The Bourbon Kings

by J. R. Ward

  She laughed again. "You can find out by--brace yourself--answering the call."

  "Are you giving me a hard time?"

  "Someone's got to."

  Lane smiled so wide, his cheeks stretched. "Okay, let's roll the dice and see who it is." He hit the green means go and said in his best Lurch voice, "Yooooou raaaaaaaaannnng--"

  "Lane--oh, God, Lane, I need help."

  "Gin?" He sat up in the chair. "Gin, are you okay?"

  "I'm downtown at the Washington County Jail. You have to come bail me out--I--"

  "What the hell? What are you--"

  "I need a lawyer--"

  "Okay, okay, slow down." He got to his feet. "You're talking so fast I can't understand you."

  His sister took a pause and then said four complete sentences that bottomed him out.

  "All right," he said grimly. "I'm coming right now. Yes. Right. Okay. I will."

  When he hung up, all he could do was trace Lizzie's face with his eyes.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "My father had Gin arrested. I've literally got to go and bail her out at the county jail."

  Lizzie put her hand over her mouth with shock. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "No, I'm going to take care of her. But thank you."

  It took all his self-control not to lean in and kiss her like he used to. Instead, he settled for reaching up and brushing her cheek--and leaving before she could marshal a "friends don't do that."

  Holy hell, what was his father up to now.

  *

  Back when Edward had been a smoker, he had frequently woken up in the morning in mid-reach, his arm and hand going for his Dunhill Reds before he was conscious of having so much as rolled onto his side.

  Now he did the same, only he was going for the bottle of Advil.

  Shaking four gelcaps into the palm of his trembling hand, he put the pills in his mouth and swallowed them down with the dregs of the vodka he'd taken to bed with him. Grimacing as his version of breakfast headed to his stomach, he lay back on his pillow.

  He'd given up smoking during his recovery. Actually, the abduction had been the first step in breaking him of the habit.

  Ironic, that nearly getting killed was probably responsible for helping him to live a longer life.

  He toasted the bottle into the air. "Gracias, muchachos."

  Before his brain could get locked into that endless loop of hideous, Day It Happened sequences, he shifted his legs to the floor and sat up. He didn't look at his right thigh or calf. For one, the ragged seams of his Frankenstein flesh were burned into his mind. For another, he didn't sleep naked anymore, so there was nothing showing.

  The cane was necessary to get him upright, and his balance was off not just because of the injuries, but the lack of sleep and the fact that he was still drunk. Limping to the bathroom, he left the lights off so the mirror wasn't an issue, and he used the toilet, washed his face and hands, and brushed his teeth.

  The confirmation that God still hated him came when he stepped outside the cottage ten minutes later and was blinded by the bright sunlight--and his hangover headache.

  What time was it? he wondered.

  He was halfway to Barn B when he realized he'd taken the bottle of hooch with him. Kind of like a safety blanket.

  Rolling his eyes, he kept going. Miss No-Cussing-Ever might as well get used to him and the booze now--no reason to present her with an illusion of daylight teetotaling that would only get shattered later. If she couldn't deal with his habit, she might as well leave on her first day.

  The sound of a squeaky wheel turned his head to the right, and a split second later, Shelby came out of the far end of the barn, her body cocked at the waist behind a tremendous load of horse manure in an old rusty wheelbarrow.

  Guess Moe had put her to work already.

  "Hey," he called out.

  Without losing a beat, she waved over her shoulder and kept going to the compost area behind the nearest outbuilding.

  As he watched her, he envied her strong body--and maybe noticed, absently, that the sun on her hair turned the many blond streaks nearly white. She was wearing a navy blue T-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and the same high-quality boots she'd been in the night before. And after disappearing around the lip of the walling, she reappeared twice as fast as she should have, considering the amount of manure she'd had to dump.

  So she was efficient, too.

  As she approached, her eyes were bright and alert, her cheeks flushed with the effort. "Almost done. I'll start on 'C' next."

