by J. R. Ward
Lizzie didn't bother checking to see if anyone was looking. She stepped in close to him and put her arms around him--and his response was immediate, his larger body curling around her own, holding on.
"Well?" he said into her hair. "Would you leave with me?"
She thought about her job, her farm, her life--as well as the fact that as of three days ago, they hadn't spoken in almost two years.
"Lane . . ."
"So it's a no?"
She pulled back . . . stepped away. "Lane, even if you never come back here again, you aren't going to be free of this place, these people. It's your family, your core."
"I lived without them perfectly well for two years."
"And Miss Aurora brought you back."
"You could have. I would have returned for you."
Lizzie shook her head. "Don't make plans. There's too much up in the air right now." She cleared her throat. "And on that note, I better go back. People are starting to leave, but we've got a good four hundred still in there."
"I love you, Lizzie."
She closed her eyes. Put her hands to her face. "Don't say that."
"I just found out that my father was going to let those murderers have Edward."
"What?" She dropped her arms. "What are you talking about?"
"He refused to pay Edward's ransom when he was kidnapped. Refused. He was going to let my brother die there. In fact, I think he wanted Edward to die."
Lizzie covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. "So you did see him."
"Yeah."
"How . . . is he?"
When Lane sidestepped that one, she wasn't all that surprised: "You know," he said, "I've always wondered how Edward's kidnapping happened. Now I know."
"But why would anyone do that to their son?"
"Because it's an efficient way to murder a business rival and not have to worry about going to jail for it. You get killers to take him into the jungle and then refuse to pay the agreed-upon price. Coffin for one, please--oh, and then let us play the grieving, tortured father for sympathy in the press. Win/win."
"Lane . . . oh, my God."
"So when I ask you about going away, it's not just some romantic fantasy." He shook his head slowly. "I'm wondering if my brother wasn't onto my father . . . so the great William Baldwine didn't try to get rid of him."
Jesus, she thought, if this was true, the Bradfords truly did take dysfunction to whole new levels.
"What did Edward find out?" she wondered.
"He won't go into any of it." Lane's eyes narrowed. "He is, however, helping me get what I need."
Lizzie swallowed through a thick throat--and tried not to picture Lane as the victim of some "accident."
"You're scaring me," she whispered.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sutton blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of William Baldwine's business center. "I'm surprised you're so cavalier about this."
William shut them in together and turned on the lights. "We're competitors, but that doesn't mean we can't be seen together."
Glancing around, she decided that the circular reception area definitely reminded her of the Oval Office--and wasn't that typical of the arrogance of the man. Only Baldwine would demote such a national icon to a place where he kept people waiting.
"Shall we proceed into my office?" he said with the smooth smile of one of those men who did Cialis ads on TV: older, grayer, but still sexy.
"I'm happy to do it here."
"The papers are in my desk."
"Fine."
As they proceeded toward the glass cage of his executive assistant, Sutton found herself wishing that they weren't alone. Then again, for this, they were both going to want privacy.
And then they were in William's space.
Which, dear Lord, was kitted up like something out of Buckingham Palace, all kinds of royal purple damask, gold-leafed mirrors and tables, and throne-like chairs making one wonder how the man accomplished anything in such an over-the-top environment.
"Would you mind if I lit a cigar?" he said.
"No, not at all." She glanced back and found that he'd left the door open--which might have made things a little less creepy had there actually been anyone else around. "So . . . where are the papers."
Over at his huge desk, he opened a mahogany humidor and took out what was undoubtedly a Cuban. "I would offer you one, but these are not for a lady."
"Good thing my money doesn't wear a skirt, right?" As he glanced at her, she smiled sweetly. "Shall we sign the papers?"
"Would you care to go to the track with me? My wife is unwell." He cut the butt of the cigar off. "So she will have to stay at home."
"I'm going with my father, but thank you."
William's eyes went down her body. "Why have you never married, Sutton?"
Because I'm in love with your son, she thought. Not that he has ever cared.
"I'm committed to my work and it is a jealous husband. It is rather an eighties concept, perhaps, but also the truth when it comes to me."
"We have so much in common, you know." He picked up a heavy crystal lighter and kicked up a flame. "We are both responsible for so much."
"My father is still running the Sutton Distillery Corporation."
"Of course he is." William leaned into the lick of fire and puffed up. "But that is not going to last long. Not with his illness. Is it."
Sutton stayed quiet. The family was not yet prepared to announce her elevation to chairman and CEO, but Baldwine was not wrong. Her father's Parkinson's had been controlled for the last three years, however the disease was progressing, and very soon the medications and their careful timing to hide the symptoms were going to become an insufficient mask. The sad thing was that her father's mind was as sharp as ever. His physical stamina was starting to lag, though, and helming a company like Sutton Distillery was a grueling endurance test on a good day.
"No comment?" William said.
As another puff of blue smoke rose above his head, the tobacco's dirty-sock stench reached her nose and made her sneeze.
"God bless you."
