by J. R. Ward
Sutton felt cold fear, the kind that pricked the back of your neck and made you sweat under your arms. "No. It's not legal. It has to be ratified by the board--"
"They did it last night."
She sat back, separating them. And as the hard chair hit her shoulder blades, for some absurd reason she thought about the number of employees they had worldwide. Thousands and thousands. And how much business they did between their bourbon distilling, the wine subsidiary, and then their vodka, gin, and rum lines. Ten billion annually with a gross profit of nearly four billion. She thought of her brother and wondered how he was going to feel about this.
Then again, Winn had been told two years ago this was the way things were going to go. And even he had to know that she was the one with the business head.
Sutton looked at her father--and promptly forgot about the corporation.
As her eyes blurred with tears, she threw out all decorum and regressed back to when her mother had been lost. "I don't want you to die."
"Neither do I. And I have no intention of going anywhere." He laughed ruefully. "And with the way this Parkinson's is progressing, I fear that is more true than I should like it."
"Can I do this?" she whispered.
He nodded. "I'm not giving you the position because you're my daughter. Love has a place in families. It is not welcome in business. You are succeeding me because you're the right person to take us into the future. Everything is so different from when my father gave that corner office over to me. It's all . . . so global, so volatile, so competitive now. And you understand all of it."
"I need another year."
"You don't have that. I'm sorry." He went to move his arm again and then gritted his teeth with frustration--which was the closest he came to ever cursing. "Remember this, though. I didn't spend the last forty years of my life pouring everything I had into an endeavor just to turn it over to somebody who wasn't fit for the job. You can do this. Moreover, you will do it. There is no other option than to succeed."
Sutton let her eyes drift down until they settled on his hands. He still wore his simple gold wedding band. Her father had never remarried after her mother had passed. He hadn't even dated. He slept with her picture beside his bed and with her nightgowns still hanging in their closet.
The romantic justification for that was true love. The actual one was probably part loyalty and reverence for his dead wife, and part the disease and its course.
The Parkinson's had proven to be debiliting, depressing and scary. And was a testament to the reality that rich people weren't in a special class when it came to the whims of fate.
In fact, her father had been slowing down markedly these last couple of months, and it was only going to get worse until he was bedridden.
"Oh, Daddy . . ." she choked.
"We've both known this has been coming."
Taking a deep breath, Sutton was aware that this was the only time she could ever let any vulnerability show. This was her one chance to be honest about how terrifying it was to be thirty-eight years old and at the helm of a global corporation upon which her family's fortunes rested--and also stare down the barrel of her father's death.
Brushing away a tear, she looked at the wetness on her fingertip and told herself that there would be no more leaking after she left the house. As soon as she got to headquarters, everyone was going to measure her to see what kind of leader they had. And yes, there would be snakes coming out of the woodwork to undermine her and people who didn't take her seriously because she was a woman and she was family, and her own brother was going to be angry.
Just as importantly, she couldn't show any weakness to her father after this, either. If she did, he was going to worry whether he'd done the right thing and possibly even second-guess himself--and stress did not help people with his condition.
"I'm not going to let you down," she said as she met him right in the eye.
The relief that suffused that handsome face was immediate and made her tear up again. But he was right; she no longer had the luxury of emotion.
Love was for family.
It was not for business.
Getting to her feet, she went around and gave him a quick hug, and when she straightened, she made sure her shoulders were back.
"I expect to continue to use you as a resource," she announced. And it was funny to hear that tone in her voice: It was not a request, and it was not something she said to her father. It was from one CEO to his or her predecessor.
"Always," he murmured as he inclined his head. "It would be an honor."
She nodded and turned away before cracks in her facade showed. She was halfway to the door when he said, "Your mother is smiling right now."
Sutton stopped and nearly wept. Oh, her mother. A firebrand for women's rights back when that hadn't been permitted in the South, in their kind of family.
Oh, she would have loved this, it was true. It was everything she had fought for and demanded and stomped about.
"It's not why I picked you over your brother, though," he added.
"I know." They all knew why Winn wasn't a real candidate. "I'm conferencing you in during Finance meetings even though officially you have no role. I expect you to contribute as you would have done."
Again, not a request.
"Of course."
"You will continue to serve on the board as Trustee Emeritus. I will nominate you myself as my first official duty at the next board meeting. And you will be conferenced in during Executive Committee and all Trustee meetings until you are no longer able to breathe."
She said all of this while staring into the foyer.
The chuckle her father let out held so much fatherly pride and businessman-to-businesswoman respect she started blinking hard again.
"As you wish."
"I shall be home tonight at seven for dinner. We will eat in your room."
Usually by then he was back in bed, his will exhausted from dealing with his body's rebellion.
"And I shall look forward to it."
Sutton made it all the way to the study's door before pausing and looking back. Reynolds seemed so small behind that desk, even though the dimensions of neither the man's form nor the furniture had changed. "I love you."
"And I love you almost as much as I loved your mother."
