by J. R. Ward
"Get in," he said without sparing her a glance.
"Edward--"
"As if I'm going to discuss what you signed with my father in your own house? Or even in your front yard?"
She let out a very unlady-like curse and then marched around the front of the truck. With a grunt, he tried to reach over as a gentleman should and open her door, but she got there first--and besides, his body wouldn't let him stretch that far.
As she settled into the seat, she froze as she saw her purse.
Putting the truck in gear, he muttered, "I figured you'd want your driver's license back."
"I have to be at the ball in forty-five minutes," she said as he started down her hill.
"You hate going to those things."
"I have a date."
"Do you. Congratulations." A quick fantasy of kidnapping her and keeping her from going at all played out in a very Lifetime Movie sort of way--said fantasy culminating in her going Stockholm syndrome and falling in love with her captor. "Who is he?"
"None of your business."
Edward took a left and just kept driving. "So you're lying."
"Check the society pages tomorrow morning," she countered in a bored tone. "You can read all about it."
"I don't get the Charlemont Courier Journal anymore."
"Look, Edward--"
"What the hell are you doing? Mortgaging my goddamn house?"
Even though he wasn't looking at her, he could feel her icy stare nailing him in the face. "Number one, your father approached me. And number two, if you take that tone with me again, I'll foreclose just on principle."
Edward shot a glare in her direction. "How could you do that? Are you really that greedy?"
"The interest rate is more than fair! And would you have preferred he go to a bank, where it would be recorded for the public? I'm going to keep everything private, assuming the payments are made."
He jabbed a finger at the documents on the seat between them. "I want you to make that go away."
"You are not a party to this, Edward. And apparently your father needs the money or he wouldn't have come to me."
"That is my mother's house!"
"You know, if I were you, I'd be thanking me. I'm not sure what's going on under that roof of yours, but ten million should be nothing for the likes of the grand and glorious Bradford family!"
Edward took a hard left and pulled into one of the public parks that dotted the Ohio River. Crossing the empty parking lot, he stopped when he got to the boat launch and put them in park. By now, the storm was really heating up, and the bursts of light from the sky fueled the anger inside of him.
Wrenching around in the seat, he swallowed a groan at the pain. "He doesn't need the money, Sutton."
It was a lie, of course, however the last thing the family needed was talk: As much as he was frustrated with Sutton, he knew he could trust her, but there had to be other people involved on her side. Lawyers, bankers. At least she could refute their conversation if it came up.
"Then why did he sign that document?" she demanded. "Why did your father go out of his way to divert me from a business meeting and put this on the table."
As she confronted him, he had a quick mental image from the night before of her straddling his hips, riding him, being gentle with his broken body.
Then he remembered his father reaching for her in the office.
Could this get any messier, he wondered as hatred for William Baldwine surged.
Edward focused on her lips and thought about his brother's wife. "Has he ever kissed you?"
"Excuse me."
"My father. Has he ever kissed you."
Sutton shook her head in disbelief. "Let's stick to fighting about the mortgage on Easterly, shall we?"
"Answer the goddamn question."
She threw up her hands. "You saw me in his office with him. What do you think."
So he had, Edward thought on a surge of fury.
"Look," Sutton said. "I don't know what's going on in your family, or why he wanted to do this. All I know is that it's a good deal for me . . . and I thought it would help you out. Stupid me, I thought the fact that I would keep this discreet might actually benefit you."
After a moment, he muttered, "Well, you're wrong. And that's why I want you to rip that up."
"Your father has a copy, too," she pointed out dryly. "Why don't you go talk to him."
"He made that deal with you because he hates me. He did it because he knows damn well that the last person on earth I would ever want my family to be indebted to is you."
At least that wasn't a lie, he thought as she gasped.
God knew he already felt like half a man around her anyway . . .
*
As Edward's words sank in, Sutton jerked in her seat--and couldn't catch the reaction in time to try to hide it.
Pride made her want to hit back at him hard, but the angry words log jammed in her head, and all she ended up doing was staring out at the choppy, muddy river.
The windshield wipers were on, and periodically, they made a swipe that gave her a momentarily clear view of the opposite shore. And it was funny, life was a bit like that, wasn't it. You went along, doing your thing, not really seeing the full landscape of where you were for all the daily minutiae you had to take care of--when suddenly, things crystallized and you got a brief picture that left you going, Ah, so I am here.
Sutton cleared her throat--but it didn't really do much, because as she spoke, her words were hoarse, "You know, I don't think I'll ever understand why you think so little of me. It's really quite . . . it's a mystery to me."
Edward said something, but she talked right over him. "You must know that I fell in love with you a long time ago."
That shut him up.
"You must know it. How could you not? I've been following you around for years--is that why you hate me?" She glanced over at him and couldn't see much of his eyes because of that baseball cap--probably a good thing. "Do you look down on me for that? I always figured you strung me along because you assumed my feelings could be useful to you at some point--but is it sicker than that? I know I despise myself for the weakness." She nodded at the papers. "I mean, that document there is a perfect example of how pathetic I am. I wouldn't have done a deal like that, under the table, for anyone else. But I suppose that's my problem, not yours, isn't it."
