by J. R. Ward
He was just . . . undeniable.
As usual.
As they came around to the back of the house, there were a number of waiters loitering by the kitchen screen door, their bow ties hanging loose around their necks, a cigarette lit here and there, a number of portable ice coolers, all in U of C red, waiting to get loaded into a Ford truck.
Edward bypassed them and continued on to the business center.
There were no fancy sedans parked along its flank. No lights in the windows--although that might have been because the drapes were drawn. No one coming and going.
And there was no problem for him to get inside, the code he entered on the pad freeing up the lock.
Inside, the air was cool and dry, and the darkness, coupled with the relatively low ceilings, made her feel like she was entering a cave . . . a very nice cave with deep pile carpeting and oil paintings on the walls and a full-service kitchen she had heard about but never personally sampled the wares of.
"What are we doing?" she asked his back as he kept on limping along.
He did not reply. He just led her into a conference room . . . and closed the door.
And locked it.
There was nothing but dim security lighting on in the corners of the room, the royal blue drapes closed as tightly as if they were zippered shut, the glossy table clear of anything save a flower arrangement in the center that appeared to be a few days old.
There were twelve leather chairs.
He pushed the one at the head of the table out of the way and then he turned to her. Came up to her. Lowered his eyes at her body.
As her lungs began to sting from a sweet suffocation, she knew exactly why they were here . . . and she also knew she wasn't going to deny them this.
It made no sense. But she was desperate and so was he, and sometimes the primordial overrode all logic and self-protection.
"I want you," he said as his eyes roamed over her, hot and greedy. "And I'd tell you I need you, but that truth scares me too much to say it out loud. Oops."
She reached for him. Or maybe it was the other way around.
And oh, God, the way he kissed her, hungry and demanding as one of his hands locked on at the back of her neck--and the other circled her waist. With a lurch, he walked her backward until she felt the table bump against her hamstrings.
"Can you get up on this?" he groaned against her mouth. "I can't lift you."
Typical of the Bradfords, everything was the best of the best, and even though she was a healthy weight, the table didn't care in the slightest as she hopped up on it.
Edward's hands pushed her skirt higher and higher as he kissed her even more deeply. And then he worked his way between her thighs, his fingers trailing up her blouse and stripping off the Armani jacket she had on. She was the one who took her hair out of its chignon.
Buttons came loose under his deft fingers, and then her breasts were exposed, the lace cups of her bra getting pushed aside as he bent down and got her even hotter. Letting herself go, she fell back on the slick conference table and he followed, staying with her, covering her with his body.
His hands swept up and cupped her breasts as his hips rolled against her, stroking her with an erection that was so hard, so distinct, she didn't know whether he'd taken his pants off. Her skirt didn't last long, Edward taking advantage as she arched up to his mouth to release the back fastening and do away with it.
Her stockings followed suit.
And then her panties.
And then his mouth left her breasts . . . and went other places.
The orgasm was so strong, her head knocked into the hard table, but she didn't care. Throwing her palms out, they squeaked against polished wood as she called his name freely.
There was no one to know.
Nobody to hear.
And after stitching herself up at corporate headquarters all day long, after resolutely shutting down the worried daughter she was for the professional she wanted and needed to be at the office . . . after denying her feelings for Edward for so long . . . she wasn't going to hold anything back.
"Oh, God . . . look at you . . ."
As she heard him talk, she lifted her head. He was staring at her, his eyes full of lust, his hands locking on her breasts.
And then, as if he knew exactly what she wanted, he reared up and went for the fly of his khakis.
Reaching out, she went for his shirt, her hands fumbling with--
"No, no, that has to stay on."
She wanted to argue. But then she felt the blunt head of his stroking at her . . . and then penetrating.
Sutton cried out again and then Edward was on her, the sex fast and furious, the driving thrusts threatening to slide her down the table. Locking her legs around his lower body, she held them together.
She hated the shirt he'd left on. Hated the reason for it. Wanted him to be as free as she was.
But she would take what he gave her. And knew better than to ask for any more.
Soon, Edward's orgasm was as loud as hers had been, the harsh sounds of his breath in her ear, his curses, the gritted way he said her name, helping her find another release.
It seemed like forever and not nearly long enough before he was still.
And it was then she was reminded for the first time since he took her hand and brought her to the business center . . . that he wasn't as strong as he had once been.
As he collapsed against her, he did not weigh very much, and his breath was ragged for quite some time.
Unlatching her legs, she wrapped her arms around him and held him as she closed her eyes.
And it felt like the most natural thing in the world to open her heart even as she kept her mouth shut: As good as this had been, there was an unmistakable stolen quality to it, and sooner or later, she was going to have to put her defenses back on along with her clothes--
He whispered something in her ear that she didn't catch.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing."
Edward stopped her from asking again by kissing her some more. And then he was moving inside of her, his erection still hard, his hips still strong, his need still for her.
For some reason, her eyes watered. "Why does this feel like you're saying good-bye?"
"Shhhh . . ." he said before kissing her again.
THIRTY-THREE
"My car has never broken down like this. Like, ever."
