by J. R. Ward
Lizzie put her face in his line of sight. And the smile she sported was pretty much the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
"Let's stay focused, shall we?"
"When can I have you?"
"Be a good boy, get through this, and you can have me all over this office--until dinner."
"Can we skip dinner?"
"No." She kicked her hip out. "But you have all night after that, too."
Things had been amazing, a new depth and commitment sprouting, wordless and powerful, between them: They had been spending the early-morning hours wrapped in each other's arms, talking of the future, of the past, taking everything to a new level. They'd even picked a wedding date.
June twenty-first. The longest day of the year. The one with the most sun and least darkness. A fine way, they thought, to start the future together.
It was going to be a very small, informal ceremony at Charlemont Baptist, with no one but immediate family. Her parents were coming down for a week, and Lane was really looking forward to spending time with them. And then they were taking a honeymoon to upstate New York so he could meet her high school friends and visit her old haunts at Cornell. She figured she'd tell her family about the baby then, after things were a little further along.
His people knew because of what he'd said outside of Miss Aurora's ICU room.
They had also spoken of much harder things, like his momma's death, and Max's revelation about Edward, and Lane's worry over the business. And then there were her fears about giving birth and raising a child who was never going to escape the Bradford name.
But whether the subject was light or heavy, sad or joyful, he knew that neither one of them was ever going at something alone again.
"And this is our last pile." She motioned over the shortest stack. "These are the I-don't-knows."
"Greta hates those."
Lizzie nodded. "She absolutely hates them."
Next, one by one, she picked up stapled sheaths of paper that had been laid out in front of the stacks. "Here are Greta's tables. Each of the sets of papers has been assigned a number and is summarized by date, name of company, equity stake, valuation--if she could find one--debt, and lender."
"She is amazing."
"Her husband is making her take some time off for their anniversary and he nearly had to drag her onto the airplane. I think she's going to last forty-eight hours and then she's going to make him fly back from Captiva. She does not want anyone else touching her piles or messing with her system here."
Lane glanced back at the cabinets behind the desk. After he'd broken them all open, he'd found a positive sea of documents that had been randomly thrown in there, forgotten and disorganized.
Greta had more than risen to the occasion. Thank God.
Getting to his feet, Lane crossed over the thick carpeting to the I-don't-knows. "So in the unlikely event there are any assets to recoup, they're in here. Because all the other businesses are known losers or didn't exist."
"Yup, that's where we're at."
He took the spreadsheet that detailed the unknowns. Glancing through the list, he shook his head. "I've never heard of any of these entities before."
"I can help to try to research them further. Greta focused on the most emergent companies and banks. But I'm sure--well, I fear--that there is more bad news coming with the rest of those."
"Yeah, I mean--Tricksey, Inc.? Out of California? What the hell is that?"
"Do we really want to know?"
"Shit." He put the pages of columns down. "And meanwhile, Jeff's needed down at headquarters, but he's stuck in the air. I don't know how we can have him run the company while he's chasing these lawsuits."
"At least he loves it."
"He's really happy, in a sick way. He's an investment banker to his core. He loves negotiations, facing off across tables. He'd so much rather be doing that--than making bourbon."
Lane thought of the new yeast strain Mack had developed. He'd been sitting on that issue, not moving on it, which was maybe a mistake. But some instinct, some conviction deep in the center of his chest, kept coming up with a big fat "no" on selling the patent. It was like giving away the future of the company for pennies on the dollar--because if Mack was right? They had a gold mine on their hands.
Guess at his core, he was the opposite of Jeff, a bourbon maker, not a businessman.
"You know," Lizzie hazarded, "there's a potential solution to Jeff's problem."
"Really? Do tell."
--
Out at the Red & Black, Edward leaned into the brush broom as he pushed the bristles down Barn B's concrete aisle. As he went along, catching stray hay strands and clumps of dirt kicked free of shod hooves, he swayed to the music that he'd piped in overhead.
Frank Sinatra was croonin' about flyin' to the moon, and Edward was singing along.
From time to time, a muzzle came out and snuffled over his work shirt and his aching shoulders. He always stopped, sang a couple of bars, and then kept going.
And he knew he'd come up to Neb's stall because his big, black, bad-tempered stallion kicked his door hard enough to rattle the whole barn. Then the thoroughbred seemed to smile slyly as he extended his neck, not for a bite, but to use Edward's shirt as a tissue.
A hot blast blew out from those nostrils as the bastard deliberately sneezed all over Edward. After which Neb threw his head up and down, black mane flashing as he made like he was laughing.
"You are a pain in the ass."
The stallion whinnied.
"Yes, they will be back any minute from their ride, and you could go with them on the trail, but you have no manners because you were raised in a barn."
They squared off, glaring at each other, and then the stallion dropped his head. Which was Edward's cue to rub under that chin.
As those big eyes rolled back in happiness, the sound of approaching hooves brought both of their attentions to the open bay at the end of the barn.
Edward felt a smile spread over his face, and he didn't bother hiding it. Across the open field, at quite a clip, Sutton and Shelby came cantering toward home on a pair of mares with strides as long as football fields and the telltale head structure characteristic of Neb's venerable line.