She went back to staring out the windshield ahead of her. "I know you don't like to talk about what happened to you in South America, but . . . I didn't sleep for the entire time they had you, and for months afterward, I had nightmares. And then you came back to Charlemont and wouldn't see me. I told myself it was because you weren't seeing anyone, but that isn't true, is it."
"Sutton--"
"No," she said sharply. "I'm not going to let you all out of that mortgage. That would be just another part of this stupidity I have going on with you."
"You have it all wrong, Sutton."
"Do I? I'm not so sure. So how about we end this right now--you can fuck off, Edward. Now, take me home before I call the police."
She expected him to argue with her. After a moment, though, he put the truck in reverse and turned them around.
As he headed back out to the road, she measured his grim profile. "You better pray that father of yours makes those payments in a timely fashion. If he doesn't, I will not hesitate to put your family out on the street--and if you think that's not going to get people in this town talking, you're out of your goddamn mind."
That was the last thing either of them said on the return trip to her house.
When he pulled in front of the mansion, she made sure to get her purse and take it with her this time--and the truck barely rolled to a stop before she leaped out.
She was pretty sure he said her name one last time as she took off, but maybe not.
Who cared.
As she ran through the rain to her front door, the butler opened things up for her.
"Mistress!" he exclai
med. "Are you all right?"
She hadn't bothered with the umbrella, and a quick glance in the antique mirror by the door showed that she looked as worn-out and worn-down as she felt.
"Actually, I'm not feeling well." No lie there. "Will you please let Brandon Milner know that I've taken ill and am going to bed? I was supposed to go to the ball with him this evening."
He bowed. "Shall I call for Dr. Qalbi?"
"No, no. I'm just exhausted."
"I'll get you a tray and some tea."
That sounded perfectly nauseating. "How lovely, thank you."
As the man strode off for the kitchen wing, she went over to the elevator's paneled doors. Fortunately, the car was on the first floor and she was able to take it up right away. The last thing she needed was to run into her father or her brother.
Getting out, she took off her shoes and padded down the long hallway, slipping into her bedroom and closing the door behind herself.
Shutting her eyes, she kept hearing Edward's voice over and over again in her head.
He knows damn well that the last person on earth I would ever want my family to be indebted to is you.
Unbelievable.
And it was funny. Even with all the money she had, all the position and the authority, the respect and the adulation . . . she was still capable of being reduced to a devastated child.
All it took was being in an enclosed space with Edward Baldwine.
For ten minutes.
No more, she vowed. This unhealthy obsession she had going on with that man needed to stop right now.
In the back of her mind, she had sometimes wondered if he might be fighting an obsession with her of his own, their centuries-old family competition keeping him from making a move. But that had clearly been an unfair projection on her part, some kind of romantic fantasy born out of her own feelings.
The only nice things he'd said to her were when he'd thought she was a prostitute that he had bought and paid for.
Reality had now been clearly established, however: He had just put up a billboard in her proverbial town square. Set her straight with no room for misinterpretation.
She might be pathetic.
But she was not stupid.
THIRTY-NINE
Punched in the head.
As Lizzie slumped to the side in the crushed cabin of her Yaris, she felt like she'd been punched in the head.
By a combination of Wolverine, The Rock, and maybe Ahnold from back in the day.
And as a result, nothing was processing well, not her having run into the back of Lane's car, not the fact that there was water in her face, not the loud noise--
"Lizzie!"
The sound of her name cleared some of the cobwebs away, and she looked around, trying to figure out why God suddenly sounded a lot like Lane.
"Lane?" she said, blinking hard.
Why was he coming through her windshield? Was this a dream?
"--hurt anywhere?" he was saying. "I need to know before I move you."
"I'm sorry . . . about your car--"
"Lizzie, y'all gotta tell me if you're hurt!"
Boy, when he got anxious that Southern accent came back thick, didn't it. Then she frowned. Hurt? Why would she be--
And that was when she saw all the greenery.
In her car.
Okay, this had to be a bad dream--and she might as well go along with it: Testing her arms, her legs, taking a deep breath, moving her head . . . everything checked out.
"I'm all right," she mumbled. "What happened?"
"I'm going to pull you forward--help me if you can, 'kay?"
"Sure. I'll--"
Wow. Ow!
But she was determined to particpate in the effort. Even as things got stretched out of place and threatened to pop from sockets, she shoved her feet against anything she came in contact with, pushing as Lane pulled, twisting to keep going forward.
Rain on her face, in her hair, on her clothes. Scratches. Wind blinding her.
But he got her out.
And then she was in his arms, up against his chest, feeling him tremble.
"Oh, God," he said hoarsely. "Oh, praise God, you're alive . . ."
Lizzie held on to him, still not understanding why they were sitting up in a tree. How had the cars gotten up in her--
The lightning bolt streaked out of the sky and landed so close to them, her ears exploded in pain.
"We have to get inside," Lane barked. "Come on."
