by J. R. Ward
Now, she feared it might be sand.
*
"Okay, so we're all set here." Lizzie strode down the rows of round tables under the big tent. "The chairs look good."
"Ja," Greta said as she made a slight adjustment to a tablecloth.
The pair of them continued on, inspecting the positioning of all seven hundred seats, double-checking the crystal chandeliers that were hanging from the tent's three points, making further tweaks to the draped lengths of pale pink and white.
When they were finished, they stepped out from underneath and followed the lengths of dark green extension cords that snaked around the exterior and supplied electricity to the eight cyclone fans that would ensure circulation.
They had a good five hours of work time left before dark, and, for once, Lizzie thought they'd actually run out of punch-list priorities. Bouquets were done. Flower beds were in perfect condition. Pots at the entrances and exits of the tent were done up fit to kill with combinations of plant material and supplemental blooms. Even the food-prep stations in the adjunct tents had been arranged per Miss Aurora's instructions.
As far as Lizzie was aware, the food was ready. Liquor delivered. Waitstaff and additional bartenders had been coordinated through Reginald, and he was not the type to drop any balls. Security to make sure the press stayed away were off-duty Metro Police officers and all ready to go.
She really wished there were something to occupy her time. Nervous energy had made her even more productive than usual--and now she was left with nothing but the knowledge that there was a criminal investigation going on about fifty yards away from her.
God, Rosalinda.
Her phone went off against her hip, the vibration making her jump. As she took the cell out, she exhaled. "Thank God--hello? Lane? Are you okay--yes." She frowned as Greta looked over. "Actually, I left it in my car, but I can go get it now. Yes. Sure, of course. Where are you? All right. I'll get it and bring it right to you."
When she ended the call, Greta said, "What's going on?"
"I don't know. He says he needs a computer."
"There must be a dozen of them in the house."
"After what happened this morning, you think I'm going to argue with the guy?"
"Fair enough." Although the woman's expression screamed disapproval. "I'm going to check the front of the house beds and pots, and confirm the parkers are going to arrive on time."
"Eight a.m.?"
"Eight a.m. And then I don't know, I'm thinking of heading home. I'm getting a migraine, and it's a long day tomorrow."
"That's terrible! I say go now and come back ready to roar."
Before Lizzie turned away, her old friend gave her a stern look through those heavy glasses. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yeah. Absolutely."
"There's a lot of Lane around here. That's why I'm asking."
Lizzie glanced over at the house. "He's getting a divorce."
"Really."
"That's what he says."
Greta crossed her arms over her chest and her German accent became more apparent. "About two years too late for that--"
"He's not all bad, you know."
"Excuse me? Is this--nein, you can't be serious."
"He didn't know Chantal was pregnant, okay?"
Greta threw up her hands. "Oh, well, that makes all the difference, then, ja? So he voluntarily married her while he was with you. Perfect."
"Please, don't." Lizzie rubbed her aching eyes. "He--"
"He got to you, didn't he. He called you, he came to you, something."
"And if he did? That's my business--"
"I spent an entire year calling you, getting you out of that farmhouse, making sure you went to work. I was there for you, worrying about you--cleaning up the mess he made. So do not tell me I don't get to have a reaction when he whispers in your ear--"
Lizzie put her hand up to the woman's face. "Done. We're done here. I'll see you in the morning."
Marching off, she cursed under her breath the entire way down to her car, and after she got her laptop, she f-bombed the long way back to the house. Deliberately avoiding the kitchen and the conservatory--because she didn't want to run into Greta as the woman packed up--she entered through the library, and without thinking, headed for the hallway that led to the staff stairs and the kitchen. She didn't get far. Just as she rounded the corner, she was stopped by two police officers--and that was when she saw the body on a rolling stretcher.
Rosalinda Freeland's remains had been placed in a white bag with a five-foot zipper that had mercifully been pulled closed.
"Ma'am," one of the officers said, "I'm going to have to ask you to step aside."
"Yes, yes, sorry." Ducking her eyes and swallowing her nausea, she wheeled around. Tried not to think about what had happened.
Failed.
She'd given her name to the police, just like the rest of the staff had, and provided a brief statement of where she'd been all morning as well as over the past few days. When asked about the controller, she hadn't had much to offer. She hadn't known Rosalinda any better than anyone had; the woman had kept to herself and her bill processing and that was that.
Lizzie wasn't even sure if there were any family to notify.
Using the main staircase was a violation of that Easterly etiquette, but considering there was a coroner's van parked out front and a crime scene down that staff hall, she was confident in letting go of business as usual. Up on the second floor, she made her way over the pale runner, passing by the oil paintings and the occasionals that gleamed with age and superior craftsmanship.
As she came up to Lane's door, she couldn't remember the last time she and Greta had fought about anything. God, she wanted to call the woman and . . . but what could she say?
Drop the laptop off and leave, she told herself. That's it.
Lizzie knocked on the door. "Lane?"
"Come in."
Pushing her way into the bedroom, she found him standing at the windows, one foot planted on the sill, his forearm braced on his raised knee. He didn't turn and acknowledge her. Didn't say anything else.
