by J. R. Ward
Then again, when you were worth close to three billion dollars, you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted.
John Lenghe was on the phone as he came down to the tarmac. "--landed. Yup. Okay, right--"
The accent was flat as the Midwestern plains the man came from, the words as unhurried as the stride of his easy descent. But it was wise not to be fooled. Lenghe controlled sixty percent of the corn-and wheat-producing farms in the nation--as well as fifty percent of all milking cows. He was, literally, the Grain God, and it was not a surprise that he wouldn't waste even a trip down a set of stairs when he could be doing business.
"--I'll be home later tonight. And tell Roger not to mow my grass. That's my damn job--what? Yes, I know I pay him and that's why I can tell him what not to do. I love you. What? Of course I'll make you the pork chops, honey. All you have to do is ask. 'Bye now."
Okaaaaaay, so that was his wife on the phone.
"Boys," he called out. "Unexpected surprise."
Lane met the man halfway, putting out his palm. "Thanks for seeing us."
"I'm sorry about your dad." Lenghe shook his head. "I lost mine two years ago and I'm still not over it."
"You know Mack, our Master Distiller?"
"First time in person." Lenghe smiled and clapped the Master Distiller on the shoulder. "I have enjoyed both you and your dad's bourbon forever."
Mack said a bunch of right things. And then there was a pause.
"So," Lenghe jogged his Independence Day shorts a little higher--"about half an hour ago I got a call from your board chair, son. You want to talk about this in private?"
"Yeah, I really do. I need this all to be kept confidential."
"Understood, and consider this in the vault. But I don't have long. Gotta be home for dinner in Kansas, and I've got two stops to make before I get there. Let's use my little paper airplane as a conference room?"
"Sounds good to me, sir."
The inside of Lenghe's jet wasn't at all like what the BBC's planes looked like. Instead of cream leather and burl ash, the Grain God had personalized his to be cozy and welcoming, from the handmade braided blankets to the University of Kansas throw pillows. Buckets of popcorn, not caviar, had been put out, and there were soft drinks instead of anything alcoholic. No stewardess. And if there had been one, she no doubt would have been his wife, not any kind of pneumatic bimbo.
When Lenghe offered them Cokes, he was clearly prepared to serve them himself.
"We're good, thanks," Lane said as he took a seat at a small conference table.
Mack sat next to him and Lenghe took the seat across the way, linking his thick-fingered hands and leaning in, his pale blue eyes shrewd in his tanned face.
"I hear senior management is not happy with you," Lenghe said.
"No, they're not."
"Your board chair told me you locked 'em all out of their offices and shut the corporate server down."
"I did."
"Any reason why?"
"Not anything I'm proud of, I'm afraid. I'm trying to get to the bottom of everything now, but I have reason to believe someone's been stealing from the company. And I'm worried some or all of those suits are in on it. I don't know enough to say anything more than that, however."
Liar, liar, Loudmouth Golf on fire.
"So you haven't talked to your board chair?"
"Before I have the full story? No. Besides, I don't owe him any explanation."
"Well, son, I think he's got a different opinion on that."
"I'll see him as soon as I'm ready to. When you have evidence of theft, on the scale I'm talking about, you can't trust anyone."
Lenghe pulled over a bucket of popcorn. "I'm addicted to this stuff, you know. But it's better than cigarettes."
"And a number of other things."
"You know, you're dancing around the issue pretty good, son, so I'm just going to come out and say it. Have you finally found out about your father's mines?"
Lane sat forward in his seat. "I'm sorry . . . what?"
"I told William to cut the shit with those diamond mines in Africa. Dumbest idea on the planet. Do you know, I went there with the wife last year--I'll bet your dad didn't tell you that I checked them out, did he? No? They're not even holes in the ground. Either he got swindled or--well, the other option doesn't bear thinking about."
"Diamond mines?"
