by J. R. Ward
Well . . . yeah, she thought as he twitched inside of her.
And then she noticed . . . oh, God, he smelled the same. And his hair was still impossibly soft.
And his body was every bit as powerful as she remembered.
Tears speared into her eyes, and she hid her face in his shoulder. She didn't want him to know about the emotions--she was having a hard enough time acknowledging the confusing jumble to herself.
Just sex, she told herself. This had been only about a physical craving on both sides. And God knew, the lust thing had never been a problem for them--from the instant she'd seen him yesterday, that connection of theirs had simmered under the surface of her skin.
Under his, too.
Okay. Fine. She hadn't been able to say no in this single, discrete instance--even though she should have.
Whether or not it was a mistake was going to depend on how she handled things from here.
Pulling herself together, she eased back in his hold, acutely aware that they were still linked where it mattered most.
The expression on his face made her catch her breath. As did the way he reached up and brushed her cheek.
He seemed so vulnerable.
But before she could make some calm, reasonable, comment, he started moving deep inside of her once more. Slowly, oh, so slowly, up and out, up and out. In response, she closed her eyes and went limp, his arms supporting her, the hard wall against her back buttressing her against him. Part of her was utterly present, every movement registering with the vividness of a lightning strike, all the panting tightness of her chest and the sizzle in her blood taking over everything.
The other half of her was on the run.
Oh, God, the feel of his hand in her hair, his mouth kissing hers so deep, his hips curling up and retreating. It was coming home in all the ways that her body had wanted for so long.
And it was also bad news.
"Lizzie," he said in a voice that cracked. "I missed you, Lizzie. So bad it hurts."
Don't think about it, she told herself. Don't listen--
His name broke out of her once again, the snap of pleasure making her sex contract around his erection as he jerked into her, pumping her against that wall, banging her until her head hit.
When they fell still but for the breathing, she collapsed against him.
"This can't be the last time," he groaned, as if he knew what she was thinking. "It just can't."
"How did you know . . ."
"I don't blame you." He eased back and his heavy-lidded eyes burned. "I just don't want this to be--"
"Lane--"
The knock on the door made her jump. And him curse.
"Fucking hell!" he spat.
And considering he wasn't a big curse man, she had to smile a little.
"What!" he bit out.
"Mr. Baldwine," the butler's voice cut in. "Mr. Lodge is here for you."
Lane frowned. "Tell him I'm busy--"
"He says it's urgent."
Lizzie shook her head and pushed herself out of his arms for a second time. As her feet hit the floor in silence, she got a visceral reminder that they hadn't used a condom.
And yup, everything got very, very real as she yanked up her shorts and hustled to the bathroom. She took care of everything the best she could as Lane talked to the Englishman through the door--and when she came back out, he'd pulled his pants back up and was pacing around.
She put her palm out before he could say anything. "Go see him."
"Lizzie--"
"If even a quarter of what you're worried about is true? You're going to need him."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. I think we're basically done until first thing tomorrow."
In so many more ways than one.
"Can you stay?" he blurted.
Her brows lifted. "Stay as . . . you don't mean in here for the night. That's insane."
In a household where staff couldn't technically use half the doors, her waking up in the youngest son's bed and still working at Easterly was a total non-starter.
Ah, yes, she thought. The good ol' days of dating him, when she'd exhausted herself trying to keep everything a secret.
"Anywhere," he said. "One of the cottages. I don't care."
"Lane. Listen, this is not--we're not going back to the way it was before, remember? I don't know why I did what I just did, but it doesn't mean--"
He came at her, pulling her in for a kiss, his tongue penetrating her mouth. God help her, after a moment, she kissed him back.
Even as her head was telling her no, her body had its own ideas.
"It matters," he said against her lips. "This matters to me even more than my family. Do you hear me, Lizzie? You have always, and will always, matter most to me."
On that, he left and went to the door, pausing to level a stare at her over his shoulder--the kind that was a vow if she'd ever seen one.
Sitting down on the foot of his bed, she looked over at the wall they'd had sex against. The oil painting on the floor was utterly ruined, the canvas scratched and torn, but she didn't go over to try to assess the damage. She just sat there and tried to convince herself it wasn't a sign from God.
It was a while before she left his room, and she was careful over by the door, listening for voices or the sounds of footsteps before cracking the panels and peeking out. When there was nothing except silence, she all but leaped into the middle of the corridor and started walking fast.
Chantal's room was across the hall and down a little, and as she passed it by, she could smell the woman's expensive perfume.
Such a good reminder--not that she needed it--of why she should have left after that first interruption.
Instead of taking it to the next level at a dead run.
She had only herself to blame.
TWENTY-TWO
As Lane jogged downstairs, all he could think of was how much he wanted a drink in his hand. The good news--probably the only he was getting--was that when he arrived in the parlor, Samuel T. was helping himself to some Family Reserve, the sound of bourbon hitting ice needling Lane's own craving into a full-blown addict's claw.
"Care to share the wealth?" he muttered as he slid the wood-paneled pocket doors into place on both sides of the room.
There was so much he didn't want anyone else to hear.