She ignored the platitude, well aware the bastard had lit up precisely because it would irritate her. He was the kind of man who exploited weaknesses at that kind of level.
"William, if the papers are here, I'll sign them now. If not, call my office when you're ready."
The man bent at the waist and opened the long, thin drawer in the middle of his desk. "Here."
With a toss, the sheaf skated across the blotter--and the fact that it was stopped by a framed picture of Little V.E., his wife, seemed apt.
"I believe you will find everything in order."
Sutton picked up the packet. Reviewing page one, she went on to the next . . . and the third . . . and the--
Her head jerked up. "I know that is not your hand on my waist."
William's voice was close to her ear. "Sutton, you and I have so much in common."
Stepping away, she smiled at him. "Yes, you're the exact age of my father."
"But I'm not in his kind of shape, am I."
Well, that was true. William filled out his suit better than men decades younger.
"Do you want this done now?" she said sharply. "Or sometime next week with my lawyers."
The way he smiled at her made her feel like she had turned him on. "But of course. All business, as you stated."
Sutton deliberately sat in a chair against the wall, and she did not cross her legs. About ten minutes later, she looked up. "I'm prepared to execute this."
"See? I made the changes you required." He coughed a little into his fist. "Pen--or do you insist on using your own?"
"I have that covered, thank you." Dipping in to her purse, she then used her thighs as a desktop, and signed her name above the notary public's testament that was already filled in. "And I'll be taking a copy with me as I leave, thank you."
"As you wish."
She got to her feet and crossed the ca
rpet. "Your turn."
William took a Montblanc out of the inside pocket of his pale blue suit jacket, and he signed on another page, above another previously executed notary public's attestation.
"After you," he said, indicating the way out with his arm. "The copier is next to the first conference room. I don't use the Xerox machine."
Of course, you don't, she thought. Because like cooking and cleaning, you figure it's woman's work.
As she took the document from him and walked for the doorway, a shiver went down her spine. But then she realized that there was another piece to all this, namely a transfer of funds only she could initiate.
So there was nothing she had to fear from him.
At this particular moment.
She was just passing by the executive assistant's desk when something caught her eye and made her hesitate. It was something down on the floor, sticking out from under the desk's flank . . .
It was a piece of cloth.
No, it was a collar. To a coat sleeve.
"Something wrong?" William asked.
Sutton glanced over her shoulder, her heart pounding. "I'm . . ."
We are not alone, she thought with panic.
*
From his position squeezed into the well of the desk, Edward knew the instant Sutton somehow became aware of his presence.
As her voice trailed off, he cursed to himself.
"What is it?" his father asked.
"I'm"--she cleared her throat--"feeling a bit faint."
"I have brandy in my office."
"Fruit juice. I need . . . some fruit juice. Chilled, please."
There was a pause. "Anything for a lady. Although I must confess, this is considerably out of the realm of my usual duties."
"I'll stay here. And take a seat."
As his father came by and then walked off, Edward heard coughing that gradually grew softer. And then he got a boatload of Sutton's voice, hushed, but strong as steel.
"My concealed weapon is pointed at you and I am prepared to pull the trigger. Show me your face, now."
Fainting spell my ass, Edward thought. But at least she'd sent his father off on a little errand first.
Edward grunted as he leaned out from his hiding place.
Sutton gasped and covered her mouth with the hand that was not on her gun.
"If I'd known our paths would cross again," Edward said smoothly, "I would have brought you your purse."
"What are you doing here?" she hissed as she put her palm-sized gun back into her pastel-pink Derby suit.
"What are you? What did you just sign?"
She looked up. "He's going to come back at any moment."
"The question, of course, is what are you going to do about that?"
"What is wrong with you--" Instantly, she snapped to, shooing him with her hand. And just as he retucked himself, Sutton said, "Oh, thank you, William. That is just what I need."
Wincing as his bad leg spasmed, Edward prayed that she kept protecting him. Also wished he'd greeted her with something other than a reminder that they'd had sex the night before for the first time--although only because he'd assumed she was a prostitute that he'd bought and paid for for the sole reason that he needed a woman who looked like her or he couldn't get it up.
"No, orange is best." There was a pop as if a cap had been opened. "Mmm . . . good."
His father coughed again. "Better?"
"Much. Let's go to the copy machine together, shall we?" she said. "Just in case I need help."
"My pleasure," William drawled.
"You know," Sutton said more dimly, as she led the way out of the office, "you shouldn't smoke. That stuff will kill you."
Edward closed his eyes.
"Oh, the lights," Sutton murmured. "Here, allow me. Once we get the copies, we should return to the party."
"So eager to enjoy better bourbon than you produce?"
Everything went dark. "Yes, William. Of course."
As the pair of them went off together, Edward listened to the prattle of their talk--and prayed, for his father's sake, that the man kept his hands off Sutton. Watching that little show by the desk had required a kind of discipline he had not been connected to for quite a while.
What the hell kind of business deal were the pair of them executing?