"And that isn't all of it. WWB Holdings had a lot of different businesses under its umbrella. He said there were oil wells in Texas, and of course, now you can't give crude away. A railway or two. Restaurants in Palm Beach, Naples, and Del Ray. And then some tech start-up that I don't think ever went anywhere. Something about an app? I don't get why the hell people waste their time with that shit--pardon my French. There were also a couple of hotels in Singapore and Hong Kong, a fashion house in New York City. I think he even invested in a motion picture or two."
Lane was very aware of having to keep his voice level. "How did you hear about all this?"
"When you've got eighteen holes to get through on a golf course, things come up. I always told him, stick to the core business. All these bright ideas can be tempting, but more than likely, they're just black holes, especially when you don't know the given industry. I'm a farmer, plain and simple. I know the ins and outs of the seasons, the land, the crops and a single kind of cow. I think your father . . . well, I don't want to disparage the dead."
"Rip his memory to shreds, I don't care. I've got to know, and anything you can tell me will help."
Lenghe was silent for a time. "He always took me to Augusta. You want to know why?" When Lane nodded, the man said, "'Cuz those boys would never let a dirty-fingernail type like me in as a member. And while we were going around the course, he would talk about all these investments he was making. He had to compete about everything--and that's not a criticism. I like to win, too. The difference between us, though, is that I know exactly where I come from and I'm not ashamed of it. Your father was really aware that all he had was not his own. The truth is, without him marrying your mom, Augusta wouldn't have had him as a member, either."
"I think that's right."
"And you know, I'd always wondered where he got the money to put into those ventures. Guess you're just finding out now that he's gone."
Lane took a handful of popcorn on a reflex and chewed the stuff down even though he didn't taste anything of it. "You know," he muttered, "I always got the sense he resented my mother."
"I think that's why he was so determined to find these other opportunities. I mean, I get proposals all the time, from friends, associates, financial planners. And I throw them in the trash. Your father was looking for something that was his, always in search of a grounding. Me? I was only at Augusta because I like the course and I love golf." Lenghe's powerful shoulders shrugged, the seams of his polo struggling to hold in all that muscle. "Life is a lot more fun if you mow your own grass. I'm just saying."
Lane fell silent for a time, looking out the oval window at the brown and gold UPS planes that were taking off one after the other in a distant part of the airport. Charlemont was smack-dab in the middle of the country, and that meant it was a perfect shipping hub. Like the BBC and the Sutton Distillery Corporation, UPS was one of the largest employers in the city and state.
It was almost unimaginable to think his family's enterprise could fail. God, there were so many people who depended on it for their paychecks.
He'd never even thought of that before.
"Do you have any information on these businesses?" he said. "Any names? Places? I've got a buddy of mine going through the corporate accounts and he's found the disbursements, but when he searched for anything under the name of WWB Holdings, he came up with nothing."
"Your dad was pretty vague, but he did tell me some things. I can think on it and e-mail you what I know."
"That'd be great."
"So . . . what can I do for you boys? I'm very sure you didn't come here for information you were unaw
are of my having."
Lane cleared his throat. "Well, as you can guess . . . with senior management shut out and this internal investigation I'm conducting, the business is entering a period of transition that--"
"How much grain do you two need on account?"
Mack spoke up. "Six months would be great."
Lenghe whistled. "That's a lot."
"We'll give you excellent terms," Lane said. "A big interest rate and you can take a security in an entire warehouse worth of bourbon barrels. And bear in mind, no matter what happens internally, our product is selling well and bourbon is hot right now. Cash flow over time is not going to be a problem."
Lenghe made a humming noise, and you could practically smell the wood burning as he thought things over.
"You and I have a shared acquaintance," he said. "Bob Greenblatt?"
"The investment banker?" Lane nodded. "I know him."
"He says you're quite the poker player."
"I've thrown some cards with him."
"You've taken him for some money, you mean." Lenghe sat back and smiled as he wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm a bit of a gambler. My wife's a good Christian. She doesn't really approve--she turns a blind eye, though, you know."
