by J. R. Ward
Oh, and unlike Lizzie, her blond hair was cut short as a man's--which was something to envy when you were stuck pulling your own back and tying it with whatever you could get your hands on: trashbag twist ties, floral wire, the rubber bands off bunches of broccoli.
The one thing they did have in common? Neither of them could stand to be immobile, unoccupied, or unproductive for even a second. They had been working together at BFE now for almost five years--no, longer. Seven?
Oh, God, it was close to ten now.
And Lizzie couldn't fathom life without the woman--even though sometimes she wished Greta could be a half-full, instead of half-empty, kinda gal.
"Ich sage Ihnen, wir haben Schwierigkeiten."
"Did you just say we're in trouble again?"
"Kann sein."
Lizzie rolled her eyes but fell into the adrenal trap, glancing over the assembly line they'd set up: Down the sixty-foot-long center of the greenhouse, a double row of folding tables had been lined up, and on them were seventy-five sterling-silver bouquet bowls the size of ice buckets.
The gleam was so bright, Lizzie wished she hadn't left her sunglasses in her car.
And she also wished she didn't have to deal with all this in addition to the knowledge that Lane Baldwine was probably landing at the airport at this very instant.
Like she needed that pressure as well?
As her head began to pound, she tried to focus on what she could control. Unfortunately, that only left her wondering how she and Greta were going to manage to fill those bowls with the fifty thousand dollars of flowers that had been delivered--but that still needed to be unpacked, inspected, cleaned, cut and arranged properly.
Then again, this was the crunch that always happened forty-eight hours before The Derby Brunch.
Or TDB, as it was called around the estate.
Because, yup, working at Easterly was like being in the Army: Everything was shortened, except for the work days.
And yes, even with that ambulance this morning, the event was still going on. Like a train, the momentum stopped for no one and nothing in its path. In fact, she and Greta had often said that if nuclear war happened, the only things left after the mushroom cloud dissipated would be cockroaches, Twinkies . . . and TDB.
Jokes aside, the brunch was so long-standing and exclusive, it was its own proper name, and slots on the guest list were guarded and passed down to the next generation as heirlooms. A gathering of nearly seven hundred of the city's and the nation's wealthiest people and political elite, the crowd mingled and milled around Easterly's gardens, drinking mint juleps and mimosas for only two hours before departing for Steeplehill Downs for thoroughbred racing's biggest day and the first leg of the Triple Crown. The rules of the brunch were short and sweet: Ladies had to wear hats, no photographs or photographers were allowed, and it didn't matter whether you were in a Phantom Drophead or a corporate limousine--all cars were parked in the meadow at the bottom of the hill and all people filed into vans that ran them up to the front door of the estate.
Well, almost all people. The only folks who didn't have to take the shuttle? Governors, any of the Presidents if they came--and the head coach of the University of Charlemont's men's basketball team.
In Kentucky, you were either U of C red or Kentucky University blue, and basketball mattered whether you were rich or poor.
The Bradfords were U of C Eagles fans. And it was almost Shakespearean that their rivals in the bourbon business, the Suttons, were all about the KU Tigers.
"I can hear you muttering," Lizzie said. "Think positive. We got this."
"Wir mussen alle Pfingstrosen zahlen," Greta announced as she popped the top on another carton. "Last year, they short-changed us--"
One half of the double doors that opened into the house swung wide, and Mr. Newark Harris, the butler, came in like a cold draft. At five feet six inches, he appeared much taller in his black suit and tie--then again, maybe the illusion was because of his perma-raised eyebrows, a function of him being on the verge of uttering "you stupid American" after everything he said. A total throwback to the centuries-old tradition of the proper English servant, he'd not only been born and trained in London, but he had served as a footman for Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and then as a butler for Prince Edward, Earl of Wessex, at Bagshot Park. The House of Windsor pedigree had been the linchpin of his hiring the year before.
Certainly hadn't been his personality.
