by J. R. Ward
Squaring her shoulders, Sutton pivoted on the grass. And for a moment, she was taken aback.
Edward's coloring was good, his skin not the gray cast it had been, but flushed with--
Well, hell, maybe he was just embarrassed that he'd been caught. Except he hadn't been doing anything wrong, had he. She had only discovered him in a private moment, and they were certainly not in a relationship.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have come."
He stopped in front of her. "It's raining."
"Is it?" As he looked at her strangely, she waved a hand. "I mean, of course it is. Yes."
"Come on inside."
As he took her elbow, she shook her head. "No, honestly, it's fine--"
"I know. But come inside. There's lightning--"
The flash and violent CRACK! of a bolt of electricity hitting something made of wood made her feel like God was determined to teach her a lesson. For the life of her, though, she didn't know what it was.
Oh, who was she kidding. She needed to let this whole Edward thing go. That was what she had to get through her thick skull.
"Come on," he prompted. "Before we get killed out here."
Heading over to the cottage, she remembered the Governor of the Commonwealth volunteering to be her rebound date, and you know, that didn't seem like such a bad idea, after all.
Once inside, Edward turned on the lights, and the wall of silver trophies gleamed.
"Let me get you a towel."
"I'm fine." Really? Was she really fine? "Honestly, I shouldn't have come."
Guess that was her refrain, wasn't it.
Ignoring her protest, he passed her something that was the color of raspberries. Or had been before it had been washed a hundred times. The terry cloth was as soft as chamois, though, and as she pressed it to her face so she didn't smudge her eye make-up, she decided her expensive Matouk towels weren't as good.
Also decided that his little girlfriend out in that stable would just rub and go. Or maybe not dry off at all so she looked as dewy as she was.
Twenty. Twenty-two at the most. And Sutton, at thirty-eight, felt like a hundred in comparison.
"I was going to call you," Edward said as he went into the galley kitchen.
The sounds of cupboards opening and closing seemed as loud as jet engines taking off.
"I don't need anything to drink--"
As he came back and presented her with a glass, she frowned as she caught a telltale whiff of-- "Is this my lemonade?"
"Yeah. Or at least, it should be close to it." He limped over to his chair and let out a curse as he sat down. "I remembered the recipe. Your grandmother's."
She took a test sip. "Oh, you got it right."
"Took me forever to squeeze the lemons."
"They have to be fresh."
"Makes a difference." He glanced up at her, his eyes tracing over her features. "You look . . . so good."
"Come on, my hair's wet, and I--"
"No, you are as beautiful as you always are."
Sutton stared into the lemonade as she felt him stare at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm re-memorizing everything about you."
"And why are you doing that?"
"I need something to keep me warm at night."
She thought of that woman out in that barn and almost asked him what was up. But she didn't have that right. Or . . . more likely, she didn't want to know.
"Sutton, I really . . ."
"What?"
He cursed softly. "I wish I could give you what you deserve. I truly do. You are . . . one of the most amazing people I've ever met. And I should have told you that sooner. I wish had. I wish I had . . . well, done a lot of things. But it's just . . . life has changed for me, as you know. I'm never going to be what I once was. The things I used to do, the person I used to be, the company I kept . . . hell, the company I worked for? That's all gone for me and it's never coming back."
Sutton closed her eyes. And as a silence bloomed, like he was waiting for her to respond, all she could do was nod: She was afraid if she tried to speak, the sobs she was holding in would escape.
"What you need in a man is nothing I can provide you with. I'm not going to be good for your public profile--"
"I don't care what people think."
"You have to. You're head of that whole company. You are the Sutton Distillery Corporation. I mean, maybe it wouldn't be quite so bad if you weren't selling your own name, if you were an arm's length businessperson, but you're not. Plus you need stability in your life. You deserve someone who's going to hold you at night and be there on holidays and stand by your side at your civic things. Don't lie to yourself, Sutton. You know I'm right."
She took another sip of the lemonade. "Why did you make love to me the day before yesterday?"
"Because I'm a weak asshole. And sometimes we do things we feel like we need to even if they're not really right."
"Ah."
"I won't ever forget you, Sutton. Ever."
"You make it sound like Ogden County is on the other side of the world."
Then again, it wasn't geographical distance that was the problem.
"If you want to hate me," he said roughly, "I won't blame you."
"I don't want to do that." She went across and focused on the trophies because she didn't want him to see her eyes. "Tell me something."
"What?"
"When I see you, you know, out and about--"
"You won't."
Abruptly, she imagined him avoiding her at the Derby by running and jumping behind support columns and bathroom doors.
"You won't see me, Sutton."
"So you're really closing me off, huh." She turned back around and indicated her glass. "Do you mind if I put this down somewhere? I'm not really thirsty."
"I'll take it."
Lifting her chin, she walked over and put the glass in his hand. It seemed appropriate that thunder shook the cottage as she stepped back.
"Do me a favor?" she said hoarsely.
"What?"
"Don't try to walk me to my car, or suggest I stay in here a minute longer. Let me leave with some pride, okay?"
His eyes, those fucking eyes, stared up at her with such intensity that she felt like he was taking a long-exposure photograph.
