by J. R. Ward
"Maybe if I'd had a good male role model to look up to, I wouldn't find men so universally unappealing."
"Would that you found any of them unappealing. That is not your problem, however. For some reason, Richard is undaunted by your reputation, an error in judgment he will no doubt come to regret. Thankfully, that is not my concern."
"I hate you," she hissed.
"The sad thing is, my dear, you lack sufficient depth for that level of enmity. If you had any intelligence at all, you'd realize that Richard Pford will be able to keep you in the lifestyle that you require as much as air itself for the rest of your days. And you will be ensuring the further success and financial health of the family who gave you those high cheekbones and lovely peaches and cream complexion. It will be, when all is said and done, the only contribution you will ever make to the name 'Bradford.'"
Gin was dimly aware of breathing hard. "Someday you're going to pay for your sins."
"Are you getting religious now? I would think any kind of conversion for you might be difficult even for the likes of Jesus."
"How can you be so hateful? I've never met anyone as cold as you--"
"I am taking care of you the only way I know how. I'm giving you a fortune at your disposal, a worthy name, and you can even take Amelia with you if you want. Or she can stay here--"
"As if she's a piece of luggage?" She shook her head. "You are depraved. You are absolutely, clinically depraved--"
He bolted forward and grabbed her arm, for once allowing some emotion to escape that aristocratic mask of self-assurance. "You have no idea what is required to keep this family afloat. None. Your most difficult task day to day is prioritizing whether to get your hair or your nails done first. So do not talk to me about depravity when I am solving a problem for all of the leeches under this roof. Richard Pford's favorable terms will help us continue to afford this." He shook the skirt of her gown. "And this--" He jabbed his forefinger at the necklace around her throat. "And all the other things that you take advantage of every day without pausing to reflect, for even an instant, how they are provided to you or at what cost. Marrying that man is the one and only thing that has ever been required of you in exchange for the blind luck of your birth and the freedom of your avarice. You are a Bradford through and through, capable only of consumption, but sometimes payment must be made, so yes," he spat, "I can assure you that you will become the very happy, very beautiful, and very married Mrs. Richard Pford. You will give him children and be faithful to him, or so help me God, I will spank you like the five-year-old you are. Do we understand each other? Or perhaps you would like a crash course in trying to be like the people who wash your cars, make your food, clean your room, and press your clothes. Perhaps you'd like to know how hard it is to work for a living."
"I despise you," she said, shaking from head to foot.
Her father was likewise breathing hard, and he coughed into his fist. "As if I care. Go have your temper tantrum and kick and scream--it will only prove me right. If you are any kind of a woman, instead of a spoiled little brat, you will wake up in the morning and do your duty for once in your life."
"I could kill you right now!"
"But that would require getting and loading a gun, wouldn't it. Not exactly something you can ask your maid to do, assuming you don't want to get caught."
"Don't under estimate me--"
"Given the low standard you've set for yourself, that would certainly be difficult to do."
Spinning around, she tripped out of the room, and ran down the hall to her suite. Throwing herself over her threshold, she locked herself in and panted.
Oh, hell no, she vowed. You are not going to do this to me.
If he thought she'd been trouble before, wait'll he got a load of what she was going to do now.
As she marched betwen her bath and her bedroom, plans twisted in her head, many of which involved felonies and her father. Eventually, she had to get out of her dress, and she left the thing where it fell on the floor, stepping free of the pool of silk before continuing to pace in her bustier and her stilettoes and those diamonds that her brother's slut wife had tried to get first tonight.
As she seethed, all she could think about was the very first time she had hated her father . . .
*
She'd been six, maybe seven, when it had happened. New Year's Eve. She'd woken up because of the fireworks, which had crackled and bloomed over the distant downtown area. Scared, she'd gone looking for Lane, the one she had always taken solace from . . . only to find him down in the parlor with Max.
Gin had insisted on staying with her brothers and doing whatever they did. It had been the story of her life back then, her always running to keep up, get some attention, be on anybody's radar. The household had revolved around her parents and catered to her brothers. She was the footnote, the afterthought, the rug that was tripped over on the way out the door to something better, more interesting, more important.
She hadn't wanted to drink that stuff in the bottle. The bourbon had smelled bad, and she knew it was a no-no, but if Max and Lane were going to have some, she was going to as well.
And then they'd been caught.
Not once, but twice.
As soon as Edward had come into the parlor, he'd ordered her to go back to bed, and she had left via the back way as he'd told her to. When she'd gone down the staff hall, however, she'd heard voices and had had to hide in the shadows or be discovered . . . when her father had come out of Rosalinda Freeland's office.
He'd been in his dressing robe and in the process of tying the two halves together as he'd emerged, and he'd been glaring, as if he were angry--but there was no way he could have heard any of their voices down in the parlor. Gin's first instinct was to run for the front of the house to warn her brothers. Fear had stopped her, though--and then Ms. Freeland had stepped out and grabbed her father's arm.
Her young mind had wondered why the office lady's blouse had been untucked, and her hair, which had always been so orderly and stiff, was at bad angles.