Sutton smiled at that. And then she was on her way, going over to the console table by the front door and picking up her briefcase, before heading out into the warm May morning.
Her legs were shaking as she walked to the Bentley Mulsanne alone. She had expected her father to be ahead of her, the subtle whrrrrr of his motorized wheelchair something she resolutely ignored.
"Good morning, Miss Smythe."
The uniformed driver, Don, had been her father's chauffeur for two decades. And as he opened the rear door, he couldn't quite manage to meet her in the eye--although not out of dislike or mistrust.
He had been told, of course.
She squeezed his arm. "You'll stay on. For as long as you want the job."
The man breathed a sigh of relief. "Anything for you."
"I'm going to make him proud."
Now Don looked at her. His eyes shimmered with tears. "Yes, you will."
With a nod, she got in the back, and jumped as the door was shut with a muffled thump. A moment later they were off, smoothing their way out of the courtyard, off the estate.
Usually, she and her father discussed things on the way downtown, and as she stared at the empty seat beside her, it dawned on her that the day before was the last time that the pair of them would ride to headquarters together. The final trip . . . had come and gone without her knowing it at the time.
Wasn't that the way of things.
She had assumed there would be many more ahead of them, countless mentoring, ceaseless drives side by side.
Denial was lovely while you were in it, wasn't it. But when you stepped out of its warm pond of delusion, reality carried a shivering, cold sting. And yes, if the partition separat
ing the front from the back of the car hadn't been down, she probably would have wept as hard as if she were going to her father's funeral.
Instead, she placed her palm on the seat that had been his, and looked out the tinted glass. They were getting on River Road now, joining the line up of traffic that eventually funneled into the surface arteries that ran under the highways and bridges of Charlemont's business district.
There was only one person she could think of to call. One person whose voice she wanted to hear. One person . . . who would understand on a visceral level what she was feeling.
But Edward Baldwine didn't care about the liquor industry anymore. No longer was he her competitor's heir apparent, her counterpart across the aisle, the sarcastic, sexy, infuriating friend she had long coveted.
And even if he had still been the number two at the Bradford Bourbon Company, he certainly had made it clear that he didn't want anything to do with a personal relationship with her.
In spite of that . . . crazy hook-up . . . they'd had at that caretaker's cottage out at the Red & Black.
Which she still couldn't believe had happened.
After all the years of fantasizing, she had finally been with him--
Sutton pulled away from that black hole of going-nowhere by remembering their last meeting. It had been in a farm truck parked outside her house, and they had fought over that mortgage she'd given his father. Right before the man had died.
Hardly the stuff of Hallmark cards.
Yet in spite of all that, Edward was still the one she wanted to talk to, the only person other than her father whose opinion she cared about. And before his kidnapping? She would absolutely have dialed him up, and he would have answered on the first ring, and he would have supported her at the same time he would have put her in her place.
Because he was like that.
The fact that he wasn't there anymore, either?
Just one more of the losses.
One more thing to miss.
One more piece of the mourning.
Letting her head fall back, she stared at the river and wished that things were as they had once and always been.
"Oh, Edward . . ."
EIGHT
Samuel Theodore Lodge III drove his vintage Jaguar convertible down River Road at a measly fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. Traffic was no slower or faster than it ever was, but he was less frustrated than usual at the delay because this morning, he didn't have to go all the way in to his law office in Charlemont proper. No, today, he was stopping off first to meet one of his clients.
Although to be fair, Lane was more family than anything else.
The big estates up on the hills were to his left, the muddy waters of the Ohio were to his right, and overhead, the milky blue sky promised another hot, humid May day. And as the balmy breeze ruffled through his hair, thanks to the top being down, he turned the local classical music station up so he could hear Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2 better.
On his thigh, he played the left-hand part. On the wheel, he commenced the right.
If he had not been a lawyer, as his father, his uncles, and his grandfather had been or currently were, he would have been a classical pianist. Alas, not his destiny--and not only because of the legal legacy. At best, he was serviceable at the keys, capable of impressing laymen at cocktail parties and at Christmas, but not talented enough to challenge the professionals.
He glanced at the passenger seat, at an old briefcase that had been used by his great-uncle T. Beaumont Lodge, Jr. Like the car, the thing was a classic from an earlier era, its brown hide well worn, even bare in patches on the handle and the flap with the gold embossed initials. But it had been handmade by a fine Kentucky craftsman, built to last and look good as it aged--and as it had been in his uncle's time, its belly was full of briefs, notes, and court filings.
Unlike in T. Beaumont's time, there was also a MacBook Air in there, and a cell phone.
Samuel T. was going to pass the briefcase down to a distant cousin, someday. Perhaps a bit of his love of the piano, as well.
But nothing was going to a child of his own. No, there would be no marriage for him, and no children out of wedlock--not because he was religious, and not because it was something that "Lodges simply don't do," although the latter was certainly true.
It was because he was smart enough to know he was incapable of being a father, and he refused to do anything that he did not excel at.
This lifelong tenet was why he was a great trial lawyer. A fantastic womanizer. A highbrow drunkard of the very finest order.