  "Jesus, Moe has you--sorry," he said before she corrected him. "Damn, Moe has you working already? And don't tell me I can't use 'damn.' I'll drop the God and the JC references, but that is as far as I'm going."

  She let the feet of the wheelbarrow settle on the cropped grass. "Orange juice."

  "Excuse me?"

  Jeb Landis's daughter nodded down at his bottle. "Y'all can keep the 'damn,' but I'd like to see you with something other than--"

  "Have you always been so judgmental?"

  "--vodka in your hand this early in the day. And I'm not judging you."

  "Then why do you want to change a stranger's behavior?"

  "You're not a stranger." She wiped her brow with her forearm. "It's not even nine a.m. I gotta wonder why you think you should have a drink so early."

  "I was feeling dehydrated."

  "No running water in your house? There was last night."

  He sloshed the liquid around. "This does the job just fine. Think of it as my version of vitamin C."

  She muttered something under her breath as she leaned back down to the handles.

  "What did you say?" he demanded.

  "You heard me."

  "No, I didn't." Which was not exactly true.

  Shelby just shrugged and kept going, that body of hers moving underneath her simple clothes, performing its duty without any apparent discomfort.

  And then it dawned on him. "Shelby."

  She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Yes?"

  "You said you'd gotten all the horses."

  "Yup."

  "In A and B."

  "Yup."

  He hustled over and grabbed her arm. "I told you. One rule. You don't go in my stallion's stall."

  "Ain't going to muck itself--"

  His hand squeezed down hard of its own volition. "He killed a stable hand a year ago. Trampled him to death in there. Don't ever do that again."

  Those sky-blue eyes of hers got wide. "He was fine with me."

  "I'm the only one who goes in there. Do we understand each other? You do that one more time, I'll pack your shit up," he said deliberately, "and send you back where you came from."

  "Yessir."

  He stepped away and tried not to stumble. "Okay, then."

  "All right."

  She blew a stray hair out of her face and resumed her trek, her shoulders as tense as her walk.

  Uncapping the vodka, Edward took a long pull off the bottle, and probably should have stopped to notice how the liquor didn't sting at all.

  But that was yet another thing he didn't want to think about.

  Just like anything happening to Jeb Landis's daughter on his watch.

  Damn it.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Washington County Courthouse and Jail was a complex of modern buildings that took up two entire city blocks downtown, the facility's halves linked by a pedi-way that stretched over the traffic below. There were a number of entrances, and as Lane pulled up in his Porsche, countless people were streaming in and out of them, men and women in suits striding up and down the marble steps, officers in patrol cars and sheriff's SUVs parking and unparking in specially marked spots, people with ratty clothes smoking on the fringes.

  His 911 Turbo let out a low cough as he decelerated and stared up at the looming buildings. No logical layout that he could see. No street addresses, either.

  Like if you had to ask where to go, you didn't belo
ng there--

  From out of nowhere, a uniformed African-American man stepped directly in front of his car.

  "Shit!" Lane nailed the brakes hard. "What the hell are you--Mitch?"

  Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Ramsey didn't answer. He just pointed to a marked spot directly behind him that was vacant.

  As Lane shot forward and parallel parked on the first try, he was aware of the deputy standing right along his bumpers, arms thick as cruise-ship ropes crossed over the chest of a professional football player. Those dark eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray Bans, and his shaved head made his neck and shoulders look even bigger than they were.

  Lane uncurled his body from the sports car. "Hey, do you know where my sister--"

  "I gotchu."

  The two of them clapped palms and went in for a hard embrace. As they stood chest to chest, Lane was transported back to nearly two years prior, to the private airstrip west of town, to the night when Edward had finally come home from his captivity.

  Mitch had brought him back to the States. Back to the family.

  God only knew how. No one had ever asked the details, and Lane had always had the sense that the former Army Ranger wouldn't have shared the how's and who's anyway.

  "She's not doing well in there," Mitch said.

  "Not surprised."

  Lane followed the sheriff, the pair of them taking the fifty steps up to one of the many revolving entrances two at a time. When they got in range, Mitch routed them over to something marked LAW ENFORCEMENT ONLY and then the man barged them through security, the other officers waving them past with nods of respect.