The two of them had argued in hushed tones, saying things that she couldn't hear over the pounding of her heart. And then her father had marched off and Ms. Freeland had disappeared back into her office and shut her door.
Gin had remained there for what had felt like a year, afraid to leave in case Ms. Freeland came back out. Except then she had gotten scared that her father would come back down that way and find her.
He shouldn't have been there with that woman.
He would not be pleased that she had seen him.
In her bare feet, she had whispered to the staff stairs and stuck close to the cold plaster wall as she ascended. Up on the second floor, she had become frozen as another round of fireworks went off, and as soon as they finished, she had taken shelter in the open door of a guest suite, wishing she had somewhere safe to go.
Going back to her room alone had seemed terrifying. Plus what if her father was looking for her?
Curling into a sit, she had tucked her legs up against her chest and hugged her knees. Their father must have found her brothers. There was no way the man would have missed them if he'd used the front stairs.
And that frightened her more than any noise outside.
Moments later, Edward came up the grand staircase, and her father was behind him, looming like a monster. For some reason, her brother's gait was sloppy, and the skin of his face was gray. Her father had been as straight-backed and disapproving as a church pew.
Where were the other two?
No words were spoken as the pair of them proceeded to their father's door. And when they arrived at their destination, Edward stepped off to one side and then stumbled into the dark room as the way was opened for him.
"You know where the belts are."
That was all their father had said.
No, no, she thought. This was not fair--Edward wasn't involved! Why was he--
The door shut with a clap, and she trembled at what was going to
come next.
Sure enough, a sharp, slapping sound was followed by a swallowed grunt.
And again.
And again . . .
Edward never cried. He never cursed.
She had listened to this enough times to know.
Gin put her head down on her thin forearms and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't know why their father hated Edward so much. The man disliked the rest of them, but her brother made him furious.
Edward never cried.
So she cried for him . . . and decided, then and there, that if her father could hate Edward? Two could play that game.
And she was going to pick the one who was at this very minute wielding that belt.
She was going to hate her father from now on.
*
Refocusing, Gin found that she had sat down on her bed, put her knees to her chest, and linked her arms around herself--as if she were once again sitting just inside that guest room with nothing but a Lanz nightgown to keep her warm, and what was happening in her father's room terrifying her to the core.
Yes, that was when it had started for her--and William Baldwine had never given her cause to reconsider her hatred. This business with Richard Pford was just another entry on a very long list.
But it wasn't the worst.
No, the worst that man had done was something that only she seemed to suspect, something that no one else had brought up, whether it was under Easterly's roof or in the newspapers.
She was convinced that her father was the one who had had Edward kidnapped.
Her brother had been to South America rather often, and as with American executives of his position and stature, he had always traveled with bodyguards and security hired by the BBC. With that kind of coverage, no one should have gotten within twenty yards of the man, and yet somehow her brother had been taken--not on the road traveling, or even at some remote destination.
But from his very hotel suite.
How the hell did that happen?
The first thing she had thought of, when she'd finally been told about the ordeal, was that her father had had a hand in it.
Did she have any evidence? No, she did not. But she had spent her childhood watching that man stare at Edward as if he had despised the very air the child breathed. And then later, when Edward had gone to work at the company, she had had the impression that the relationship between the pair had chilled even further, especially as the Board of Trustees had given Edward more and more responsibility.
What better way to get rid of a rival than have him killed overseas? In a way that would make William Baldwine look like a victim because he was a "mourning" father.
God, Edward had nearly been buried there--and when he'd finally come back? He'd been in terrible shape. Meanwhile, her father had been front and center with the media, the Trustees, and the family, but he had not, even once, gone to see his ruined son.
Disgraceful. And confirmation in her mind that William Baldwine had tried to get rid of a corporate threat he couldn't fire.
No wonder she didn't trust men.
No wonder she was never getting married.
Especially not to make her father happy.
FIFTEEN
When Lizzie arrived at Easterly the next morning, it took her two tries to get the Yaris into a proper parking space--which was a sad commentary on her mental state, considering the car was the size of a bicycle. Getting out, she fumbled with her bag and dropped the thing--and as she leaned down to pick her sunscreen off the already hot asphalt, she realized she'd forgotten to bring her lunch.
She closed her lids. "Damn it--"
"You okay there, girl?"
Lizzie straightened up and turned to Gary McAdams. The head groundsman was walking over the grass verge, his gimp foot barely slowing him down, his weathered face wrinkled with concern--like he was assessing a tractor that was about to lose its wheelbase.
Did she look that bad? she wondered.
Then again, she hadn't slept at all.
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Fine and dandy."
"You sure about that?"
No. "Yes. How's your team doing?"
"I got the mowin' done, the ivy's trimmed, and I'ma have 'em blow the terrace after ten." Because that was when they were allowed to make that kind of noise around the house. "Tents are up, catering area is ready with the grills in place, but there's a problem."
Lizzie jogged her bag up higher on her shoulder and thought she was so ready to deal with an issue she could solve. "What?"
