The Bourbon Kings #1 (40 page)

P
erfect time for a break-in.

As Edward got out of the Master Distiller’s truck, he pulled the baseball hat down even lower—although if that brim were any further south, he wouldn’t be able to blink.

God … was he really back here?

Indeed, he was—and he’d forgotten how enormous Easterly was. Even from the servant entrances in the rear, the mansion was almost incomprehensibly large, all the white clapboards and black shutters rising up from the green grass, a screaming statement of the family’s long-held stature.

He wanted to vomit.

But after hearing what their father had done with Lane’s wife? There was no way he wasn’t going to do this.

In the background, he could hear The Derby Brunch in full swing in the garden and knew that this really was the only time to get in and out of the business center with the information his brother needed. With so many guests on site, there was no way their father would be anywhere but under that tent—he was a reprobate, but his manners had
never been assailable. Further, all corporate staff had Derby day off, so not even the “underlings” would be at their desks.

The poor bastards might work Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, but this was Kentucky. No one worked on Derby day.

As Lane came around to follow him, he put out his palm. “I go alone.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I can afford to get caught. You cannot. Stay here.”

He didn’t wait for a response, but continued onward, knowing that after nearly forty years of his being the eldest, his words would freeze Lane where he stood.

At the rear entrance to his father’s facility, Edward punched in an access code that he’d assigned to a third party contractor five years ago as part of the security upgrade. When the red light turned to green and the lock released, he closed his eyes briefly.

And opened things up.

There was a temptation to brace himself before stepping inside, but he didn’t have that luxury, either in terms of energy or time. As the door shut behind him, the outdoor light was cut off, and it was a moment before the dim interior registered to his eyes.

Still the same. Everything. From the thick maroon pile rug with its gold edgings, to the framed articles on the company that hung on the silk-covered walls, to the pattern of open glass doorways leading down toward the central waiting area.

Strange … that he assumed just because he was different, this place in which he had spent so many hours would have changed as well.

No alarm went off as he proceeded deeper into the facility because of the code he’d used, and he passed by the formal dining room, the conference rooms that looked like Easterly’s parlors, and even more offices that were kitted out with the luxury of a top-tier law firm. As always, the drapes on all the windows were pulled to ensure total privacy, and nothing was left out on any desks, everything locked up tight.

The waiting area was a circular space, the center of which was demarcated with the family crest in the carpet. Prominently placed off to the side,
and bracketed by an American flag, a Kentucky Commonwealth flag, and a pair of Bradford Bourbon Company banners, the desk of the receiving secretary was as regal as a crown—and yet that wasn’t even close to the seat of power. Beyond all that show, there was glassed-in office where the executive assistant occupied space—and finally, behind that bulldog’s desk was a door marked yet again with the family crest in shimmering gold.

His father’s office.

Edward glanced over to the line of French doors that opened up into the garden. Thanks to the combination of heavy drapes and triple-paned glass, there was not even a peep heard of the six or seven hundred people out there—and there was absolutely no chance of any guests wandering in here.

Edward shuffled forward to the glass office and entered the same code. When the lock released, he pushed his way in and went around to sit at the computer. He turned no lights on and would have not disturbed the chair behind the desk had his legs been capable of supporting his weight for any length of time.

The computer was running, but locked, and he signed on using a set of shadow credentials he’d given himself when he’d had the company’s network expanded and reinforced about three years ago.

In like Flynn, as they said.

But now what?

On the trip to Easterly, he had wondered whether his brain would come back online for any of this. He had worried that the painkillers, or the trauma, had damaged his gray matter in a way that was not material when all one did was drink and sweep up stables—but rather dispositive when one attempted to function at a higher level.

That was not the case.

Although his circumnavigation among the file system of secured documents was slow at first, soon enough, he was moving quickly through the information caches, exporting what was relevant to a dummy account that would appear to be a valid BBC e-mail, but was in fact, out of the network.

Yet another shadow.

And what was best about it all? If anyone looked into the activity, they would trace the destination to the name of his father’s bulldog executive assistant—in spite of the fact that she herself knew nothing about the account. But that was the point. Anyone in the company who saw that woman’s name on something was going to back away and say nothing.

As he sifted through the financials, he focused exclusively on raw data that had yet to be “scrubbed” by accountants, and though there was a temptation to start to analyze, it was more important that he capture as much as he could—

The lights in the reception room flared to life.

Jerking his head up, he froze.

Shit
.

L
izzie’s phone went off finally just as the first of the guests started to take their leave. And she nearly ignored the vibration, especially as two of the waiters came up to her with a series of demands from a table of twenty-year-olds who were underaged and utterly drunk.

“No,” she said as she took the cell out of her back pocket and accepted the call without looking. “They’ve been cut off for a reason—by their parents. If that bunch of entitled asshats has a problem with the service refusal, tell them to talk to Mommy and Daddy.” She put the phone up to her ear. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Lizzie closed her eyes in relief. “Oh, my God, Lane … here, let me find somewhere quiet.”

“I’m around back. By the garages. Can you come out for a minute?”

“On my way.”

Ending the call, she caught Greta’s eye across the tent and signaled that she was stepping out for a minute. After the woman nodded, Lizzie hightailed it down the periphery of the party, jogging behind the buffet tables where uniformed servers cut slices off perfectly roasted wedges of locally raised Angus beef.

A couple of waiters raised their hands to try to get her attention, but she held them off, knowing Greta would be on it.

Entering the house through the door that opened into the kitchen, she ducked her head, trying to look as if she were already on a mission. And she supposed she was. In the far corner, by the pantry, there was another door that opened into the mudroom, and after running by all the spring jackets of the help, she emerged outside by the garages.

She looked around for Lane’s Porsche—

“Over here,” his voice announced.

Turning, she recoiled as she saw him leaning against a truck that was nearly as old as she was. But then she got with the program, jogging across the cobblestones.

“Now, this is my kind of ride,” she said as she came up to him.

Even as he didn’t move a muscle, Lane’s eyes traveled all over her, as if he were using her presence as a way of grounding himself. “Can I hug you?”

She glanced around, focusing on the windows of the house. “Probably better not to.”

“Yeah.”

“So … what are you doing here? With this F-150?”

“Borrowed it from a friend. I’m trying to keep a low profile. How’s the party?”

“Your wife’s been giving me the evil eye.”

“Ex-wife, remember?”

“Are you … are you going to head to the brunch?”

He shook his head. “I’m busy.”

Awkward. Pause.

“Are you all right?” she whispered. “How was Edward?”

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

Lizzie shifted her weight back and forth. “Aren’t you going to the ball?”

“No.”

“Well, then … yes, I’d like that.” She crossed her arms—and tried
not to feel a surging happiness which seemed inappropriate given everything that he was facing. “But I’m worried about you.”

“Me, too.” He glanced up at his house. “Let me ask you something.”

“Anything.”

It was a while before he spoke again. “If I decided to leave here … would you consider coming with me?”

Lizzie thought about joking it out, referencing Robinson Crusoe, or maybe the Carnival Cruise Lines. But he wasn’t laughing in the slightest.

“Is it that bad?” she whispered.

“It’s worse.”

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.

S
utton 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.”