by J. R. Ward
"I think my brother killed him," Lane heard himself say. "I think Edward was the one who did it."
*
Man, Jeff had so totally been enjoying the righteous pissed thing. It had been a smooth, but intense ride, the burn in his chest an inexhaustible gas tank that kept him awake throughout the night, focused on the numbers, moving through the data.
But he and Lane the Asshole had hit these corners before during the course of their long relationship, patches of miscommunication or stupidity jarring them apart. Somehow, that Southerner over there always closed the distance, though.
And yup, he'd done it again. Especially with that jarring little news flash of his.
"Shit," Jeff said as he lay back against the pillows. "You serious?"
Dumbass question.
Because that was not the kind of thing anyone said, even in jest, given what was happening in this household. And it was also especially not something Lane would have even thought to himself about his hero older brother unless he had a really good reason.
"Why?" Jeff murmured. "Why would Edward do something like that?"
"He's the one with the real motive. My father was a terrible man and he did a lot of terrible things to a lot of powerful people. But is Monteverdi going to kill him over that debt? No. He's going to want to get his money back. And Rosalinda didn't do it. She was dead before my father went over the falls. Gin has always hated him, but she wouldn't want to get her hands dirty. My mother has always had reason, but never the capacity. Who else could have done it?"
"Your brother isn't in good shape, though. I mean, I was getting something to eat and heading back up here when he came in the house. He was limping like his leg was broken. It didn't seem like he could handle shutting the damn door, much less throwing someone off a bridge."
"He could have had help." Lane looked over his shoulder, and yeah, that handsome face looked like it had been through the washer--and not in a good way. "The people out at the farm are devoted to him. My brother has that way about him, and he knows how to get things done."
"Has he been here? To the house?"
"I don't know."
"There are security cameras, right? Here on the estate."
"Yeah, and he knows that. He put in the goddamn system, and if you erase things, it's going to show. There are log-ins that can be traced."
"Have the detectives asked for the footage?"
"Not yet. But they will."
"Are you going to give it to them?"
Lane cursed. "Do I have a choice? And I don't know . . . I was alone with Edward today. I almost asked him."
"What stopped you? Were you afraid he'd get pissed?"
"Among other things, I was afraid of the answer."
"What's your next move?"
"I wait. The detectives aren't going away. They'll go out to see him at the farm. And if he did it . . . "
"You can't save him."
"No, I can't."
"Why exactly would your brother want your dad dead, though? Lot of trouble to go to just because you got grounded a couple of times as a kid."
"Father tried to have him killed down in South America--"
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah, Edward is the way he is now because of what was done to him down there. And there was a lot of bad history between them before that. Hell, even in his will, Father deliberately left him out. Also, you know, my brother is no one you screw with. He's got that way about him."
Dear God, Jeff thought.
In the silence that followed, he considered his brother and sister, both of whom lived up in Manhattan, too. They were married. Multiple children. His parents split their time between Florida and Connecticut, but had a pied-a-terre in SoHo. The whole lot of them got together for all holidays, and there was warmth and conflict and joy and tears and laughter.
Always laughter.
Lane had a nice house. With a lot of nice stuff. Good cars.
There was no comparison, was there.
The guy went over and parked it on the chair at the desk. "Anyway, enough on that. So if you didn't leak it, who did?"
"Senior management. I mean, come on. I got the information from their sources. The spreadsheets I'm doing the analysis on are their work product."
Lane rubbed his head like everything hurt. "Of course."
"Look, buddy, you can't freeze those suits out forever, and clearly, they're not coloring in the lines, which is not a surprise. Now's not a good time for there to be no one at the helm."
"Yeah, I need someone to run the company on an interim basis. The board chair wants to meet with me. He's got to be thinking that, too."
"Well, just in case I didn't put a fine enough point on it--unless you take control, senior management, the very assholes you booted out, are in charge."
"But I'm not qualified. The only thing I'm smart enough to know is that I don't know shit about a business on this scale." Lane threw up his hands. "For crissakes, I can't worry about this right now. I have to get through the visitation tomorrow, and then we'll go from there. Damn it, Edward was the one who was going to take over."
As everything got quiet, Jeff smoothed the duvet over his thighs because he didn't know what the hell else to do. Eventually, he said half-jokingly, "When do I get the maid back? And not to clean the bathroom."
"That's up to you. I'm her employer, not her pimp."
"So you are in charge of this family, huh."
"No one else is volunteering for the job." Lane got to his feet. "Maybe because of what happened to the last guy who gave it a shot."
"You got this, my man. You can do it."
Lane came over and put out his hand. "I am really sorry I've put you in this position. Honestly. And after this is over, I promise, I'll never contact you again for anything."
For a moment, Jeff measured what was offered. Then he clasped the palm. "Yeah, well, I don't forgive you."
"Then why are you shaking my hand?"
"'Cuz I'm one of those people who forgets easily. I know, I know, it's backward. But it's worked for me so far--and it's getting you off the hook, so fuck off with your principles."
TWENTY-SIX
"Now, this is more like it."
