by J. R. Ward
"Dinner's ready and holding," Miss Aurora said as she reached for another carrot out of the mesh net. "I did us a roast beef with mashed potatoes and stewed beans. This here's for Gary. My puree is the only vegetable he'll eat, and he's likewise joining us for dinner."
"You got any cobbler left?"
"Made a fresh one. Figured you boys will be hungry."
Bracing his palms on the granite, Lane leaned into his arms and watched Miss Aurora work that blade like a metronome on a piano top, the rhythm always the same.
He cleared his throat. "So Lizzie and Greta made up a list of the staff who are going to have to go."
"Oh, yeah?"
"A lot of people are being laid off."
"Who's staying?"
"You, Lizzie, Reginald, Greta, and Gary. Gary'll wanna keep Timbo, and that makes sense. Everyone else goes. Turns out Greta loves paperwork--she'll become the new controller for accounts half time. Lizzie says she'll take over cleaning the house and helping Gary and Timbo with the mowing."
"Atta girl." Miss Aurora paused in the chopping and looked up. "And that's a good crew. We can handle it all."
Lane exhaled in relief. "That's what I think. Mother will retain her nurses, of course."
"I wouldn't rattle her cage too much. Keep things the same up there."
"We're going to be saving . . . almost a hundred thousand dollars each month. But I feel bad, you know? I'm going to talk to each one of them myself."
"You'll hire 'em back. Not to worry."
"I don't know about that, Miss Aurora."
"You'll see."
As she resumed chopping, she frowned and moved her shoulder around as if it was stiff. And then Miss Aurora paused, put down the knife and seemed like she was having to catch her balance with the help of the countertop.
"Miss Aurora? Are you okay--"
"I'm fine, boy. Just fine."
Shaking her head as if she were clearing it, she picked up the knife and took a deep breath. "Now, go get your friend from out of town. That roast is drying in my holding oven, and I don't want to be wasting all that meat."
Lane searched her face. God, he felt like she lost more weight every time he laid eyes on her. "Miss Aurora--"
"The out-of-towner is here," Lenghe said as he came into the kitchen. "And he is hungry--and ready to play poker."
Turning around, Lane made a mental note to follow up with Miss Aurora. Maybe she needed more help in the kitchen?
"So," Lane said as he clapped his palms. "We going to do this?"
"The documentation could not be more impressive." Lenghe took a seat at the counter after greeting Miss Aurora with a "ma'am." "And the value is there."
"I also checked with my tax guy." Who had been a buddy of Jeff's up in New York. "At our tax rate, which is the highest, long-term capital gains on a collectible is twenty-eight percent. My grandmother, as you know from the paperwork, paid a million dollars for the painting when she bought it. Accordingly, the tax man is going to be looking for ten million, nine hundred and twenty thousand from me."
"So fifty million, nine hundred twenty is the magic number."
"Looks that way."
Lenghe put his hand out. "You put up the painting, and I'm prepared to wire that sum to the account of your choice Monday morning if I lose. Or, if you'd feel more comfortable doing an escrow overseas, where there's a market open right now, we can do that, too."
Lane shook the older man's palm. "Deal. No escrow necessary, I trust you."
As they shook, Lenghe looked over at Miss Aurora. "You're our witness, ma'am."
"Yes." Then she nodded at Lane. "And as much as I enjoy catering to our guests here at Easterly, you'll be understandin' that when y'all play, I'll be prayin' for my boy."
Lenghe bowed his head. "I would expect nothing different."
"Wash up for dinner," she commanded as she put the knife down and turned to the stove. "I'm serving family style tonight in the small dining room."
Lane headed for the sink across the way and Lenghe fell into step right with him. As he turned on the water, soaped up his hands, and passed the bar to the Grain God, he had to smile. Only Miss Aurora wouldn't blink an eye at a poker game with over fifty million at stake--and just as blithely order a billionaire to wash his hands before sitting at her table.
Indeed, he loved his momma so.