"Mrs. Baldwine is out at the pool house." He addressed only Lizzie. Greta, as a German national who still rocked that Z-centric accent, was persona non grata to him. "Please take a bouquet out to her. Thank you."
And poof!, he was back out the door, closing things up silently.
Lizzie closed her eyes. There were two Mrs. Baldwines on the estate, but one only of them was likely to be out of her bedroom and down in the sunshine by the pool.
One-two punch today, Lizzie thought. Not only was she going to have to see her ex-lover, she was now going to have to wait on his wife.
Fantastic.
"Ich hoffe, dass dem Idiot ein Klavier auf den Kopf fallt."
"Did you just say you hope a piano falls on his head?"
"And you maintain you don't know German."
"Ten years with you and I'm getting there."
Lizzie glanced around to see what she could use of the massive flower delivery. After the boxes were unpacked, the leaves needed to be stripped off the stalks and the blooms had to be fluffed one by one to encourage petal spread and allow for a check of quality. She and Greta hadn't gotten anywhere close to that stage yet, but what Mrs. Baldwine wanted, she got.
On so many levels.
Fifteen minutes of choosing, clipping, and arranging later and she had a passable bunch shoved into wet foam in a silver bowl.
Greta appeared in front of her and held out her hands, that big mine-cut diamond ring flashing. "Let me take it out."
"No, I got this--"
"You aren't going to want to deal with her today."
"I never want to deal with her--"
"Lizzie."
"I'm okay. Honest."
Fortunately, her old friend bought the lie. The truth? Lizzie was so far away from "okay," she couldn't even see the place--but that didn't mean she was going to wimp out.
"I'll be right back."
"I'll be counting the peonies."
"Everything's going to be fine."
She hoped.
As Lizzie headed for the double doors that opened into the garden, her head really started to thump, and getting hit with a solid wall of hot-and-humid as she stepped outside didn't help that at all. Motrin, she thought. After this, she was going to take four and get back to the real work.
The grass underfoot was brush-cut cropped, more golf-course carpet than anything Mother Nature dreamed up, and even though she had too much on her mind, she still made a mental To Do list of beds to tend to and replantings to be done in the five acre enclosed garden. The good news was that after a late start to spring, the fruit trees were blooming in the corners of the brick-walled expanse, their delicate white petals just beginning to fall like snow on the walkways beneath their canopies. Also, the mulch that had been laid down two weeks before had lost its stink, and the ivy along the old stone walls was sprouting new leaves everywhere. In another month, the four squares marked with Greco-Roman sculptures of robed women in regal poses were going to be all pastel pinks and peaches and bright whites, offering a contrast to the sedate green and gray river view.
But of course, it was all about the Derby right now.
The white clapboard pool house was in the far left corner, looking like a proper, doctor/lawyer/family-of-four Colonial as it sat back from an almost Olympic-sized aquamarine body of water. The loggia that connected the two was topped by a controlled wig of wisteria that would soon enough have white and lavender blooms hanging like lanterns from the green tangle.
And beneath the overhang, stretched out in a Brown
Jordan recliner, Mrs. Chantal Baldwine was as beautiful as a priceless marble statue.
About as warm as one, too.
The woman had skin that glowed, thanks to a perfectly executed spray tan, blond hair that was streaked artfully and curled at the long ends, and a body that would have given Rosie Huntington-Whiteley an inferiority complex. Her nails were fake, but perfect, nothing Jersey about either their length or color, and her engagement ring and wedding band were right out of Town & Country, as white and blinding and big as her smile.
She was the perfect modern Southern belle, the kind of woman that people in the Charlemont zip code whispered about having come from "good stock, even if it's from Virginia."
Lizzie had long wondered if the Bradfords checked the teeth of the debutantes their sons went out with--like you did with thoroughbreds.
"--collapsed and then the ambulance came." That heavily diamonded hand lifted to that hair and pushed the stuff back; then brought the iPhone she was talking into over to her other ear. "They took her out the front door. Can you believe it? They should have done that around the back--oh, aren't those lovely!"