He nodded once.
Blinking hard, she whispered, "Good-bye, Edward."
"Good-bye, Sutton."
Out of the cottage. Into the storm.
The dumping rain was cold, and she lifted her face to the sky as she went for her Mercedes, thinking it was the third damned time she'd gone through the rain because of him. And after she got behind the wheel and slammed the door, she gripped the steering wheel as hail marched over the metal and glass that sheltered her like a tiny army that had countless little boots.
Unlike the first time she'd taken the C63 out here alone, she now knew how to work the gearshift. No more hunting for reverse . . . so that a prostitute who looked just like her had to tell her what to do.
As she headed out to the rural route that would take her back where she belonged, she took so many deep breaths that she got to be light-headed.
Goddamn it, she could still taste that lemonade in her mouth.
*
As Edward heard Sutton's car pull out and speed off, he exhaled long and slow. Then he looked at the two glasses in his hands.
Pouring all of his into what had been hers, he put the empty glass aside and drank what her grandmother had taught her to make on hot Kentucky afternoons: One dozen lemons. Cut in half on a wood board with a stout knife. Fresh Kentucky water that carried the kiss of limestone in it.
Sugar. Whole cane sugar. But not too much.
You put the ice in the glasses, not the pitcher. You kept the pitcher in the refrigerator with a tinfoil seal on it so whatever you also had in there didn't season it by exposure.
You shared it with the people you loved.
Closing his eyes, he saw ima
ges of her from the past, like back when she was twelve and he had chased her at Charlemont Country Day because she was one of the first class of girls they'd let in. Or when she was sixteen and that asshole had stood her up for prom . . . and he'd punched the SOB in the face. And then even later, at twenty-one, as she'd graduated and come back for the summer, looking like a full-blown woman for the first time.
And then he remembered the stories about Sutton's grandmother, a woman who hadn't been "classy." In fact, her grandfather had gone out West as a young buck and cattle ranched against his fancy family's wishes--and there he had met a beautiful young woman who rode better than he did, shot better than he did, and wrangled better than he did.
When he'd brought her home, she had made that fancy family bend to her will. It hadn't been the other way around. And it had been, as Sutton had always said, a grand romance for the ages.
The love remained alive in the lemonade he was drinking now.
When the door to the cottage opened, he knew it wasn't Sutton. She wasn't coming back now, or ever, and though his heart hurt, that was the right answer to their equation.
Shelby shut the heavy weight and brushed wet tendrils of hair out of her face.
He cleared his throat. "Neb okay?"
"Yeah, he's doing good. Joey's with him."
"Thanks for coming to tell me."
"That's not why I'm here." There was a pause. "That your woman?"
When he didn't answer, Shelby whistled softly. "She sure is beautiful. I mean, she almost didn't look real. I don't see people like her very often. Outside of magazines maybe."
"Oh, she's real."
"Where'd she go?"
"Home."
"Why? Why you let her go?"
Edward took a sip from Sutton's glass. "Because it's the right thing to do."
"Is that the lemonade you spent all morning makin'? You make it for her?"
"No, I didn't know she was coming." He looked at it. "I made it because I had to have it."
One last time.
"You letting Joey take you out?" he asked without glancing up.
There was a pause. "Yeah."
Edward smiled. "I can hear the blush in your voice."
"I ain't blushin'."
"Bullshit."
As she huffed up, he winked at her. "Come on, I needed to make sure you were paying attention. And there wasn't a 'God' in that one anywhere."
Shelby glared at him for a minute. Then she started to smile back. "Ah, but He's everywhere. And you know what?"
"What's that?"
"I'm glad He brought you and me together."
Edward shook his head. "That was your father, remember."
"Maybe it was Father with a capital 'F.'"
"You say tomato, I say tah-mato."
"Well . . ." She looked around. "I'm going to head back over to the apartment. Unless you need anything? I left lunch leftovers in your fridge for your dinner."
"That was good of you, thank you. And nope, I'm good. But again, thanks."
With her hand on the door latch, Shelby looked over her shoulder. "You going to be here in the morning?"
"Of course I will." He let his head fall back and took a mental picture of her. "Where else would I be?"
He gave her ample time to measure his expression, read his energy, assess his intent with all of her horse sense--and he must have passed the test because she nodded and scooted out and into the storm.
To Joey.
It was good to be where you belong, Edward thought as he stared at all the trophies. And best to do the things you can live with.
Even if it killed you in the short run.
FORTY-EIGHT
Berkley Sedgwick Jewelers was the third-oldest jewelry story in all of the United States. Nestled in a neighborhood that mixed residential housing with commercial endeavors, the establishment was ensconced in a charming old Victorian home . . . which had bars on every window, security cameras on all the eaves, and an ex-Army Ranger who patrolled the premises.
Gin had been a faithful customer for years--and had also enjoyed learning more about that particular man in uniform.
As well as out of it.
But all of those fun and games seemed like a million years in the past, however, as she parked the Drophead in the back lot. It was eight o'clock, so the other spaces were empty--except for a huge black-on-black SUV that had, quite tragically, a Kentucky University plate on its tail.