  "I worked fast as soon as I saw the name," Mitch said as their footsteps joined all the others echoing into the high ceiling of the main concourse. "She's up for stolen vehicle, no license, no proof of insurance--"

  "How the hell did this happen?"

  "--and resisting arrest. I've already quarantined the incident, but I can't keep it off the police blotter indefinitely."

  "Wait." Lane pulled the man to a halt. "My sister stole a car?"

  "Rolls-Royce. Registered in the Bradford Bourbon Company name."

  "You mean . . . our Rolls. The Phantom Drophead?"

  "Your father called the Metro Police personally and told them to pick her up, stating that she did not have permission to operate the vehicle."

  "You can't be serious." Lane dragged a hand through his hair. "What am I saying--of course he can do that. He's done worse."

  "You got a lawyer?"

  "Samuel T. should be here--"

  "Lane," came a shout.

  Samuel T. strode through the teeming crowd, standing out for so many reasons. For one, his blue and white seersucker suit made him look like he should have been on the grand porch of his gentleman's farm, sipping a mint julep with a pair of hunting dogs asleep at his feet. For another, he was too good-looking to be among mortals.

  "Thanks for coming quick," Lane said as they shook hands. "You know Mitch--"

  "Certainly do. Deputy."

  "Mr. Lodge."

  With the greetings over, the three of them made fast time to escalators that went up to the open second floor.

  "She's in general." Mitch led the way to the pedi-way. "But I've cleared the delays for her bail hearing. As soon as you're ready, Mr. Lodge--"

  "Call me Samuel or Sam."

  "Samuel." Mitch nodded. "Soon as you're ready, I'll slide her in with Judge McQuaid. I've spoken with the prosecutor. His hands are tied, especially with Mr. Baldwine pushing as hard as he is. The only thing I can really do is expedite, expedite, expedite."

  Lane gritted his molars. Gin was a lot to handle, and clearly, their father had had it with her--but this was so damned public. "I'm going to owe you for this one, Mitch."

  "Not the way I see it."

  The deputy got them through the various security points, and then they were in the jail portion of the facility. Although Lane had pulled a number of less-than-legal stunts as a kid, all of his transgressions had been discreetly "taken care of." So this was his first trip into the county clink, and he couldn't say he was in a big hurry to ever come back.

  The waiting area had cream concrete walls. Cream floor. Plastic chairs in orange and yellow and red. The smell in the air was old sweat, dirty clothes, and Lysol.

  Thanks to Mitch, they steamed right over to the registration counter with its bulletproof glass windows and lineups of officers with their various catches of the day. Talk about a wake-up call on the other half. Oily men and stringy young boys . . . barely clothed working girls . . . seedy, worn-out older women . . . all of them stood or weaved in place next to their arresting officers, their faces showing the grind of hard lives lived badly.

  "Over here, Deputy Ramsey," someone called out by a reinforced door.

  After going through the checkpoint, they headed by a number of conference rooms that had red lights above the entrances and bars over little chicken-wired windows.

  "If you'll wait in here," the officer said by one of the rooms, "I'll bring her down."

  "Thanks, Stu." Mitch opened the door and stood to the side. "I'll be out here."

  "Much appreciated." Lane clapped the guy on the shoulder. "And we're probably going to need more of your help."

  "Anything you want, I'm here."

  Samuel T. paused by the deputy. "Has anyone talked to the press yet?"

  "Not on our side," Mitch replied. "And I'll try to keep it that way."

  "My sister doesn't have the best reputation." Lane shook his head. "The fewer people who know about this, the better."

  Mitch closed them in together, and although there were four chairs bolted to the floor around a steel table that was likewise secured, Lane couldn't sit down. Samuel T. did, though, putting his ancient briefcase to the side and steepling his hands.

  The attorney shook his head. "She's going to be pissed to high heaven you brought me here."

  "Like I'd call anyone else?" Lane rubbed his aching eyes. "And after this, you're still helping me with my divorce, right?"