Chantal Baldwine put her hand in front of her mouth, all geisha-demure as Lizzie schlepped over to the marble-topped bar and set the blooms on the end that was out of the direct sun. "Did Newark do that? He is so thoughtful."
Lizzie nodded and turned back around. The less time wasted here, the better--
"Oh, say, Lisa, would you--"
"It's Lizzie." She stopped. "May I help you with something else?"
"Would you be so kind as to get me some more of this?" The woman nodded to a glass pitcher that was half full. "The ice has melted and the flavor's become watered down. I'm leaving for the club for lunch, but not for another hour. Thank you so much."
Lizzie shifted her eyes over to lemonade--and really tried, honest-to-God tried, not to imagine dousing the woman in the stuff. "I'll have Mr. Harris send someone--"
"Oh, but he's so busy. And you can just run it in--you're such a help." The woman went back to her iPhone with its University of Charlemont cover. "Where was I? Oh, so they took her out the main front door. I mean, honestly, can you imagine . . . ?"
Lizzie walked over, picked up the pitcher, and then strode back across the gleaming white terrace to the green grass. "My pleasure."
My pleasure.
Yeah, right. But that was what you were supposed to say when the family asked you to do something. It was the only acceptable response--and certainly better than, "How 'bout you take your lemonade and shove it where the sun don't shine, you miserable piece of veal--"
"Oh, Lisa? It's a virgin, okay? Thank you."
Lizzie just kept on going, tossing another "My pleasure" grenade over her shoulder.
Approaching the mansion, she had to pick her point of entry. As a member of the staff, she wasn't allowed to enter through the Four Mains: front, side library, rear dining room, rear game room. And she was "discouraged" from using any other doors but the kitchen's and utility room's--although she got a pass if she was delivering the three-times weekly house bouquets around.
She chose the door that was halfway between the dining room and the kitchen because she refused to reroute all the way around to the other staff entrances. Stepping into the cool interior, she kept her head down, not because she was worried about pissing someone off, but because she was hoping and praying to get in and out without getting caught by--
"I wondered if you'd be here today."
Lizzie froze like a burglar and then felt a sheen of tears prick the corners of her eyes. But she was not going to cry.
Not in front of Lane Baldwine.
And not because of him.
Squaring her shoulders, she kicked up her chin . . . and started to turn around.
Before she even met Lane's eyes for the first time since she'd told him to go to hell when she'd ended their relationship, she knew three things: One, he was going to look exactly the same as he had before; two, that was not going be good news for her; and three, if she had any brains in her head at all, she would put what he'd done to her almost two years ago on auto loop and think about nothing else.
Leopards, spots, and all that--
Ah . . . crap, did he have to still look that good?
*
Lane couldn't remember much about his walking into Easterly for the first time in forever.
Nothing had really registered. Not that grand front door with its lion's-head knocker and its glossy black panels. Not the football-stadium-sized front foyer with that grand staircase and all of the oil paintings of Bradfords past and present. Not the crystal chandeliers or the gold sconces, nor the ruby-red Orientals or the heavy brocade drapes, not even the parlor and the ballroom on either side.
Easterly's Southern elegance, coupled with that perennial sweet lemon scent of old-fashioned floor polish, was like a fine suit of clothes that, once put on in the morning, was unnoticeable throughout the rest of the day because it was tailor fit to your every muscle and bone. For him, there had been absolutely no burn on reentry at all: It was immersion in ninety-eight-point-six-degree calm water. It was breathing air that was perfectly still, perfectly humid, perfectly temperate. It was nodding off while sitting up in a leather club chair.
It was home and it was the enemy at the very same time, and very probably there was no impression because he was overwhelmed by emotion he was shutting out.
He did, however, notice every single thing about seeing Lizzie King once again.
The collision happened as he was heading through the dining room in search of the one who he had traveled so far to see.
Oh, God, he thought. Oh, dear God.
After having had to rely on memory for so long, standing in front of Lizzie was the difference between a descriptive passage and the real thing--and his body responded instantly, blood pumping, all those dormant instincts not just waking up but exploding in his veins.