Both of the women reined up at the same time, their horses slowing to a trot and then a walk.
Putting the broom against Neb's stall, Edward limped out toward the setting sun, his bad foot hindering his forward progress but not his mood.
"Looking good, ladies," he said as he emerged out into the golden light. "Have a nice ride?"
"The best." Sutton smiled over at Shelby. "I love that down trail into the valley."
"It's m' favorite, too." Shelby easily quelled her mount's mincing feet. "But I think Miss Red here still has more gas in the tank. I'ma take 'er over to the north pasture?"
"Sounds lovely." Sutton patted her horse's graceful neck. "I'll just walk Stacy out and put her up."
"Yes, ma'am. Tomorrow?"
"Is after work still okay? I have a board meeting that gets out at six. I can be here by quarter of seven?"
"I'll have 'em saddled and ready to go."
While Shelby gave Miss Red her head and the two galloped off across the land, Sutton dismounted and started to walk Stacy in a fat circle. "I have the best time out there. And Shelby is the real deal."
"Daughter of the best horse trainer I've ever met."
"Is it true she's dating Moe's son, Joey? She was kind of talking about him."
"It's puppy love for sure." Edward moved over to a bale of hay and slowly lowered himself down. "I think they're a good match."
"She seems really happy."
"She deserves it. It's been a hard road. It's about time something went her way."
As Sutton smiled at him, the rubies that glinted at her ears made him love her even more than he already did. Here she was in blue jeans and a three-dollar Hanes T-shirt, her face free of makeup, her hair loose all around her shoulders...and she still had his ear
rings in.
They had spent the last few nights at his little caretaker's cottage, making love on the twin bed, waking up wrapped in each other. In the mornings, she'd left to go back to town at six a.m., so she had time to get dressed and have breakfast with her father. And then she returned to the farm around six, and he made them dinner, and they sat in his chair and watched bad TV.
Without a doubt, he could cheerfully see himself spending the rest of his life living these days over and over and over again, Bill Murray without Punxsutawney Phil.
"You look beautiful with that horse."
Sutton smiled at him. "I think you're biased."
"Accurate is more like it--" As he heard some of the horses whinny, he twisted around and saw visitors. "Lane?"
Edward struggled back up to his feet as his brother and Lizzie King came down the aisle. "Hey, how you guys--actually, not the stallion, okay? You want to stay waaaaaay over to the other side with him. That's right."
Edward had to let the two of them come to him, but when they did, he hugged them both. "Sorry to make you do the walking, but I'm not moving too well."
"You're looking good, old man," Lane said. "Hey, Sutton!"
Sutton waved as she continued to walk out Stacy. "Hi, guys! I'm so glad to see you! I'm just cooling down out here. Give me another five minutes."
Lizzie said her hellos and then shook her head at Stacy. "Holy moly, that's a beautiful horse."
"Isn't she lovely? And such a lady, too."
"So," Edward said as he sat back down on the hay bale. "What brings the pair of you out to farmland? If you're looking for a nice cool glass of lemonade, I can take care of that at the cottage."
As Lane settled against the side of the barn, it was impossible not to notice that it was now a man standing there, staring off into the meadow. Gone was the snarky playboy affect. In its place was a calmer, more grounded adult--and then there was Lizzie, the man's true partner, the one who was responsible, more than anything else, for his transformation.
The love of a good woman was the savior of the aimless man.
Edward should know.
The silence continued for so long that Sutton finished cooling down Stacy and brought the mare in for grooming.
The clomping of those shod hooves stopped at the cross ties over in the cleaning bay, and Sutton deftly swapped out the bridle for a halter and secured the thoroughbred's head. Next was the warm-water hose, which the mare nodded at because she was one of the ones who loved it.
And still Lane didn't say anything.
As Lizzie went over to help with the horse, Edward looked at his brother. "Out with it. What's going on."
Lane reached down and picked a piece of hay out of the bale next to him. Putting it between his teeth, he chewed the base so the tip that stuck out in front of him danced.
When the guy finally looked over, his eyes were dead serious. "I need you to come back."
Edward straightened his torso. And then in a slow voice, he said, "You're not talking about Easterly, are you."
"No, I'm not. I want you to come back and be CEO." Lane put up a palm. "Before you shut me down, here's the situation. I'm chair of the board, and I can do that job. Jeff is an incredible numbers guy, but we have some serious debt negotiating to do--and that is eating up all his time. I'm not CEO material. I don't know how to run a company like the BBC. You do. You've spent your whole life getting ready to do it. Hell, you know every nook and cranny of the business, not just ours, but our competitors'. You're the right person for the job, and what's more, I think you need to do it for yourself."
"Oh, I do, huh," Edward murmured.
"It means you won. You got what he didn't want you to have. What he tried to cheat you out of."
No reason to define the "he" in that one.
Edward stiffly moved his body around so he could see Sutton without straining. She had stopped with the hose and was staring over at him, her eyes wide as if she had heard the ask.
"I need some time. I can't give you an answer right now," Edward said. "I've got to talk it over on my home front first."