"Lane?" She glanced around. No one was with him. "Listen, I'll just leave it--"
"I need your help."
Taking a deep breath, she said, "Okay."
But he stayed silent as he stared out at the garden. And God help her, it was impossible not to run her eyes over him. She told herself she was looking for signs of strain--that she wasn't measuring his muscular shoulders. The short hair at the base of his neck. The biceps that had curled up and were straining the short sleeves of his polo shirt.
He'd changed clothes since she'd seen him last. Had taken a shower, too--she could smell the shampoo, the aftershave.
"I'm sorry about Rosalinda," she whispered. "What a shock."
"Hmm."
"Who found her?"
"I did."
Lizzie closed her eyes and hugged the laptop to her chest. "Oh, God."
Abruptly, he put his hand into the front pocket of his slacks and took something out. "Will you stay with me while I open this?"
"What is it?"
"Something she left behind." He showed her a black USB drive. "I found it on her desk."
"Is it a . . . suicide note?"
"I don't think so." He sat down on the bed and nodded at her laptop. "Do you mind if I . . . ?"
"Oh, yes." She joined him, flipping open the Lenovo and hitting the power button. "I have Microsoft Office so . . . yeah. Word documents are no problem."
"I don't think that's what it is."
Signing in, she passed the computer over to him. "Here."
He pushed the drive in and waited. When the screen flashed a variety of options, he hit "open files."
There was only one on the drive, and it was marked "WilliamBaldwine."
Lizzie rubbed her eyebrow with her thumb. "Are you sure you want me to see this?"
"I'm sure I can't look at it without you here."
L
izzie found herself reaching up and resting her hand on his shoulder. "I'm not going to leave you."
For some reason, she thought of that peach lingerie she'd found behind his father's bed. Hardly something that Rosalinda would wear--a lighter tone of gray was the closest the controller had ever come to whoopin' it up on the wardrobe front. Then again, who knew what the woman had underneath all those proper skirts and jackets?
Lane clicked on the file and Lizzie was aware of her heart pounding like she'd run a full-tilt mile.
And he was right. It wasn't some kind of love letter or a suicide note. It was a spreadsheet full of columns of numbers and dates and short descriptions that Lizzie was too far away from the screen to read.
"What is all that?" she asked.
"Fifty-three million dollars," he muttered, scrolling down. "I'll bet it's fifty-three million dollars."
"What do you mean? Wait . . . are you saying she stole that?"
"No, but I think she helped my father to."
"What."
He glanced over at her. "I think my father finally has blood on his hands. Or at least . . . blood we can see."
TWENTY-ONE
Refocusing on the computer in his lap, Lane scrolled down the Excel spreadsheet, tracing the entries, trying to add up a rough total. But he needn't have bothered. Rosalinda provided the sum to him at the very end, in a bolded box offset at the far right of all the columns.
It was not, in fact, fifty-three million dollars.
Nope, it was sixty-eight million, four hundred eighty-nine thousand, two hundred forty-two dollars and sixty-five cents.
$68,489,242.65.
The explanations on the withdrawals ranged from Cartier and Tiffany to Bradford Aviation, LLC, which was the corporation that ran all the company's planes and pilots, and Bradford Human Resources Payroll--which most likely took care of the household staff's paychecks. But there was a repeating entry that he didn't recognize: WWB Holdings.
William Wyatt Baldwine Holdings.
Had to be.
But what was that?
The lion's share had gone into it.
"I think my father . . ." He glanced over at Lizzie. "I don't know, the trust company says he's put himself--or the family, I guess--into huge debt. For what, though? Even with all this spending, there should be plenty of cash coming in through Bradford Bourbon Company distributions to shareholders, of which we are the largest group."
"The rental company . . ." Lizzie murmured.
"What?"
"The rental company didn't get paid--their accounts payable called Rosalinda last week and she never got back to them."
"Who else do we owe, I wonder?"
"How can I help?"
He stared over at her, his brain churning, churning. "Letting me get into this file is a good start."
"What else?"
God, her eyes were blue, he thought. And her lips, those naturally red lips of hers were so perfectly shaped.
She was talking to him, but he couldn't hear her. It was as if a muffling had come down around him, making him unaware of any sounds around him. And then the computer in his lap and all of its secrets revealed disappeared, too, so that neither the glow of the screen nor the pattern of the columns nor the numbers and letters registered, either.
"Lizzie," he said, cutting her off.
"Yes?"
"I need you," he heard himself say hoarsely.
"Of course, what can I--"
He leaned in and put his lips to hers, brushing quick--
She gasped and pulled away.
Lane waited for her to get up. Tell him off. Maybe go eighties romance and slap him with an open palm.
Instead, she brought her fingertips up and touched her mouth. Then she closed her eyes. "I wish you hadn't done that."
Fuck. "I'm sorry." He dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm not in my right head."
She nodded. "Yes."
Perfect, he thought. His life was on fire on too many fronts to count, so why shouldn't he drop another load of flames somewhere else. You know, just to help the inferno along.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have just--"
She launched herself at him with such a quick shift, he nearly jerked away himself. What saved him was the wanting . . . the vicious craving he'd always had for her that was all pent up from the time they'd been apart.