FORTY-NINE
As Ryan Berkley took his time at the microscope, Gin went back for her flute and returned to sip at the Dom Perignon as she waited. From time to time, she glanced into the cases there in the private area, where the diamonds were even larger than the ones displayed out in the open. Still, they were but chips compared to what Richard had gotten for her.
Assuming it wasn't a CZ.
When Ryan finally straightened from the equipment, she said, "Well?"
"You're right. VVS1. H--or maybe an I with medium blue fluorescents kicking the color up a grade."
He went to another machine, an infrared light flashed, and he nodded. "No, it's an H. You've got a hell of an eye, Gin."
"Thank you."
Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay. You have yourself a deal."
To hide her relief, she took another draw from the champagne. "Good. That's good."
"You realize that five hundred thousand in gold is going to weigh just over twenty-five pounds?"
"Two bags. Twelve and a half in each. I can carry them just fine."
Her jeweler frowned. "That's a lot of money just to walk out of here with. Are you going to be okay? Where are you going to put it?"
"It's all taken care of. Not to worry."
Ryan inclined his head. "All right. I'm going to have to split it between bars and coins. I don't have enough of one or the other. And according to APMEX, the current price per kilo is forty thousand, one hundred eighty-eight dollars, and forty cents. Do you want to see the report?"
"No. And I'm not going to nickel-and-dime you."
"Fair enough."
It took him a good forty-five minutes to get everything organized, and then he brought her into the cellar where he did the weighing and measuring of the gold in front of her at a long worktable. The kilo bars clocked in at just over two pounds apiece, and she liked the feel of them in her hand. Stamped with EMIRATES GOLD in a crest and engraved with 1 KILO, GOLD, and serial numbers, the thin blocks were about the size of her iPhone and he had seven of them to give her.
The rest of the price was made up of South African Krugerrands, which were one troy ounce of twenty-two-karat gold, even though, Ryan explained, they weighed a little more because of the almost three grams of copper alloy added to make the coins harder and therefore more durable.
Lots of coins. A pirate's booty of coins.
The sacks were of a heavy nylon, and under the caged lights over the worktable, the glow of the pile gradually decreased as the gold was shifted into the bags.
When it was all apportioned, she signed the paperwork and stood up to leave.
"Wait," he said. "We need to put the CZ in the setting."
Gin closed her eyes as she imagined Richard's reaction to her showing up with an empty ring. "But of course."
Ryan made fast work of it, finding a suitable fake emerald-cut "diamond" and securing it in the platinum cage. Then he steam-cleaned the thing and gave it back to her.
As she slid the ring back onto her finger on top of her wedding band, she fanned out her hand. "Perfect."
"You're going to have to keep that really clean if you want it to look real. The CZs are great, but any oil from the skin or soap residue and they dull immediately."
She nodded and went for the bags. With a grunt, she lifted them. "Heavy--"
"Will you please let me take them to your car for you?"
"Actually, I think I will. Thank you."
She followed him out of the cellar and back into the fancy part of the store. And they almost made it to the rear door.
But Ryan stopped. "I can't . . . Gin, this really isn't safe.
I know that St. Michael's is a relatively safe area of town, but please, let me see you home with these. Or call a security detail you. Please."
"I'm not going home."
His blue eyes were grave. "I'm licensed to carry. I have a gun on me at all times and two in my car. Let me get you wherever you're going in one piece--I will never forgive myself otherwise, especially if something happens."
She looked at the two bags and thought of how much value was in them.
Funny, she had spent her whole life around huge amounts of money . . . but it had been mostly represented by numbers in bank accounts, charge cards that fit in her wallet, and wads of cash that hadn't come anywhere close to equaling half a million dollars. Even the value in the artwork, antiques, and silver in the house, or the jewels in the vault seemed different, more statements of style, decor, and grand living than worth.
There was something very nuts-and-bolts about bags of gold.
"I can drive you in my SUV," Ryan pushed, "which is retrofitted for security. And then bring you back here for your car."
"Are you sure?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm a good Catholic boy whose father is about to turn in his grave if I let you walk out of this store by yourself. So yes, I'm sure."