"We need you." Lane tossed the hay stalk. "It's make-or-break time, and you're the key to the strategy."
--
After Lizzie and Lane left, Edward and Sutton went back to the caretaker's cottage. While she poured them lemonade in the cramped little kitchen area, he eased down into their armchair, feeling every ache and pain more than he had since he'd gotten out of jail.
As she handed him his glass, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.
"What do you think?" he said.
She didn't hesitate, but that was her way. "Lane is right. You've spent your whole life getting ready for the job."
"I don't care about the company right now. I mean about you and me."
Sutton stared into her lemonade and he thought of the last time they had shared a glass. It had been when he'd gotten her to leave, right before he'd put himself behind bars.
And now they were here.
"Well, we've always been competitors," she said. "Back before, you know, now."
"If it costs me you, I'm not going to do it."
She looked up at him, stunned. "It's your family company, Edward."
"And you're my life. There's no comparison at all to me. I'm happy to live out here on the farm, being nothing but a house husband. Or staying at your house with you and your father. I'm not...looking to fill any holes anymore. Lane is right, I take the job and on some levels, I guess I've 'won.' But William Baldwine wasn't even a relative of mine. He was just an evil piece of work who screwed over everyone who crossed his path. I don't have any scores to settle with him, because I'm at peace now."
Sutton sat up on her knees and kissed him. "I have never loved you more than I do right now."
Slipping a hand around the back of her neck, he smiled. "And you loved me a lot last night."
The faint blush that hit her cheeks was enchanting. But then she got serious and settled back down on the floor.
Her voice became strong and direct. "There are proprietary issues that we will never be able to discuss, and there are strategies we'll develop in direct response to competitive market conditions that could compromise the other person's position. We're two generals, on different sides of the battlefield. Can we live with that?"
"I don't know. More to the point, is it worth finding out?"
They were both silent for a time.
"You know what, Edward?"
"Tell me, my love."
"I think you need to make bourbon." She smiled slowly. "I think you need to go and strap on your business suit again, and come meet me in the marketplace. Let's do this. It's the way we started out, and if there are any two people on the planet who can make this work?"
He started to nod. "It's you and me."
"It's not going to be easy."
"No, it's not." He looked down at his body. "For one thing, I'm still not getting around at top speed, and those days are long."
"You can do a lot from home."
"Actually...if I'm at my father's business center instead of downtown, I could always crash at Easterly if I have to. And I could spend the nights with you at your house--after all, the farm runs itself, with Moe and Shelby and Joey. I wouldn't be leaving them in the lurch."
"You come from a long line of bourbon makers," Sutton said. "And so do I. It's in our blood. It's what we do and who we are. Why argue with that?"
Edward sat forward. He wasn't going to be naive about this. Having two people in a couple be in high-powered jobs was hard enough; having two people whose businesses were head-to-head competitors was a whole different level.
It was weird, though.
He had the strangest sense that this was the right path for them. It didn't make a lot of sense, for most people. But for a couple of bourbon makers?
"Okay, I'll do it," he said as he kissed her. "So get ready to bring your A game, girl."
That fire in her eyes lit up,
the one that turned him on and made him feel like he was always going to have to chase her a little.
"I never put it down." She nipped at his lower lip. "It's you who has got to get up to speed there, Eddie, my boy."
Edward started to laugh, and then he was pulling her into his lap.
Whereupon lots of A game proceeded to get laid down, to the consummate enjoyment of both parties involved.
As dinnertime came and went at Samuel T.'s farm, he couldn't say that he had enjoyed a meal more in recent memory.
"--and then the professor asked me what I thought," Amelia was saying.
"Which was?" Samuel T. asked as he sat back with his glass of bourbon.
The two of them were on the porch, sitting on the same side of the table so they could watch the sun set over off to the right. They had had steaks on his grill and a fluffy salad she had made and baked potatoes. And as they had cooked together, he was so glad she wasn't a fussy eater who wanted tofu and kale and organic whatever--but he would have given all of those to her if she had wanted them.
"Well, I just believe it's a faulty argument, and frankly, it bores me. I mean, if Fitzgerald was merely a social commenter, a kind of Andy Cohen of his day, why are we still talking about his books? Why am I taking an entire course on him and Hemingway? If you want to dismiss him as nothing more than a Jazz Age blogger, well then you sound like Hemingway, circa nineteen forty. Talk to me about his works, not his relationship with alcohol or Zelda. I'm simply not interested in conjecture over a personality that has been dead for nearly eighty years. The work, talk to me about the work."
"Are you thirty-five, or is it me?"
She laughed and pushed her plate away. "People say that to me all the time."
In the last few days, Amelia had come to the house for hours at a clip, the pair of them sharing stories, trading likes and dislikes, getting to know each other. Well, actually...that wasn't quite the right description. It had been more like reconnecting with an old friend, which was strange.
And affirming.
God, the pair of them were so alike. Samuel T. had heard parents refer to children as their Mini-Me's, and he had always dismissed it as the pabulum of people who had no proper emotional boundaries with the younger generation.
But this was what they were talking about.
This identical way of approaching the world.