As Beth spoke to Mack, the rain started to fall, the drops hitting the back of his suit jacket as he popped the hood and looked into the hissing engine.
"It's all right," he said. "These things happen. So listen, make my day . . . and tell me that you have some bottled water with you."
"I think so--hold on."
Waving his arms, he cleared away the clouds of hot, oil-smelling vapor while, overhead, thunder rolled through the sky like a bowling ball.
"Here," Beth said. "Got it."
Taking off his jacket, he covered his hand with a sleeve and bent down to the radiator. "Stand back."
"No, wait! You'll ruin your--"
As he loosened the cap, the pressure exploded and he got nailed with a razor-sharp burn on the bottom of his arm. "Sonofabitch!"
"Mack, are you crazy?"
Trying to be a man about having been stupid, he dropped the damn jacket and flapped things around. "Give me the water," he gritted when he wasn't seeing double anymore.
A flash of lightning provided him with a first-class view under the hood, and the clap of thunder that immediately followed meant the storm was coming in fast and had good aim.
"Get back in the car, okay?"
"What about your arm?"
"We'll look at it when this thing isn't overheating. G'on."
A deluge of rain cut the argument off, and Beth ran around and got behind the wheel again. The wet rush was cool, which helped on a lot of levels, especially as a stiff gust threw a wash of the stuff onto the engine. And what do you know, filling up the radiator went better than th
e cap-tastrophe--and then he was shutting the hood and heading back for shotgun.
"Well, that was fun." He yanked his door shut and pushed his wet hair back. "You want to give the ignition a shot?"
"How's your arm?"
"Still attached. Let's see if we can get going."
Beth was muttering and shaking her head as she cranked the key. "I don't know anything about cars, and after this, I'm really looking to keeping things that way."
But the engine started up like a champ, and as she looked over with a smile, Mack almost forgot the pain in his arm.
"Don't be too impressed," he robin-breasted. "All men with names like Mack or Joe are constitutionally required to be able to fix situations like this."
Unfortunately, the respite didn't last. As rain pelted the front windshield and more lightning disco-balled the sky, the pain from the burn got back to business and he found himself cursing and not wanting to look at the damage.
Grinding his teeth, he started to take off his tie because of the nausea.
"I think we should go to the emergency room," she said.
"Let me see how bad it is."
When all he could do was fumble, Beth pushed his hands out of the way. "I'll do it."
The tie knot she had done for him dissolved under her deft fingertips, and then he tilted his head back so she could get at the top button of his collar.
From his vantage point, he could see her in the rearview mirror, her brows down in concentration, her lips parted.
He got hard.
He didn't mean to. He didn't want to. And he sure as hell wasn't going to do anything about it. But here it was--the adult equivalent of a high school boy's come-up-and-solve-this-math-problem nightmare.
Man, this trip kept getting any better, the pair of them were going to be struck by a bajillion joules of wake-up juice.
With a jerk, he made sure his blazer was covering his lap, and then Beth was working her way down his shirt and pulling the tails out as she went. Which meant a whole lot of him was getting airtime.
Well, at least he wasn't as preoccupied with his Freddy Krueger.
"I'll take it from here," he said gruffly.
"You're not going to manage. Lean toward me."
Mack slowly shifted off the back of the seat, bringing them close together. She was talking about something, God only knew what, going on and on as if nothing particularly notable was happening . . . while she stripped his chest and shoulders.
". . . butter, you know? Right from the fridge. I don't know if it worked on my neck burn necessarily, but I smelled like I had breakfast for perfume when I went to the dance. The boys were crazy for me."
Laugh, you idiot, he told himself.
"That's funny," he said.
"Oh . . . Mack."
As she looked down and shook her head, he thought for a cringing moment she had noticed his erection, but no, his wet blazer was still covering up everything.
Actually, she had managed to get the shirt completely off where he'd been burned, the thing now hanging damply from his "good" arm. Like it was depressed it wasn't going to get to go to a party.
"You're going to need a doctor," she said at the horrible red bomb burst in his skin.
"It's fine."
"You'd say that if you had an arterial bleed, wouldn't you?"
That was when she looked at him.
And instantly she went still . . . as if she knew exactly where his brain had gone--and it certainly was not on her radiator, his arm, or any kind of medical intervention.
Not unless she was playing nurse to his patient and was half naked at the time.
Damn it, he was a pig.
"I'm fine," he said again as he focused on her lips--and wondered what they felt like. Tasted like.
Her eyes drifted down to his pecs and his abs--and man, he was glad that he had never been afraid of physical labor. And that he was in a basketball league that played hard twice a week. And that he could bench-press twice his weight, easy.
Clearing her throat, she eased out of reach. "Ah . . . so, the hospital?"
"I'm fine." His voice was so low it was all gravel. And where the hell had the rest of his grown-up words gone? "Don't worry about it."
She put her hands on the wheel and stared out the front windshield, as though for the life of her she couldn't remember where they'd ended up stopping. Or why. Or what they were doing in the car.
"No," she said as she put the engine in drive. "I'm taking you to the emergency room. Text whoever you need to, but we're not going to make it to the visitation."
*
"Stay at one of the cottages, then."