Lane narrowed his eyes. "What exactly do you have in mind?"
"Well, I got an invitation to your father's visiting hours. From your butler guy. E-mail was a surprise, but sure saves on postage money, so I liked that. Anyway, I'll be coming into town for it, and what if you and I were to have a little friendly wager on some Texas Hold 'em. We could play for grain. Here's the thing. Your family's account was the first big one I ever had." Lenghe nodded at Mack. "And your daddy's the reason I got it. I took a bus all the way across three states because I didn't have the money for a car, and Big Mack, as we called him, met with me and we hit it off. He gave me a quarter order. Then a half. Within three years, I was the sole corn provider and later, I put in the barley."
"My dad always respected you," Mack said.
"Feeling was mutual. Anyway"--the man refocused on Lane--"I think we should play for it."
"I'm still not really following."
Which wasn't exactly true. He wasn't on the front lines of making bourbon, but he wasn't a total noob, either. Six months of grain was a lot to ante up for. And given that his stock portfolio was ninety-nine percent BBC and the company was about as healthy as an asthmatic in a hayfield . . . he had no idea how he could get enough cash together to buy into the game.
Lenghe shrugged again. "I'll supply you with six months of corn, rye, and barley for free if you win."
"And if I lose?"
"Then you gotta pay me for it over time."
Lane frowned. "Look, I don't mean to talk you out of a deal that's favorable to me, but how is that fair? You're just getting what I would have offered you anyway."
"One, I love a challenge. Two, my instinct tells me you've got a really, really deep financial hole to get out of. You don't have to confirm or deny it, but I don't think you can afford to pay me right now or in the near future. And even if I take a secured interest in a thousand barrels? You're going to need the sale of them to keep the Bradford Bourbon Company going through all this, because without cash from operations, you've got no income to make payroll or your accounts payable to your vendors. That's why I'm doing it. Well, and there's one more reason."
"What's that?"
Lenghe shrugged. "Your family does, in fact, make the best bourbon on the planet. My net worth is well north of a billion dollars--so I can afford to help out the company that supplies my favorite drink to me." The man leaned in again and smiled. "And the ability to do that? It's so much more valuable than getting into a country club. Trust me."
*
Gin walked into Easterly's formal Amdega Machin conservatory and smelled sweet hyacinths and lovely lilies in the dense, humid air. Across the lofty, glassed-in space, among the beds of cultivating flowers and the placid faces of specimen orchids, her future sister-in-law had her hands in a pile of dirt and a smudge of same on the ass of her khaki shorts. Lizzie also had no make-up on and her hair pulled back with what looked like a rubber band.
As in a band. That was made of rubber.
Indeed, this gardener was going to be a relation soon. Lane was going to marry the woman, and Gin supposed, considering how unctuous his first wife, Chantal, was, anything short of a farm animal would be an improvement.
"You are certainly being industrious."
Lizzie glanced over her shoulder as she kept her hands where they were over the pot. "Oh, hello."
"Yes." Gin cleared her throat. "I mean, hello."
"Do you need something?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. I need you to do the flowers for my wedding and reception. We're waiting until after the visiting hours, so we'll be doing the event on Saturday after I get married at the courthouse on Friday. I realize this is short notice, but you can put a rush on the order, surely."
Lizzie brushed her palms against each other, getting only the loose dirt off before turning to face across the way. "Have you spoken to Lane about this?"
"Why would I? This is my house. My reception. He's not my father."
"I just thought with all the financial challenges--"
"Ivory and peach for the color scheme. And before you talk to me about cost cutting, I'm keeping the reception small, only four hundred. So we'll have forty tables at the most in the garden. Oh, speaking of which, can you please take care of ordering the tables and chairs, too? Also a tent and the silverware and glassware. I don't really trust Mr. Harris. And I'll let Miss Aurora handle the food-related orders."