"That Mr. Harry is wanting to talk at you. There's a problem with those there champagne glasses."
"The placement of them on the tables?" She shut her car door. "Because they're going to be passed, I thought."
"No, they done got only half the order. He thinks you changed the number."
"Wha--why would I do that?"
"He said you was the only person with access to the rental people."
"I ordered the tents, that's it. He's supposed to handle the cutlery and the glassware and the plates--I'm sorry. Am I yelling? I feel like I'm yelling."
He put his paw on her shoulder. "Don't you worry 'bout it, girl. Mr. Harry drives me stupid, too."
"It's Mr. Harris."
"I know."
She had to laugh. "I'll go deal with him."
"Anytime you get bored of him, I got a shovel and a backhoe. Plenty of open country at my place."
"You are a gentleman."
"Hardly. Gimme your bag, girl. I'll walk you up."
"It weighs nothing. I can handle it." She started toward the pathway that led up to Easterly's servant wing. "Besides, I can use it to hit him over the head if I have to."
"Remember my backhoe," he called out.
"Always."
With every step on the cobblestones, her chest tightened, and the choking sensation got worse as the vast back of the white mansion came into view in the distance.
After having passed the wee hours staring up at her ceiling, she had come to no conclusions about her and Lane. What had stuck with her? The sound of him at the end of that call. She remembered that sexy tone in his voice: It had usually meant he was going to find a way to get her alone and undressed ASAP.
It seemed like a complete and total betrayal that her body was nothing but oh, yeah--as if her libido had been waiting for the return of its master. But come on, she was so much more, so much better, than a stolen orgasm or two with a man she should be handling with barbeque tongs and a fire extinguisher.
Craziness.
When she finally got up to the house, she went through the side entrance of the garden and cut across to the rear kitchen door just so she could check that everything for the party was where she'd left it the night before.
Which was silly. Like a bunch of elves had come in and f'ed everything up under the moonlight?
Putting the staff entrance to use, she walked into the vast kitchen that was, for the moment, clean and cold and empty, just waiting for the arrivals of the chefs who were slated to work from eight to eight. The place wasn't completely deserted, however. Miss Aurora was in front of the industrial stove, an iron pan full of bacon crackling to her left, a second one to the right full of bright yellow scrambled eggs. Four plates were set out on the main island's stainless-steel countertop, along with bowls of fresh raspberries and blueberries, a silver service of sugar, cream, and coffee on a tray, and a basket of some manner of homemade pastries.
"Miss Aurora?"
The woman looked over her shoulder. "Oh, there she is. How you doing? You eat?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Not enough. You and Lane, too skinny." The cook turned back to her eggs and flipped them around with a red spatula. "You should let me feed you."
"I don't want to be any trouble." There was a grunt of disapproval, and before their usual argument started up, Lizzie cut in, "You're looking so well."
"I told that butler I didn't need no ambulance."
"Clearly, you wer
e right." And Lane must be so relieved. "Have you seen Mr. Harris?"
"In his office. You want me to go with you?"
"So you heard about champagne-gate?"
"I was the one who gave Gary the heads-up 'cuz I knew he'd see you first. Didn't want you to walk in here without being forewarned."
"I didn't switch any order."
"Of course you didn't." Miss Aurora lifted up the fifteen-pound frying pan like it weighed no more than a paper plate. As she portioned out the eggs, she shook her head. "And there's a perfectly good explanation."
"What is it?"
"Not my business."
"Okaaaaay." Lizzie took a moment to give the cook an opportunity to elaborate, but she didn't. "Well, anyway, I'm going to go take care of this. I'm really glad you're up and around, Miss Aurora."
"You're a good girl, Lizzie. But you'd be better if you'd let me make you some breakfast."
"Maybe in my next life."
"You only get one. Then you go to Heaven."
"That's what my father always told me."
"Mine, too."
Walking over the tiled floor, Lizzie pushed open the double flap doors and went down the staff hall. Mr. Harris's office was right across from Rosalinda's, and she knocked on the butler's door. Knocked again. Tried a third time even though it was a waste of knuckles.
Sniffing at the air, she grimaced and thought that the corridor needed some serious airing out. Then again, the Bradfords refused to put central AC or heat in this part of the house. Staff, after all, could suck it up.
Going over to Rosalinda's varnished door, she gave that one a try, too, even though the family's controller was a strict nine-to-five'er, with a thirty-minute lunch at twelve noon precisely and two fifteen-minute breaks at ten-thirty and three. The regimented schedule had seemed bizarre at first, but however many years later, it was just another of the rules and regs at Easterly. And it made sense--a woman who did nothing but pay bills and add and subtract money out of accounts probably had slide rules in her veins and serious control issues.
Thus, her title.
Putting her hands on her hips, Lizzie knew that the butler was probably waiting on the family in the small dining room. Including Lane.
She checked her watch. She was not going to wait for Mr. Harris to come back here, and there was no way she was having this confrontation out in the open. Plus, there was real work to do--she hadn't finished the bouquet bowls the night before.