As Lane spoke to Max, he removed his bow tie and folded the thing into the side pocket of his jacket. The foyer was empty of people, but that had been the case all afternoon, hadn't it.
When his brother didn't respond, Lane took that as a "fuck no." "Come on, how about it? I think I heard from Lizzie that the second cottage from the end is open. Key's under the front mat and it's furnished."
He wasn't sure whether Max heard him or not. The guy was staring through the archway into the parlor, at that portrait of Elijah Bradford.
In the background, thunder and lightning did a rumble-tumble through the sky, the open front door seeming to invite the storm inside. Then again, the tornado was already in the house. Had been for the past few weeks.
"Max?" Lane prompted.
"Sorry. Yeah, I'll stay down there." His brother glanced over. "Edward looks . . ."
"I know."
"I'd read the papers . . . but the articles hadn't had a lot of pictures with them."
"It's also different in person."
"I'm not used to it yet."
As Lane's phone went off in his breast pocket, he took the thing out and wasn't surprised at the text indicating that John Lenghe's plane had been rerouted due to bad weather. Just as well. He was exhausted and not up for an epic game of poker right now.
Before he could put it away, a second text came through, almost as if the storms had caused a cellular tower to briefly blink out before starting to function again. Mack couldn't make it either. Something about car trouble.
Not missing much, Lane typed to his old buddy.
"You need some food?" he asked Max.
"I ate before I came."
"How long are you here for?"
"I don't know. Long as I can stand it."
"In that case, we might as well say our good-byes now," Lane said dryly.
Funny, his brother's roughneck exterior belied the fact that Max had a Yale education behind that scruff. Proof positive you shouldn't judge books by covers, et cetera . . . although maybe the guy had done so many drugs that he'd rusted all that higher learning out of his brain cells.
"You know . . ." Max cleared his throat. "I have no idea why I came back."
"Well, a piece of advice. Find that out before you leave. It's more efficient. Oh, but make sure you say hello to Miss Aurora, okay? She's going to want to see you."
"Yeah. And yes, I know she's ill."
For a split second, a flag got raised, but Lane lost track of the warning or instinct or whatever it was. And then a flash of silver blue outside in the circular drive caught his eye. It was Sutton Smythe out in the rain, her hairdo ruined, her fancy suit soaked, her high heels splashing through puddles. She wasn't running, though. She was walking as slowly as if it were just the gloaming on a summer night.
"Sutton!" Lane called out as he rushed for the doorway. "Do you want an umbrella?"
Dumbass question. It was way too late for that.
She turned to him on a startle, and seemed to recognize where she was for the first time. "Oh, ah, no, thank you. I appreciate it, though. My condolences."
Her chauffeur jumped out from behind the wheel of the C63 she'd come in. Then doubled back and fumbled for an umbrella. "Miss Smythe!"
"I'm fine," she said as he ran over to her. "Don, I'm fine."
As the man got her into the bac
kseat of the car and then the Mercedes took off down Easterly's hill, Lane stayed in the mansion's entrance, the breath of the storm hitting him with a wet kiss. When he finally eased back around, Max was gone and so was the duffel he'd brought with him.
No doubt he'd proceeded down to the kitchen.
Putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Lane looked around at the empty rooms. The waitstaff had removed the bars and returned the furniture to its proper place. His mother had retired upstairs once again, and he had to wonder when, if ever, she would come down once more. Lizzie was off somewhere, likely organizing the rented tablecloths, napkins, and glasses for pick-up to keep herself from jumping out of her skin.
And Edward? He must have left.
All around him, the mansion was quiet as the wind battered the highest point in Charlemont, as the streaks of deadly lightning lashed out, as the thunder cursed and swore.
Taking his cue from Sutton, he walked out of the door and lifted his face to all the fury. The rain was cold against his skin and spiked with hail. The gusts battered his body. The threat of a strike increased as the core of the storm rolled ever closer.
His clothes slapped and flapped against him, reminding him of the fall from the bridge. The sting in his eyes made him blink, and a sense that he was plummeting made the drop down to the river below seem as close as his own hand.
But there was a truism that kept him upright, a strength that he tapped into, a power that came from within.
As Easterly withstood the onslaught . . . so would he.
THIRTY-FOUR
When Edward returned to the Red & Black, he parked Shelby's truck in front of the caretaker's cottage, killed the engine and shucked the key from the ignition. But he didn't immediately get out. Not because of the storm, though.
As raindrops pelted the windshield like God was angry at him but couldn't get His hands on anything better to throw, images of Sutton lying back on that conference table, her body so gloriously naked as she gasped and moaned, replaced even the overwhelming storm that was rushing over the land.
Looking through the deluge to the cottage, he knew Shelby was waiting for him there. With dinner. And a bottle of alcohol. And after he finished eating and drinking, they would go back to that bedroom and lie together side by side in the darkness, him sleeping and her . . . well, he didn't know if she slept or not.
He had never asked.
Tucking the key into the visor, he disembarked and was pushed against the wet flank of the truck bed by the wind. Throwing wide a steadying arm, he didn't want to go inside. But staying out here--