As Richard Pford lanked into Easterly's family sitting room at around nine that evening, Gin wanted to roll her eyes and tell him the nineteen fifties wanted its mores back. But the truth was, yes, she had stayed in to speak with him, and yes, as she watched him proceed to the bar as if he were lord of the manor, she was reminded of how much she despised him.
After pouring himself a bourbon, he went over and sat in the oxblood leather chair beside the sofa she had tucked herself into. The room was not a large one, and the oil paintings of prized Bradford thoroughbreds hanging on the paneled walls made things seem even smaller. Adding Pford's physical proximity to the mix? Well, that shrunk things down to the point that the wide-screen TV showing a rerun of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills felt like it was pressed against her face.
"Why are you watching this drivel?" he said.
"Because I like it."
"It's a waste of time." He took the remote and changed the channel to some financial pundit in a red tie and a pale blue shirt. "You should be looking at things of value."
Then allow me to cast my stare away from you, she thought.
"We need to talk about the reception." She narrowed her eyes. "And I must introduce you to Amelia."
"Who?" he said without looking away from the NASDAQ crawl.
"My daughter."
That got his attention and he glanced over, one thin eyebrow lifting. "Where is she? Is she home from school?"
"Yes."
Gin extended a hand to the house phone that was discreetly hidden behind a lamp made from a sterling-silver fillies trophy from the nineteen hundreds. Picking up the receiver, she called the butler's extension.
"Mr. Harris? Do get Amelia and bring her here? Thank you."
When she hung up, she looked at Richard. "I nee
d you to pay for the wedding reception we're having here on Saturday. You can write me the check. It will be about fifty thousand. If it's more, I'll come back to you."
Richard lowered his glass and refocused on her. "Why am I paying for anything?"
"Because we're getting married. The two of us."
"At your home."
"So you're going to make no contribution at all?"
"I already have."
She looked at her ring. "Richard, you're living under this roof, eating our food--"
He laughed and swirled his bourbon around. "You're not actually making that argument, are you?"
"You're going to write that check and that's that."
"I suggest you hold your breath for the ink to be dry, darling." Richard toasted her. "Now, that would be a show worth watching."
"If you don't pay, I'll cancel the party. And don't lie. You are looking forward to the attention."
Trophies, after all, needed a presentation ceremony.
Richard sat forward, the movement of his butt causing the leather to creak in a muffled way. "I know you aren't aware of this, but there are problems at your family's company."
"Oh, really." She played dumb. "Someone lose the key to an office supply closet? Oh, the tragedy."
There was no value in letting him in on their financial reversal, after all. Certainly not before their marriage certificate had been issued.
He smiled, and for the first time, something close to joy truly hit his eyes. "Guess who called me today? A friend of mine at the Charlemont Courier Journal. And you want to know what she told me?"
"That they're doing an expose on penile implants and they want you to be a subject?"
"That's crass."
"True, but I think it might help."
Richard sat back and crossed his legs, his jaw tightening. "First of all, it's a she, not a they. And secondly, she told me that there are very serious issues at your company, Gin. Big financial issues. There's going to be a story first thing in the morning about it all. So don't try to play me with this ruse about needing a check made out to you for the reception so that things are equitable between as. Your father has died, and his will is being probated, your mother's trust is tied up until she passes, and the BBC is struggling so your dividends are down. If you want to hold a fundraiser and expect me to contribute, you better declare yourself a five-oh-one C three so I can get the write-off. Otherwise, I'm not giving you a dime. Darling."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"You don't? Well, then, read up first thing in the morning and you'll learn something." He indicated the television. "Or better yet, come in here and watch this channel. I'm very sure you're going to be all over the TV tomorrow."
Gin lifted her chin, even as her heart went on a broken field run in her chest. "We have plenty of money here at the house, and I don't feel it is unreasonable for you to pay for something--so if you aren't prepared to share in the cost, then the reception is off."
Richard nursed his bourbon. "A tip on negotiations. If you're going to issue threats, make sure they're backed up by an outcome the other party is compromised by."
"You want to show me off. You want to prove that you got me. Don't pretend I'm not a prize to you."
"But as soon as the ink is dry, you're mine. And that will also be in the newspaper. Everyone will read about it. I don't need a cocktail party to prove it."
Gin shook her head. "You are so shallow."
The laughter that filled the room made her want to throw something at him again--and she eyed the sterling-silver lamp.
"This coming from you?" he said. "My dearest one, the only reason you're marrying me is because of the favorable contracts that I agreed to give your father's company. And I wish I had known about the downturn at corporate. I probably could have gotten you for nothing but that ring, given the financial state of things."
At that point, there was a knock on the door, and then Mr. Harris came in with Amelia.
The girl had changed into a Gucci pantsuit, and her head was buried in her phone, her fingers moving over the screen.
"Miss Amelia, madam," the Englishman intoned. "Will there be anything else?"
"No, thank you," Gin dismissed.
"My pleasure."
As the butler ducked out and the door was shut, the girl did not look up.
"Amelia," Gin said sharply. "This is my fiance, Richard."
"Yes," the girl said. "I know."
"As you haven't greeted him, I find that hard to believe."