God, he never thought he'd think like this, but he hoped Sutton wasn't making any investment in the BBC--or trying to acquire it. She could well be pouring good money into a black hole.
Because, yes, even before he had started to get into those most recent files, Edward had suspected what his father was doing. He had never understood the why of it . . . but he did know where to look and exactly what he was going to find.
Some moments later, he heard Sutton say, "Well, I think this benefits us both. I'll execute the wire transfer first thing on Monday morning."
"Care to seal this with a kiss?"
Edward curled up a fist and thought of what his brother had said about Chantal.
"Thank you, but a handshake is more than sufficient--and even that, I don't require. I'll let myself out."
A door opened and closed.
And then his father came back, the heavy footfalls striding in Edward's direction making him wish he'd brought his own gun.
Lane knew where he was, however. If he didn't make it out of here alive, Lane . . . would know.
Closer . . .
Closer . . .
Except his father just walked right by the desk and into his own office--where he turned on a light, pulled open a drawer and put the papers that had been signed back inside. Then he closed things up and took a number of puffs on his cigar, as if he were lost in thought.
When a coughing fit ensued, Edward rolled his eyes. His father had been an asthmatic all his life. Why anyone with that condition, even if it was just a mild case as William had, would ever smoke anything was a mystery.
As the man took out a handkerchief and covered his mouth, he also retrieved his inhaler and briefly replaced the cigar butt with the drugs. After a quick huff, he put the cigar back in place, turned off the light, and . . .
. . . proceeded by his assistant's desk.
Edward didn't move. Continued to hold his breath. Waited for the sound of one of the French doors opening and closing.
None of that came.
THIRTY-SIX
As Lizzie stood before him looking shaken, Lane wanted to take it all back. He wanted to return to the time when it was only his family's wealth and social position . . . along with his lying, baby-killing, adulterous, soon-to-be ex-wife . . . who came between them.
Ah, yes, the good ol' days.
Not.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. And that was true about so damned much.
"That's all right."
"Not really."
When they fell silent, he found that the sound of the party annoyed the crap out of him--especially as he thought about all that money that his father had "borrowed." He had no idea exactly what the costs of the brunch were, but he could do the math. Six or seven hundred people, top-shelf liquor, even if they got it wholesale, food that was out of a Michelin three-star restaurant? With enough parkers and waiters to take care of the entire city of Charlemont?
A quarter of a million, at least. And that didn't include the boxes at the track. The tables in the private rooms at Steeplehill Downs. The ball that his family sponsored afterward.
It was a million-dollar event that lasted less than twenty-four hours.
"Listen, you better go." He didn't want her to see Edward. Mostly because he was guessing Edward wouldn't want to be seen. "I'll come to your place, even if I can't spend the whole night."
"I'd like that. I'm worried about you. Lot going on."
You have no idea, he thought.
He leaned in to kiss her, but she ducked away--which was probably the right thing to do. A couple of groundsmen in a golf cart were coming up the lane from the lower part of the estate, and no one needed to se
e that.
"I'll get there when I can," he said. Then he leaned in. "Know that I'm kissing you right now. Even if it's only in my mind."
She blushed. "I . . . I'll see you. Tonight. I'll leave the door unlocked if you go late."
"I love you."
As she turned away, he didn't like the look on her face. And it was impossible to hide the fact that he desperately wanted her to say those words back--and not because she was being polite, but because she meant them.
Because her heart was on the line . . . just as his was.
With his world so off-balance, Lizzie King certainly seemed like the only secure, steady thing on his horizon--
The sound of the door opening behind him ripped his head around.
Not Edward.
Not. Even. Close.
His father, not his brother, came out of the rear door of the business center, and Lane froze.
The first thing he did was look at the man's hands--and he expected to find blood there. But no. In fact, the only thing on them, or in one of them, rather, was a white handkerchief that was pressed to his mouth as if he were discreetly covering a cough.
His father did not look over, but didn't appear stressed. Preoccupied, yes. Stressed? No.
And the bastard walked right by the back end of the old truck, the lack of social position associated with such a vehicle putting the F-150 and whatever owner or passenger might be standing with it beneath his radar.
"I know what you did."
Lane wasn't aware of speaking until the words came out of his mouth. And his father stopped and turned around immediately.
As one of the garage doors began to trundle up in the background, William's eyes narrowed and he tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket.
"I beg your pardon," the man said.
Lane crossed the distance between them and met his father eye to eye. Keeping his voice low, he said, "You heard me. I know exactly what you did."
It was eerie how much that face looked so like his own. Also eerie that nothing in it moved . . . William's expression didn't change in the slightest.
"You'll have to be more specific. Son."
The cold tone suggested that last word could have been replaced by "waste of my time" or perhaps the more colloquial "asshole."
Lane gritted his teeth. He wanted to lay it all out, but the reality that his brother was still inside that business center--or at least, hopefully remained in there alive--coupled with the fact that his father would just redouble efforts to cover his tracks, stopped him.
"Chantal told me," Lane whispered.