"Who's paying for this?"
"I'm sorry?"
"That's a seventy-five thousand dollar event right there. Because, in addition to all that, you're going to need waitstaff. Parkers and buses. And Miss Aurora will have to have help in the kitchen. Who's going to pay for it?"
Gin opened her mouth. And then remembered that Rosalinda was dead. So there was no sense throwing the controller's name out there.
"We are going to pay for it." She lifted her chin up. "That's how it will be covered."
"I think you better talk with Lane." Lizzie held up her dirty palms. "And that's all I'm going to say. If he thinks he can afford all that right now, I'll be happy to do whatever it takes to make it happen."
Gin fanned out her hand and inspected her manicure. No chips. Perfectly filed. Red as blood and shiny as a new dime.
"You may be sleeping with my brother, darling, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You are still staff, and as such, this is none of your business, is it?"
Yes, there were . . . issues . . . but surely one small gathering wasn't going to break the bank? And it was a necessary expenditure. She was a Bradford, for godsakes.
Lizzie looked away, her brows lowering. When her eyes shifted back, she spoke in a soft voice. "Just so you and I are clear, yes, I may be staff, but I don't need the wake-up call that's coming your way. I am well aware of the situation this household is in, and if it makes you feel better to play Downton Abbey with me, that's fine. But it's not going to change the reality that your 'modest' wedding reception is more than you can afford right now. And I'm not ordering so much as a dandelion head without your brother's permission."
Gin felt the branches of her extensive family tree straighten her spine. "Well, I have never--"
"Hello, Mother."
The sound of that insouciant voice was like the claw of a hammer hitting the back of her neck, and Gin didn't immediately turn around. She focused on the glass panel in front of her, seeing who had come up from behind. The face that was reflected had changed since she'd seen it last in September. The coloring was the same, and the long, thick brunette hair remained just like Gin's own--and yes, the expression was exactly as one remembered. But those cheekbones seemed higher, either because of the maturation process or because Amelia had lost some weight.
Never a bad thing.
Gin pivoted around. Her daughter was wearing skinny jeans that made her legs look like soda straws, a black Chanel blouse with a white collar and cuffs, and a set of Tory Burch flats.
Say what you would about her attitude, she looked straight off the streets of Paris.
"Amelia. What are you doing home?"
"It's good to see you, too."
Glancing over her shoulder, Gin went to tell Lizzie to leave, but the woman had already disappeared out one of the back glass doors into the garden, the exit shutting with a quiet click.
For a moment, images of Amelia growing up bombarded Gin's mind, replacing the here and now with the then and gone. The past held no improvement on the current estrangement, however, the distance that bred such present hostility forged in the years of Gin behaving like a sister rather than a mother.
A resentful sister.
Even though it was far more complicated than that for her.
Things had certainly been calmer of late, however. Then again, Amelia had been sent off to Hotchkiss not just as a way to further her education, but to quiet the storm that brewed every time she and Gin were in the same room.
"Well, it's always lovely to have you home--"
"Is it."
"--but this is a surprise. I wasn't aware that summer vacation started this early."
"It doesn't. I got kicked out of school. And before you try to go parental on me, may I remind you that I'm just following the example you set?"
Gin looked to heaven for strength--and what do you know, as she was in the conservatory, the glass ceiling permitted her to see the blue sky and clouds far above.
Indeed, parenting was so much easier if one personally set any kind of standard at all.
Make that any kind of positive standard.
"I'll just get settled up in my room," Amelia announced. "And then I'm meeting friends out for dinner tonight. Don't worry. One of them is twenty-five and has a Ferrari. I'll be perfectly fine."
TWENTY
Following the meeting with Lenghe, Lane walked into Easterly and didn't get far. Mr. Harris, the butler, strode out of the dining room with a tray in his hands. On it were half a dozen sterling-silver objets d'art, including the Cartier candy dish that sat on the curved tail of an upside-down carp.
