, and Lane eased back in his father's throne and put his feet up on William's desk.
It was the end of yet another long day. After a series of even longer ones. But one thing he had learned? With Lizzie at his side, he could get through anything.
"Hit me," he said as he smiled.
With a swivel of the hips and a pass of an elegant arm, she motioned over the left-most collection. "These are losers that are currently causing, or will soon be causing, problems."
It was depressing to recognize that that category had the largest number of folders, and he rubbed his tired eyes. Jeff was right now on a plane back to Charlemont, coming home from having tried to negotiate settlements with seven banks. He'd been successful with two, persuasive with four, and had failed with one. And there were another ten out there that he was going to have to go visit in the next, oh, four to five days.
No pressure.
"Our next group is the not-yet-due group." As Lizzie made a circling motion around those documents, his eyes found his way to her body. To the indent of her waist. The curve of her breast under that--