"My pleasure." Samuel T. presented him with a healthy share in a squat crystal glass. "Long day, huh."
"You have no idea." Lane clinked his rim with the other man's. "What can I do you for?"
Samuel T. drank his bourbon down and went back to the bar. "I heard about your controller. My condolences."
"Thank you."
"You found her?"
"That's right."
"Been there, done that." The attorney turned back around and shook his head. "Rough stuff."
You don't know the half of it. "Listen, I don't want to rush you, but--"
"Are you serious about that divorce?"
"Absolutely."
"Do you have a prenup?" When Lane shook his head, Samuel cursed. "Any chance she cheated on you?"
Lane rubbed his temple and tried to pull out of what had just happened with Lizzie . . . and what he had seen on that laptop. He wanted to tell Samuel T. to get with him tomorrow, but the problems with Chantal were going to be waiting in the wings, whether or not his family was going down in flames financially.
In fact, it was probably better to get that ball rolling rather than sit on it in light of the stuff with his father. The quicker he got her out of the house? The less insider information she could sell to the tabloids.
Not that he couldn't see her becoming a talking head to the lowest common denominator if things went badly for the Bradfords.
"I'm sorry," he said between sips. "What was the question?"
"Has she cheated on you?"
"Not that I know of. She's just been in this house for two years, living off my family and getting manicures."
&
nbsp; "That's too bad."
Lane cocked a brow. "Didn't know you had such a jaundiced view of marriage."
"If she cheated on you, that can be used to reduce alimony. Kentucky's a no-fault state for divorce, but misdeeds like affairs or abuse can be used to mediate spousal support."
"I haven't been with anyone else." Well, except for Lizzie just now, upstairs--and about a hundred thousand times before that in his mind.
"That doesn't matter unless you're seeking support from Chantal."
"Not a chance. A clean break is all I want from that woman."
"Does she know this is coming?"
"I've told her."
"But does she know?"
"Have you got papers for me to sign now?" When the attorney nodded, Lane shrugged. "Well, then, she'll be aware of how serious I am as soon as she gets served."
"Once I get your John Hancock, I'll go directly downtown and file this petition. The court is going to have to conclude that the marriage is irretrievably broken, but I think, given that the pair of you have been living apart for about two years, that will not be a problem. I will warn you--there is no way she's not going to hit you for support. And there's a potential that this is going to cost you, especially because her standard of living has been so high here in this house. I'm guessing some of your trusts have kicked in?"
"I'm on the first tier. Second tier is triggered when I'm forty."
"What's your annual income?"
"Does that include poker winnings?"
"Does she know about them? Do you file income taxes on those funds?"
"No and no."
"Then we'll leave that off the table. So what's your number?"
"I don't know. Nothing ridiculous, just a million or so? It's like a fifth of the income generated off the corpus."
"She'll go after that."
"But not the corpus, right? I think there's a spendthrift clause."
"If it's the Bradford Family Irrevocable of 1968, which I believe it is, my father drafted the terms, so you can bet your best flask no soon-to-be ex-wife is invading anything. I'll need to see a copy of the documents, of course."
"Prospect Trust has everything."
Samuel T. ran through various file this, counter that, disclose whatever, but Lane checked out. In his mind, he was upstairs in his bedroom with the door shut and Lizzie fully naked in his bed. He was all over her with his hands and his mouth, closing the distance of the years and going back to where they had been before Chantal had showed up in designer maternity clothes.
Whatever he was facing with his father and the debt . . . it would be so much easier if he had Lizzie with him, and not in just a sexual way.
Friends helped each other, right?
"Sound good?"
Lane replugged into his lawyer. "Yes. How long?"
"Like I said, I'll file everything today with another 'friendly' judge who owes me a favor or two. And Mitch Ramsey has agreed to serve her the summons immediately. Next comes hashing out the marital settlement--and my guess is, she'll get one hell of an attorney on her side for you to pay for. You've been living apart for more than sixty days, but she's going to need to leave this house ASAP if you're going to stay here. I don't want to trip that wire and delay this two months, thanks to a cohabitating argument from the other side. My guess is she's going to contest everything, because she's going to want as much money from you as possible. My goal, however, is to get her out of your life with the clothes on her back and that quarter-of-a-million-dollar engagement ring you gave her--and that's it."
"Sounds good to me." Especially as he didn't know if there was a pot to piss in anywhere else but his own accounts. "Where do I sign?"
Samuel T. made short work with various pieces of paper, presenting them for a scrawl in blue ink on the corner of the bar cart. It was all over quicker than Lane could finish his first bourbon.
"You want me to give you a retainer?" he asked as he gave the Montblanc back to his attorney.
Samuel T. finished his own drink; then put more ice and more Family Reserve in his glass. "This is free of charge."
Lane recoiled. "Come on, man, I can't let you do that. Let me--"
"No. Frankly, I don't like her, and she doesn't belong in this house. I'm looking at this divorce case as housekeeping. A broom sweep to get the trash out."
"I didn't know you disliked her so much."
Samuel T. put his hands on his hips and stared at the Oriental. "I'm going to be completely honest here."
Lane knew where things were going just by the way the attorney was gritting his jaw. "G'on."