"All right. Thank you. Thank you very much."
Minutes later, he had backed the SUV right up to the rear door, got her settled in the passenger seat . . . and put the two bags in her lap.
"We're just going up to the bank," she told him as he reversed.
"Thank you, Jesus," he muttered.
The local PNC branch was just up the road a little, and as soon as they pulled up, the manager, who was an attractive blond woman, opened the delivery door in the back.
She was in yoga-wear and had her hair in a ponytail, looking far younger than she did in her business suits.
"Hi there," she said as they got out with him, lugging the weight once again. "Ryan, this is a pleasant surprise. I left your Stacy in class about twenty minutes ago."
"Can I just tell you how happy I am to see you?" he said as he dropped a kiss on the woman's cheek.
"That's nice to hear."
After they entered a shallow, dim space that was not ordinarily for customers, the woman closed things up, cranking a circular wheel until there was a clank! As they moved further in, passing into the regular part of the bank, the lights were down low, everything quiet and orderly.
"The paperwork is right over here."
Gin felt in a bit of a daze as she went across and signed some things at a countertop. And yes, the pen was attached to a date block with a little metal leash of tiny silver links. The thing hissed like a snake as she scribbled her name here . . . here . . . and . . . right here, thank you.
"This is your key," the woman said. "And I'll take you to the box now."
Ryan spoke up. "Do you want to go in alone, Gin?"
"No, if you can carry that?"
"Absolutely."
The three of them entered the vault that had been opened just for her, and she was escorted to a safe-deposit box down by the floor that seemed like the size of a kitchen trash bin. Taking back the key, the manager leaned in and put it into the slot, added one of her own and then the hatch was opened.
The woman extracted a square metal container out of the compartment with a grunt. "This is our biggest size."
"Please don't hurt yourself." Gin turned to Ryan. "May I?"
She wanted to be the one to put the gold in there--and as soon as she did, she stared at the two of them.
"I want you to be my witnesses. This is for my daughter. In case anything happens to me, this is all hers. I'm giving it to Amelia."
Gin took a sealed envelope out of her purse. "I put it in this letter. This is for Amelia."
And the provisions for who got the gold weren't the only things she'd written down. Samuel T. was in there as well.
He would no doubt be a fantastic father. Once he got over the shock . . . and the surge of hatred for Gin.
Laying the letter on top of the nylon sacks, she could feel the pair of them looking at her funny, and she couldn't say she blamed them. After all, her father had just killed himself--or maybe hadn't, who knew.
They were probably wondering if she was next.
"And if I'm found dead, I want you to know that Richard Pford did it." She looked them both in the eye, ignoring the alarm she caused. "That's also in the letter. If I'm killed, he murdered me."
*
Lizzie could hardly eat.
It wasn't that the company was bad. It wasn't that the small dining room, with its collection of Imari platters mounted on its cream silk walls and its Aubusson rug, wasn't elegant. And there certainly wasn't anything wrong with Miss Aurora's food.
It was more the fact that her man was about to play poker for a pot totaling over fifty thousand--
Million, she corrected herself. Fifty million dollars.
God, she couldn't get her mind around the sum.
"--good idea at the time," Lane was saying as he sat back from his second helping and wiped his mouth. "The river was at its high point, and come on, Land Rovers are hearty vehicles. I wanted the challenge. So I took Ernie--"
"Wait," she said, plugging into the story. "Who's Ernie?"
Lane leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. "My first car. Ernie."
Jeff spoke up from across the table. "Why do I think this doesn't end well for Ernie?"
"It didn't." Lane took a sip of his ginger ale. "Anyway, I went down to River Road, broke through the police tape--"
Miss Aurora shook her head, even as she was trying to hide her grin. "I'm so glad I didn't know about this before now or I woulda had words with you, young man."
"You may still get your chance," John said with a laugh as he reached for his Coke. "The night is young."
"Anyway," Lane interjected, "I learned that as long as you keep moving forward, you got it. That water came all the way up until it was lapping over the hood."