"It was on the net." Shrug. "Anyway, congratulations, both of you. I'm just thrilled."
"Amelia," Gin snapped. "What the hell is so fascinating?"
The girl turned her phone around, flashing a screen that was lit up like an old-fashioned Lite-Brite. "Dymonds."
"I find it hard to argue with that," Gin muttered. "But you're being rude."
"It's a new game."
Gin indicated Richard. "Will you at least say hello properly."
"I can see the resemblance," Richard offered. "You are quite beautiful."
"Am I supposed to be flattered?" Amelia tilted her head. "Oh, thank you so much. I'm in such a hurry to have anything in common with her. It's my life's ambition, to be like my mother when I grow up. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd rather be in a virtual reality with fake diamonds than anywhere near her or anyone who would volunteer to marry her. Good luck to you."
Amelia was out the door a second later, but not because she was running.
Amelia didn't run from anything.
She sauntered places. Just like her father.
"Mission accomplished," Richard said as he got to his feet and headed back to the bar. "The apple has not fallen far from the tree with that one. And allow me to reiterate, I will not be writing you any kind of check. Cancel the reception as you wish and we'll just get married at the courthouse. It matters not to me."
Gin focused on the TV screen, her mind churning. And she was still staring into space when Richard put himself in front of her.
"Just remember one thing," he said. "You have a tendency to become creative when you're quiet like this. May I remind you that I do not curry disrespect--and you may choose to recall the precise consequences of any insults to me."
Oh, but you enjoy it, you sick bastard, Gin thought bitterly. You enjoy every minute of it.
*
"John, you came through. Atta boy."
As Lizzie heard Lane speak, she looked up from her mostly empty refrigerator. Across her farmhouse's kitchen, he was sitting at her circular table, talking to the laptop that was open in front of him, his brows locked together like two halves of a pocket door pulled tight.
"I'm sorry?" she said as she closed things up.
"John Lenghe. The Grain God. He told me he'd get me as much information as he had on the companies involved in WWB Holdings. And here they are."
When he pushed the screen around, she bent down and looked at an e-mail that seemed long as a book. "Wow. That's a lot of names."
"Now we've got to find them." Lane sat back and stretched his arms over his head, something cracking loud enough to make her wince. "I swear this is like a never-ending roller-coaster ride, the kind that doesn't stop even after you get nauseous."
Stepping in behind him, she massaged his shoulders. "You talked to that reporter again?"
"Yeah." He slumped. "Oh, God, that feels good."
"You're so tight."
"I know." He exhaled. "But yeah, I just spoke with her. She's running the story. There's nothing I can do to stop it. One of those vice presidents must have talked. She knew so damned much."
"How can she share that information, though? The Bradford Bourbon Company isn't a public company. Isn't it a violation of privacy?"
"There's no HIPAA when it comes to businesses. And as long as she couches things in a certain way, she'll be all right. It'll be like when they put the word 'alleged' in front of almost everything when they report on crimes."
"What will happen next?"
"I don't know, and I'm really past the point of worrying about it. All I have to do is get through the visitation tomorrow, and then the next crisis will be honored with my full attention."
"Well, we're ready. Mr. Harris and I took care of the staffing, Miss Aurora is ready in the kitchen. The grounds are taken care of with a final touch up being done in the morning. How many people do you expect?"
"A thousand, maybe. At least as much as--oh, right there. Yeeeeeeeeeeah." As he let his head fall to the opposite side, she admired the line of his strong neck. "As much as we had for the Derby brunch at least. One thing you can always take to the bank, particularly if you've lost your money? People looooove to stare at the carcass of greatness. And after that article tomorrow, that's what we're going to look like at the butcher's counter."
Lizzie shook her head. "Remember my fantasy where we leave this all behind?"
Lane twisted around and pulled her into his lap. As he brushed her hair back and looked at her, his smile almost reached his eyes. "Yes, oh, yes. Tell me what it's like again."
She stroked his jaw, his throat, his shoulders. "We live on a farm far away. You spend your days coaching basketball. I plant flowers for the city. Every night, we sit together on our porch and watch the sun go down over the cornstalks. On Saturdays, we go to the flea market. Maybe I sell things there. Maybe you do. We shop at a little grocery store where Ragu is considered a foreign delicacy, and I make a lot of soup in the winter and potato salad in the summer."
As his lids sank down, he nodded. "And apple pie."
She laughed. "Apple pie, too. And we go skinny-dipping--in our pond out back."
"Oh, I like that part."
"I thought you would."
His hands started to wander, circling her waist, moving higher. "Can I confess something?"
"Absolutely."
"It's not going to reflect well on my character." He frowned deeply. "Then again, there isn't a lot doing that at the moment."
"What is it?"
It was a while before he answered. "When you and I were in my father's office, I wanted to push everything off the top of his desk and have sex with you on the damn thing."
"Really?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "Depraved?"
Lizzie considered the hypothetical with a smile. "Not really. Although I actually can't decide whether that's erotic or just going to create a mess on the floor that it's going to kill me not to clean up."
As he laughed, she got to her feet but stayed straddling him. "But I have an idea."