Her hair was still blond from the sun, not some hairdresser's paintbrush, and it was pulled back in a tie, the blunt ends thick and sticking straight out like a nautical rope that had been burn-cut. Her face was free of makeup, the skin tanned and glowing, the bone structure reminding him that good genetics were better than a hundred thousand dollars' of plastic surgery. And her body . . . that hard, strong body that had curves where he liked them and straightaways that testified to all that physical labor she did so well . . . was exactly as he remembered. She was even dressed the same, in the khaki shorts and the required black polo with the Easterly crest on it.
Her scent was Coppertone, not Chanel. Her shoes were Merrell, not Manolo. Her watch was Nike, not Rolex.
To him, she was the most beautiful, best-dressed woman he'd ever seen.
Unfortunately, that look in her eye remained unchanged as well.
The one that told him she, too, had thought of him since he had left.
Just not in a good way.
As his mouth moved, Lane realized he was speaking some combination of words, but he wasn't tracking. There were too many images filtering through his brain, all memories from the past: her naked body in messy sheets, her hair threaded through his fingers, his hands on her inner thighs. In his mind, he heard her saying his name as he pumped into her hard, rocking the bed until the headboard slammed against the wall--
"Yes, I knew you'd come," she said levelly.
Talk about different wavelengths. He was off-kilter down to his Guccis, in the midst of reliving their relationship, and she was utterly unaffected by his presence.
"Have you seen her yet?" she asked. Then frowned. "Hello?"
What the hell was she saying to him? Oh, right. "I hear she's already home from the hospital."
"About an hour ago."
"Is she okay?"
"She left here in an ambulance on oxygen. What do you think." Lizzie glanced in the direction she'd been headed in. "Look, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to--"
"Lizzie," he said in a low voice. "Lizzie, I'm . . ."
As he trailed off, her expression became bored. "Do us both a favor and don't bother finishing that, okay? Just go see her and . . . do whatever else you came here to do, all right? Leave me out of it."
"Christ, Lizzie, why won't you hear me out--"
"Why should I, is more the question."
"Because civilized people give others that common courtesy--"
And BOOM! they were off.
"Excuse me?" she demanded. "Like just because I live over the river and I work for your family, that makes me some kind of an ape? Really--you're going to go there?"
"That is not what I meant--"
"Oh, I think it is--"
"I swear," he muttered, "that chip on your shoulder--"
"Is what, Lane? Showing again? Sorry, you're not allowed to twist things around like I'm the one with the problem. That's on you. That has always been on you."
Lane threw his hands up. "I can't get through to you. All I want to do is explain--"
"You want to do something for me? Fine, great, here." She shoved a half-full pitcher of what looked like lemonade at him. "Take this to the kitchen and get someone to refill it. Then you can tell them to take it back out to the pool house, or maybe you can deliver it yourself--to your wife."
With that, she spun around and punched out the nearest door. And as she strode off across the lawn toward the conservatory, he couldn't decide what held more appeal: putting his head into the wall, throwing the pitcher, or doing a combination of both.
He picked option four: "Goddamn, motherfucking, shit . . ."
"Sir? May I be of service?"
At the British accent, Lane glanced over at a fifty-year-old man who was dressed like he was the front house of a funeral parlor. "Who the hell are you?"
"Mr. Harris, sir. I am Newark Harris, the butler." The guy bowed at the waist. "The pilots were kind enough to call ahead that you were en route. May I attend to your luggage?"
"I don't have any."
"Very good, sir. Your room is in order, and if you require ought further than your wardrobe upstairs, it will be my pleasure to procure any necessaries for you."
Oh, no, Lane thought. Nope, he was not staying--he knew damn well what weekend was coming up, and the purpose for his visit had nothing to do with the Derby social circus.
He shoved the pitcher at Mr. Dandy-man. "I don't know what's in here and I don't care. Just fill it up and take it where it belongs."