"About six months after you left here, Chantal called me up. Asked me to come over--when I said no, she showed up at my house. She was looking for 'a friend,' as she put it--then she shoved her hand down my pants and offered to get on her knees. I told her she was out of her mind. Even if I were attracted to her, which I have never been, your family and mine have been linked for generations. I would never, ever be with a wife of yours, divorced or separated or together. Besides, Virginia is a fine state to go to college in, but I wouldn't marry a girl from there--and that was what she was actually after."
Man, he hated being right about that bitch sometimes, he truly did.
"I'm not surprised, but I'm glad you told me." Lane put out his palm. "I'll repay you the favor. Someday."
"I am certain you will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll run these down to the courthouse."
The attorney shook what was offered to him, bowed ever so slightly, and then left with the glass still in his hand.
"They can arrest you for open container," Lane called out. "Just FYI."
"Not if they can't catch me," Samuel T. hollered back.
"Crazy," Lane muttered as he finished his own drink.
As he went to pour another, his eyes drifted over to the oil painting over the mantelpiece. It was of Elijah Bradford, the first member of the family to make enough money to distinguish himself from his peers by sitting for a major American artist.
Was he, at this very moment, rolling in his grave?
Or would that come later . . . because where they had all sunk to got even worse.
*
Gin rode a wave of panic down Easterly's grand staircase.
As soon as she'd seen the vintage maroon Jaguar pull up to the house, she had changed out of the clothes she'd worn to jail, for godsakes, and put on a silk dress that ended well north of her knees. She'd also taken a moment to brush her hair. Mist more perfume on. Slide her feet into a pair of pumps that made her ankles look thinner than ever.
Going by the closed parlor doors, she knew her brother was talking to Samuel T. about The Situation. Or . . . Situations.
She left them be.
Instead of barging in, she went out the front door and waited by that old-fashioned convertible. The temperature was still eighty degrees in spite of the fact that the sun had started to go down, and there was a mugginess in the air--or maybe that was her nerves. To get some shade, she kept herself in the lee of one of the big magnolias that grew up close to the house.
As she stared at the car, she remembered the times she had been in the thing with Samuel T., the night wind in her hair, his hand between her legs as he drove them along the winding roads to his farm.
The convertible had been purchased by Samuel T., Sr., on the day of the birth of what had turned out to be the man's one and only living offspring. And it had been given to young Samuel T. on his eighteenth birthday with strict instructions that he was not to kill himself in the damn thing.
And funny, the instruction had found home: It was only when he was behind the wheel of a car that Samuel T. was careful. Gin had long suspected it was because he knew that if anything happened to him, his family tree was over.
He was the only member of his generation who had survived.
Lot of tragedy.
For which, until this very moment, she had had little appreciation.
While she waited, her heart beat fast, bu
t not hard, the fluttering in her chest making her light-headed. Or perhaps it was the heat--
Samuel T. pulled open the front door and strode out of Easterly, crystal glass of bourbon in his hand. He cut quite the dashing figure with that perfectly beautiful seersucker suit, and his astonishing face, and his monogrammed briefcase. He had put on a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses, and his thick, dark hair was brushed back off his high forehead, that cowlick in the front making it seemed styled when in fact that had never been necessary.
He stopped as he saw her. Then drawled, "Come to thank me for saving you?"
"I need to talk to you."
"Oh? Trying to negotiate a retainer using something other than cash?" He tossed back the liquor and put the glass on the front step--as only someone who had lived with help all his life could. "I am amenable to all suggestions."
She measured every step he made toward her and his car. She knew so well that body of his, that hard, muscular body that belied him for the farmer he was in his soul under all his fancy, barrister trappings.
Amelia was going to be tall like he was. And she was smart like he was.
Unfortunately, the girl was also stupid like her mother, although maybe she would grow out of that.
"Well?" he said as he put his briefcase in the jump seat. "Do I get to pick the way you pay your bill?"
Even through his sunglasses, she could feel his eyes on her. He wanted her, he always wanted her, and at times, he hated her for that: He was not a man who appreciated constraints, even of his own making.
She was the same way.
Samuel T. shook his head. "Do not tell me the cat has that luscious tongue of yours. It would be such a pity to lose that particular piece of your anatomy--"
"Samuel."
The instant he heard the tone in her voice, he frowned and took his sunglasses off. "What's wrong?"
"I . . ."
"Did anyone mistreat you in that jail? Because I will go down there personally and--"
"Marry me."
He froze, everything stopping--his expression, his breathing, maybe even his heart. Then he punched out a laugh. "Right, right, right. Sure you do--"
"I'm serious."
The car door opened silently, a testament to the meticulous care that was paid to the vehicle. "The day you settle down with any man is the eve of the Second Coming."
"Samuel, I love you."
He shot her a sardonic look. "Oh, please--"
"I need you."
"Jail really bothered you, didn't it." He lowered himself into the bucket seat and stared out over the hood of the car for a moment. "Look, Gin, don't feel bad about having gone in there, okay? I've managed to scrub everything down at HQ so that it won't even get on the blotter. No one's going to know."