  "Just another busy morning with the Bradfords."

  *

  At least they let her keep her own clothes on, Gin thought as she was led down yet another concrete corridor painted the color of month-old vichyssoise.

  She'd had a terror of undressing in front of some hairy-chested female officer and then getting violated by a gloved hand before being thrown into an orange jumpsuit the size of a circus tent. When that had not happened, she'd then become obsessed about being put in some kind of filthy holding cell with a bunch of drug-addled prostitutes coughing AIDS all over her.

  Instead, she'd been put in a cell by herself. A cold cell, with just a bench and a stainless-steel toilet with no seat or toilet paper.

  Not that she would ever use something like that.

  Her diamond stud earrings and her Chanel watch had been confiscated, along with her LV bag, her phone, and those hundred-dollar bills and useless credit cards she had in her wallet.

  One call. That was all she'd been allowed--just like in the movies.

  "In here," the guard said, stopping by an African-American man in uniform and opening a thick door.

  "Lane--!" Except she stopped rushing toward her brother when she saw who was sitting at the table. "Oh, God. Not him."

  Lane came in for a tight embrace as the door was shut. "You need a lawyer."

  "And I'm free," Samuel T. drawled. "Relatively speaking."

  "I am not talking in front of him." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Not one word."

  "Gin--"

  Samuel T. cut her brother off. "Told you. Guess I'll just take my things and go."

  "Sit. Down," Lane barked. "Both of you."

  There was a heartbeat of silence--which Gin took as a sign that Samuel T. was as surprised by that tone of command as she was. Lane had always been, out of the four Baldwine children, the go-with-the-flow type. Now, he sounded like Edward.

  Or the way Edward had used to be.

/>   After she settled uneasily in a chair as hard and chilly as an ice block, Lane jabbed a finger in her direction. "What did you do?"

  "Excuse me?" she said on a recoil. "Why is this my fault? Why do you think it was me--"

  "Because it usually is, Gin." He slashed his hand through the air when she started to argue. "Cut the shit, I've known you too long. What did you do this time to piss him off? I will get you out of this, but I gotta know what I'm dealing with."

  As Gin glared up at her brother, she wanted nothing more than to tell him to fuck off. But all she could think of was that image of her credit cards going into the slot of that gas pump and the words Not Approved flashing on the digital screen. Who else was going to help her?

  She glanced over at Samuel T. He wasn't looking at her, and his face was impassive, but the haughty disapproval he was enjoying was as obvious as the scent of his cologne in the air.

  "Well?" Lane demanded.

  Weighing her options, she realized she was wholly unfamiliar with situations involving rocks and hard places. With enough money and amnesia, there was nothing she'd been unable to opt out of, whether it was through paying someone off, refusing to stay, or refusing to go.

  Unfortunately, those endless arrays of options had been funded by a lifestyle that had only looked like something that was hers. In fact, it had been owned by someone else. She simply hadn't known that until this morning.

  She cleared her throat. "Samuel T., will you . . . give me a moment alone with my brother." She put her hand out. "I'm not--I'm not saying you can't be my lawyer, I just need to be in private with him. Please."

  Samuel T. cocked a brow. "First time I've heard you say that word. At least with your clothes on."

  "Watch it, Lodge," Lane growled. "That's my sister."

  The man shook himself, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone with her. "My apologies. That was inappropriate."

  "Don't go far." Lane started pacing around, his hand yanking at his short, dark hair. "For the love of God, we need good representation."

  As Gin's attorney, lover, and baby daddy--though he didn't know that last part--left, she stared down at the pointed toes of her silk stilettos. The left one had a smudge running across the top of the toe box, something she'd gotten while sliding herself into the back of the cop car.

  There was a click as the door shut behind Samuel T., and she didn't wait for another prompting. "He wants me to marry Richard Pford."

  "Richard . . . I'm sorry, what?"

  "You heard me. Father is cutting me off unless I marry the man. He says it's because that goddamn distributing company will give us better rates or something."