It was really the only thing she didn't like about Ryan Berkley, the owner.
The business was closed to regular customers, but it wasn't the first time she had come in after hours, and before she could even knock on the bolted, metal rear door, Ryan opened it for her.
"I'm so glad you called me," he said as she came over.
Ryan was a direct descendant of one side of the founders, and sharing that in regard to her own family's business, she had always felt a kinship with him. That was the extent of their affiliation, however, apart from her buying things from time to time: Even though Ryan was tall and muscular, still fit as the Division I basketball player he'd been in college--for Kentucky University, pity--and in spite of the fact that he had a handsome face, a great haircut, and blue eyes that matched his school colors, there had never been anything between them.
Ryan was a good man, married to a former Miss Kentucky, and interested only in his wife, his four children, and his store.
"As if I would trust anyone else," Gin said as she entered.
After locking them in, Ryan hustled her through the office and storage space, as if he hated any customer seeing the less formal parts of his establishment. Past all that, the store proper was done in royal blue with thick carpet and heavy drapes that were closed for privacy. Glass cases extended down both sides of the long, thin, high-ceiling'ed space, and vintage chandeliers and discreet track lighting made the incredible gems sparkle and wink for attention.
Ryan clapped his big hands together. "So tell me, what may I do for you?"
"Do you have any champagne?"
"For you? Always. DP Rose?"
"You know what I like."
As he disappeared into the back again, she strolled along, pausing at the estate cases. Millions of dollars were for sale in the forms of tutti-frutti bracelets by Cartier, bar pins by Tiffany, rings that had center stones as big as thumbnails.
There was even a particularly stunning Schlumberger necklace of pink and yellow sapphires with turquoise and diamonds accents. Late sixties. Had to be.
"You always know the best," Ryan said as he came up to her with a flute. "And I just got that in."
"Is this the one from the Christie's sale last month?"
"It is."
"You paid nine hundred eighty thousand and change with the buyer's premium. What's the mark-up? Because I think you overpaid for it."
He laughed. "You know, if being a socialite ever bores you, you can always come consult for me."
"It's just a hobby."
Although he was right, jewelry was an obsession of hers, and throughout the year, she poured over all the Christie's and Sotheby's catalogues for the houses' New York, Geneva, and Hong Kong sales. Often, in the past, she had been a buyer.
No more, though.
Gin looked up at him. "I need you to handle something discreetly for me."
"Always." He indicated a pair of chairs that had been pulled up by the diamond case. "Come, tell me what you require."
Following him over, she sat down and put the flute on the glass case. Taking off her engagement ring, she held the thing out.
"I want you to remove this stone and replace it with a cubic zirconia."
Ryan took the diamond but didn't look at it. "Why don't we just make you a travel copy? I can have one ready for you tomorrow by ten a.m.--"
"I want you to buy the stone from me. Tonight. For gold."
Ryan sat back, shifting the ring onto the tip of his forefinger. And yet he still didn't look at the thing. "Gin, you and I have do
ne a lot of business together, but I'm not sure--"
"I believe it's an H color. VVS2. Harry Winston on the shank, and I think he got it new. Carat weight has to be high teens, low twenties. The value is around a million and a half, retail, a million at auction. I'm asking five hundred thousand--which is slightly higher than wholesale, I know, but I'm a loyal customer of yours, number one, and number two, I know you've read the newspapers. I may be in a position of having to liquidate some of my mother's collection, and if you don't want me going up to New York to the auction houses, you have to do right by me on this deal."
Again, he didn't examine the ring, just kept looking at her. "You know I want to help you, but it's not as simple as you're making it out to be. There are tax implications--"
"For me, not you. And the ring is mine. It was given to me in contemplation of marriage, and I married Richard Pford yesterday. Even if we divorce tomorrow, it stays with me legally."
"You're asking me to be complicit in insurance fraud, though. This must be insured--there's no way this asset isn't scheduled."
"Again, my problem, not yours. And to make things easier, I'm telling you right now that I'll cancel the policy, whatever and wherever it is. You have no reason to think I won't follow through on this, and no way to know if I don't."
Finally, he looked at the stone, holding it up to his naked eye.
"This is a good deal for the both of us," she said.
Ryan got to his feet. "Let me look at it under the microscope. But I have to take it out of the setting."
"Do whatever you need to."
Leaving the champagne behind, she followed him into an anteroom that was used for private consultations during business hours, typically by men buying diamonds for their girlfriends.
Richard, you cheap bastard, she thought. That stone better be real.
*
Back at Easterly, Lane entered the kitchen and followed the sound of chopping to where Miss Aurora was making quick work of a bag of carrots, reducing the lengths to perfectly even, quarter-inch-thick orange disks.
"Okay," he said, "so we're you, Lizzie, me, John, and Jeff for dinner. I don't think Max is coming, and I have no idea where Gin or Amelia are."
To kill time while Lenghe was looking over all the documentation on the Rembrandt, Lane had gone down to the row of cottages to try to talk to Max. When he'd found the guy sound asleep, he'd tried Edward, but had gotten no answer--and as Lane didn't know when he was going to get a response from his potential poker opponent, he didn't want to leave the estate.