Lizzie spoke against his mouth. "I'm not in my right head, either."
With a curse, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her into his lap, the computer sliding off onto the thick carpet--which was fine. He wanted to forget about the money, his father, Rosalinda . . . even if just for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he said as he pushed her down on the mattress with a twist. "I need you. I just . . . I need to be in you--"
Knock, knock, knock.
They both froze, their eyes meeting.
"What," he barked out.
As a muted female voice said something about towels, all Lane thought about was the fact that that door was not locked.
"No, thank you."
Lizzie pushed her way out from under him, and he moved so she could get to her feet. Meanwhile, the maid in the hall kept talking.
"I'm good. Thanks," he said roughly.
His eyes tracked Lizzie's hands as they yanked her shirt back down and finger brushed her hair.
"Lizzie," he whispered.
She just shook her head as she paced around, looking as if she were considering a leap-out-the-window strategy for escape.
More talk from the maid, and he just lost it. Exploding up to his feet, he stalked over and ripped open the door, blocking the way into his room. The blond twenty-five-year-old on the other side was the same one who'd been in the hallway when he and Chantal had been arguing.
"Oh, hi." She smiled up at him. "How are you?"
"I don't need anything. Thanks," he said roughly.
As he turned away, she reached out and took his arm. "I'm Tiphanii--that's with a 'ph' and a double 'i' at the end."
"Nice to meet you. If you'll excuse--"
"I was just going to come in and check your bathroom."
That smile of hers gave her away. That and the little change in position where her pelvis tilted toward him and one of her legs got extended like she was wearing stilettos instead of Crocs.
Lane rolled his eyes--he couldn't help it. The woman he really wanted had just gotten out from under him, and this piece of taffy was thinking she had anything to offer?
Make that taphii.
"Thanks, but no. I'm not interested."
He closed the door on her because he didn't have the energy to be pleasant, and he didn't want to say something he was going to regret.
Pivoting around, he found Lizzie across the room by the window. She was deliberately standing off to the side, as if she didn't want to be seen from down below, and her arms were crossed over her chest.
"You sounded so sincere," she said roughly.
"When I'm with you, I am--"
"With that maid just now."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You know what I really hate?"
"I can only imagine," he muttered.
"How she just propositioned you . . . and still, all I can think of is taking your clothes off. Like you're some kind of toy I'm fighting with her over."
His erection twitched in his pants. "There is no fight--I'm yours. If you want, here and now. Or later. A week, a month, years from now."
Shut up, his arousal said. Just shut up, buddy, with that timeline stuff.
"I'm not falling back into you, Lane. I'm just not."
"You said that over the phone."
Lizzie nodded and unplugged from the view of the garden. As the light began to fade from the sky, she marched across the room, clearly heading for the door.
Damn it--
Not the door.
She did not, in fact, go to the door.
Lizzie stopped at him and let her fingers do the walking, taking his face,
bringing his mouth back to hers.
"Lizzie," he groaned, licking into her mouth.
The kiss got out of control fast, and he was not going to lose the chance with her. Spinning her around, he pushed her against the wall, the oil painting next to them bouncing so hard, the thing threw itself off its hook and splintered to the floor. He didn't care. His hands shot under her clothes, finding skin, riding upward to feel her breasts.
He never thought he'd get this again, and though he would have liked to do a slow-and-sweet, he couldn't. Too desperate.
He was rough with the waistband of her shorts, tearing at the button, the zipper, ripping them down her legs. And then he slid his hand between her thighs, pushing her cotton panties out of the--
Lizzie called out his name in a hoarse voice that nearly made him come right then and there. And as her fingers bit into his shoulders, he stroked her harder.
"Hurt me," he growled as she dug into him. "Make me bleed . . ."
He wanted the pain along with the pleasure, everything that was going on with his father and his family making him raw and dark on the inside--to the point where he wondered dimly if maybe this was what drove his brother Max. He'd heard about those things Maxwell did--or rumors about them.
Maybe this was why. He felt like he had to get the darkness out or it was going to consume him.
Lifting Lizzie up off the floor, he relished the way she locked on to him with her powerful arms. One tearing jerk of the zipper on his slacks and his arousal was ready to go. He split her underwear in two, and then--
The roar he let out into her neck was like that of an animal, but he paid no attention to the sound. The slick hold of her sex was a sensation he felt over his entire body, and he orgasmed immediately. So long . . . so long, that he had dreamed of her, and regretted what had happened, and wanted to do things differently. And now he was where he had prayed to be: With every pumping release into her, he was rewinding time, putting things back to rights, repairing the wrongs.
He'd wanted to get with her to briefly take himself out of the present, but it turned out that the experience was more than that. So much more.
But that had always been true about Lizzie. He'd had sex many times in his life.
None of it had ever mattered, though . . . until he'd been with her.
*
Lizzie hadn't meant to take things this far.
As Lane orgasmed inside of her, she was swept up along with him, her release echoing his. Fast, so fast, it was all so fast and furious, the deed done and over within moments, the pair of them remaining locked together as the initial wave passed.
Had they just done this? she wondered.