Sometime in the process of tripping and falling to the ground, her brain came back online--and what she saw nearly paralyzed her.
Half of the beautiful tree that grew beside her house had crushed her car.
She hadn't hit his Porsche, after all.
The crunching had been her tiny sedan taking the brunt of all that tremendous weight.
"Lane . . . my car--"
That was all she got out before he took her up into his arms and ran for her house. As he jumped onto the porch, she pushed herself from his hold and refused to go any farther. Lifting her hand to her mouth at the sight of her car, she--
Blood. There was blood . . . all over her.
A sudden lightheadedness washed over her, making her sway as she looked down at herself. "Lane . . . am I hurt?"
"Inside," he demanded, moving her bodily to the door.
As he shoved her into her house and put his whole strength against the panels to reshut them, her heart began to pound as she got a good look at her savior: He was a bloody, wet mess, too.
But what did it matter?
The two of them embraced in such a rush that their dripping clothes slapped together, their bodies reconnecting, sharing warmth, holding on hard.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said into her ear. "Oh, Christ, I thought I'd--"
"You saved me, you saved me--"
They were both talking a mile a minute, tripping over words, buzzing from the near miss. And then he was kissing her and she was kissing him back.
Except she stopped all that, pulling away. "I think you're the one who's bleeding."
"Just scratches--"
"Oh, God, look at your arms--your hands!"
He was totally torn up, his exposed skin streaked with cuts from his having fought through the branches to get to her--and there were further contusions on his face and his neck.
"I don't care," he said. "You're all I'm worried about."
"Do you need a doctor?"
"Oh, please. The tree fell on you, remember?"
And that was when the lights went out.
Lizzie stilled for a moment . . . and then she started to laugh so hard that her eyes burned. It was just too much emotion about too many things for her to hold in--and before she knew it, Lane was laughing, too, the pair of them holding each other and letting out the ridiculous afterburn of everything from the problems with his family to the stress of the brunch . . . to that freak accident with her tree.
"Shower?" she said.
"I thought you would never ask."
Ordinarily, she'd have fussed over the wet footprints across her living room and up the planks of the stairs, but not now: The memory of that weight landing on her car was a prioritizer and a half.
"I swear, I thought I hit your car," she said as they came up to the second floor.
"It wouldn't have mattered if you had."
Ah, the joys of being a Bradford, she thought. "You have a backup Porsche, I'm sure."
"Even if I didn't, it wouldn't have mattered as long as you're okay."
Squeezing together, they made it through the jambs of her bedroom and into her bath--and then, as she turned on the shower, he went for her clothes, unbuttoning things, releasing zippers, shedding her second skin's worth of wet and cold and clingy.
Goosebumps tickled her arms and thighs, but that was more from the heat in his eyes than the chill in the air. And then Lane was taking off his own clothes, leaving them where they landed in a tangled mess with hers.
"Under the w
ater," she groaned as he nuzzled into her throat, kissing his way to her mouth.
He cursed as they stepped into the warm, gentle spray--and as the blood washed off, she was relieved. Just cuts on him, nothing serious . . .
And that was the last thought she had as his big hands traveled over her slick breasts, and his mouth came down hard on hers, and that familiar erotic urgency sprang to life between them.
I love you, she thought inside her head.
I love you all over again, Lane.
*
Sometime later, after the power came back on, and Lane had made love to his Lizzie twice in the shower and once more in her bed, after they had gone down and had the last of that frozen lasagna and most of the peach ice cream in her house, after they had returned upstairs and gotten into her bed again . . . all the problems of the day came back to him.
Fortunately, Lizzie was asleep and it was dark, so whatever expression he didn't have the energy to hide was a non-starter.
Staring at her ceiling, his mind pulled a churn and burn over it all, and the next thing he knew, light was glowing at the edge of the horizon. A quick glance at Lizzie's alarm clock and he was surprised to find that he'd blown the whole night.
Sliding out from under the sheets, he got to his feet and went into the bathroom. His clothes were unsalvageable; he picked them up off the floor and put them into her trash. The only thing he saved? His boxers.
Better than driving home buck-ass naked on the Lord's day.
Back out in the bedroom, he went over to Lizzie. "I gotta go."
She came awake on a jerk, and he soothed her until she put her head on the pillow again. "I've got a date with a beautiful woman that I can't miss," he said.
Lizzie smiled in a sleepy, fuzzy way that made him want to stare at her forever. "Tell her I said hello?"
"I will." He kissed her on the mouth. "I'm bringing you dinner tonight, by the way."
"Will it be frozen?"
"No, hotter'n'hell."
The smile she gave him went right through to his blood, cranking him up even though there was no time to do anything about it.
"I lo--" Lane stopped himself, knowing she wasn't going to like that good-bye. "I'll see you at five o'clock tonight."
"I'll be here."
He kissed her one more time and then strode for the door.
"Wait, what about your clothes?" she called out.
"They can't arrest me. The naughty bits are covered up."
Her laughter escorted him down her stairs and out of the house. And the sight of half that tree on top of her car made his heart skip a beat.