"This was without a snorkel?" Lizzie said. "Or with?"
"Without. And that was kind of the problem. See, there was this tree floating under the surface--"
"Oh, God," Lizzie muttered.
"--and it caught me right at the grille. My velocity slowed . . . and yeah, that was when Ernie died. He was stuck there until the river went down, and you want to talk about silt? The inside of that car looked like it had spent a fortnight out in the desert during a sandstorm."
As people laughed, Lizzie had to ask, "Wait, so what happened next? What did you tell your father?"
Lane grew serious, the smile leaving his face. "Oh, you know . . . Edward came in and saved the day. He had a bunch of money that he'd been investing--it wasn't family cash, it was from summer jobs and birthday presents. He bought me a used one that looked just like Ernie, same interior, same exterior. A few more miles, but like Father was going to check the speedometer? Without Edward . . . man, that wouldn't have gone well."
"To big brothers," John said as he raised his glass.
"To big brothers," everyone answered.
"So," Lane murmured as everybody lowered their drinks back to the table. "You ready to do this?"
John got to his feet and picked up his plate. "Soon as we help clear. I can't wait. I'm feeling lucky tonight, son. I'm feeling lucky!"
As Jeff and Miss Aurora got up as well, Lizzie stayed where she was, and Lane, as if sensing her mood, didn't move either as everyone else filed out.
"You sure this is a good idea?" she whispered as she took his hands in hers. "Not that I don't trust you. It's just . . . that's so much money."
"If I win, Ricardo Monteverdi and that loan at Prospect Trust largely goes away--and then we've got half a chance because Jeff is going to turn the company around. God, you should have seen him down at headquarters. He's . . . amazing. Just incredible. We'll have some lean months, but by the end of the year? We'll be up to date on accounts payable and Mack won't have to worry about where the g
rains for his mash are coming from anymore."
"I can't believe you're so calm." She laughed. Or cursed. It was hard to know what that sound coming out of her was. "I feel like I'm a nervous wreck and I'm just on the sidelines."
"I know what I'm doing. The only thing I'm worried about is luck--and that you can't control. You can make up for it with skill, though. And I've got that in spades."
She reached up to his face. "I'm so proud of you."
"I haven't won yet."
"I don't care about the outcome--well, I do. I just . . . you're doing what you said you were going to do. You're saving your family. You're taking care of your business. You're . . . you're really amazing, you know that?"
As she went in to kiss him, he laughed deep in his chest. "Not a recalcitrant playboy anymore, am I. See what the love of a good woman will do for a guy?"
They kissed for a moment, and then he pulled her into his lap. Putting her arms around his neck, she smiled.
"Absolutely." Lizzie smoothed the hair at the base of his neck. "And guess what?"
"What?"
Lizzie put her mouth to his ear. "Win or lose . . . you're getting lucky tonight."
Lane let out a growl, his hands tightening on her waist, his hips rolling underneath her. As he went to kiss her again, she stopped him. "We better head for the game room now before distraction sets in."
"It's already set in," he said dryly. "Trust me."
"Just remember," she murmured as she got off of him. "The sooner you're done . . . the sooner we can go--"
Lane burst out of his chair, nearly knocking the thing over. Grabbing her hand, he started dragging her out of the room at a dead run.
"Will you quit wasting time, woman!" he said as she laughed out loud. "Jeez, I got poker to play . . . !"
FIFTY
About half an hour later, Lane sat at the circular poker table in the game room about three chairs away from Lenghe. The spectators, by mutual agreement of the players, had taken a line-up of chairs on the far side of where the cards were being thrown so no one could see over anyone's shoulders. Lizzie and Miss Aurora were together, with Jeff and Gary, the head groundskeeper, sitting next to them.
There was no way of pretending that this wasn't one of those moments that was inevitably going to become Bradford lore, just like when one of Lane's ancestors had lent money to Abraham Lincoln or another had had to fight a fire at the Old Site with water from the aquifer, or when Bradford horses had come in one, two, and three in the 1956 Derby.