All of which were a ringing endorsement for dad of the year, weren't they--
"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news. William Baldwine, sixty-five, the chief executive officer of the Bradford Bourbon Company, is dead of an apparent suicide. Numerous anonymous sources report that the body was found in the Ohio River--"
"Oh . . . hell," Samuel T. muttered as he reached forward and turned up the tinny radio even further.
The report had more fluff than substance, but the moving parts were all correct as far as Samuel T. knew. Clearly, their efforts to squash the story until they were ready to come forward had failed.
"--follows an accusation against Jonathan Tulane Baldwine of spousal abuse by his estranged wife, Chantal Baldwine, just days ago. Mrs. Baldwine was admitted to the Bolton Suburban Hospital emergency room with facial bruises and ligature marks around her throat. Initially, she accused her husband of inflicting the injuries. She recanted her story, however, after police refused to charge Mr. Baldwine due to lack of evidence . . ."
As Samuel T. listened to the rest of the report, he looked up ahead to the tallest hill.
Easterly, the Bradford family's historic home, was a glorious spectacle at the apex of the rise. Overlooking the Ohio, the mansion was a whitewashed grand dame in the Federal style, with a hundred windows bracketed by glossy black shutters, too many chimneys to count, and an entrance so grand that the Bradfords had made it their company's logo. Terraces sprawled out in every direction, as did manicured gardens full of specimen flowers and fruit trees, and great magnolias that had dark green leaves and white blossoms as big as a man's head.
When the mansion had been built, the Bradford money had been new. Now, as with those bank accounts, there was a patina of age to it--but all kings started off as paupers, and all venerable dynasties were nouveau riche once. The term "aristocrat" just measured how far back you had to go to get to the upstarts.
Also depended upon how long you could keep your position going into the future.
At least the Bradfords didn't have to worry about money.
The many-acred Bradford estate had two entrances. A staff one, which bisected the cutting gardens and vegetable fields and went up to the garages and the rear of the mansion, and a formal, gated path of glory for family and proper guests. He took the latter, the one Lodges had been using for a century, and as he ascended, he glanced at himself in the rearview.
It was good that he had sunglasses on. Sometimes one didn't need to see one's own eyes.
Gin would be having breakfast, he thought as he pulled up in front of the house. With her new fiance.
Getting out, he did a pass-through with a hand to make sure his hair was back where it needed to be and picked up his great-uncle's briefcase. His blue and white seersucker suit reordered itself on his body without any prompting, and there was no reason to worry about his bow tie. He'd done it properly before leaving his bedroom suite.
"Good morning!"
Pivoting on his handmade loafer, he raised a hand to the blond woman coming around the side of the house. Lizzie King was pushing a wheelbarrow full of ivy plants and had a glow about her that was the best recommendation for clean living he'd ever seen.
No wonder Lane was in love with her.
"Good morning to you," Samuel T. said with a slight bow. "I'm here to see your man."
"He should be here shortly."
"Ah . . . do you need h
elp? As a gentleman and a farmer, I feel as though I should offer."
Lizzie laughed him off and jogged the handles. "Greta and I've got this. Thanks."
"And I've got your man," Samuel T. replied as he lifted his briefcase.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Don't worry. I'm going to make Chantal go away--and I'm going to enjoy doing it."
With another wave, he strode over to the mansion's entrance. Easterly's pale stone steps were shallow and broad, and they brought him up to the Corinthian columns around the glossy black door with its lion's head knocker.
Samuel T. didn't bother with formalities. He opened the way into a foyer so big one could have bowled in it.
"Sir," came a British clip. "Are you expected?"
Newark Harris was the most recent in a long line of butlers, this current incarnation trained at Bagshot Park across the pond, or so Samuel T. had heard. The Englishman was very much out of the David Suchet as Hercule Poirot mold, officious, pressed as a fine pair of slacks, and vaguely disapproving of the Americans he served. In his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, he looked like he could have been in place since the house was built.
Alas, that was only appearances. And the man had things to learn.
"Always." Samuel T. smiled. "I am always expected here. So if you'll excuse me, that is all."
The Englishman's dark brows shot up, but Samuel T. was already pivoting away. The dining room was to the right, and emanating from it, he could smell a familiar perfume.
He told himself to stay away. But as usual, he could not.
When it came to young, young Virginia Elizabeth Baldwine, soon-to-be-Pford, he never had been able to distance himself for very long.
It was his only character flaw.
Or rather, the only character flaw that concerned him.
Striding across the black-and-white marble, he walked into the long, thin room with the same attitude as he had dismissed the butler. "Well, isn't this romantic. The affianced enjoying a morning repast together."
Richard Pford's head snapped up from his eggs and toast. Gin, meanwhile, showed no reaction--overtly, that was. But Samuel T. smiled at the way her knuckles went white on her coffee cup--and to make things sting more for her, he almost took the pleasure of informing her that her father's suicide was common knowledge.
She was better at being cruel than he was, however.
