The Bourbon Kings #1 (46 page)

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 water,” 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.

S
ometime 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.

As he took a deep breath, his first instinct was to take out his phone and call Gary McAdams to remove the limb and get that crushed tin can of hers off to a scrapyard. But he stopped himself. Lizzie was not the kind of woman who would appreciate that sort of maneuvering. She would have her own contacts, her own idea of how to handle the problem, her own plan for the Yaris.

Knowing her, she would try to get it back on its feet.

Shaking his head, he walked over to his car. The Porsche had very nearly been destroyed, too, the 911 missed by only a couple of feet. After clearing some leaves off the hood, he got in, juiced the engine, and made his way slowly down the lane, steering around the fallen branches and the divots in the dirt that were full of water. As soon as he hit the asphalt, he made up for lost time, speeding toward Charlemont, ripping across the river, gunning his way up Easterly’s hill.

He was halfway to the top when he had to slow because another car was coming down.

It was a Mercedes sedan. Black S550.

And behind the wheel, in huge dark sunglasses and a black veil like she was in mourning, was his soon-to-be ex-wife.

Chantal did not look over at him even though she knew damn well who she was passing.

Fine. With any luck, she was relocating and they could let the lawyers take it from here. God knew he had enough other stuff to worry about.

Leaving the Porsche out front, he went in through the main entrance and paused when he saw the luggage in the foyer.

It wasn’t Chantal’s. She had matching Louis Vuitton. This was Gucci, and marked with the initials RIP.

Richard Ignatius Pford.

One asshole leaving,
he thought.
Another coming in.

What the hell was Gin thinking?

Oh, wait. He knew that answer. For a woman with little formal education and no professional skills, his sister had one unassailable talent: taking care of herself.

Spooked about money, she had gone along with their father and latched onto the wealthiest sap in town so that no matter what happened to the family, her style of living wouldn’t be affected. He just hoped that the cost to her didn’t prove to be too high. Richard Pford was a nasty little SOB.

Not his circus, not his monkeys, however. As much as it saddened him, he had long ago learned to give Gin her head and just let her go—there was no other strategy to deal with his sister, really.

Jogging up the stairs, he went to his room and showered, shaved, and seersuckered. It took him two tries to get the bow tie right.

Man, he hated the things.

He took the staff stairs back down, cut through the kitchen, and went to Miss Aurora’s door. As he had when he’d come to see her earlier, he checked that everything was tucked in, buttoned properly, and as it should be before he knocked.

Except then he stilled. For some reason, he had an abject fear that she wouldn’t answer the door this time. That he would rap his knuckles, and wait … and do it again, and wait some more …

And then he would have to break down the panels as he had with Rosalinda’s office—and he would find another dead—

The door opened, and Miss Aurora frowned at him. “You’re late.”

Lane jumped out of his skin, but recovered fast. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Miss Aurora gave him a grunt and patted her bright blue church hat. Her outfit was as brilliant as a spring sky, and she had matching gloves, matching shoes, and a perfectly coordinated pocketbook that was the size of a tennis racquet. Her lipstick was cherry red, her earrings were the pearl ones he’d given her three years ago, and she was wearing the pearl ring he’d gotten her the year before that.

He offered her his arm as she shut her door, and she took it.

Together, they walked out through the front of the house, passing Mr. Harris, who knew better than to say anything about which door they were using.

Lane escorted Miss Aurora to the Porsche’s passenger seat and settled
her in the car. Then he went around, got behind the wheel, and restarted the engine.

“We’re going to be late,” she said crisply.

“I’ll get us there on time. Just watch me.”

“I don’t abide by no speeding.”

He found himself looking over at her with a wink. “Then close your eyes, Miss Aurora.”

She batted at his arm and glared at him. “You are not too old to spank.”

“I know you want a seat in the front pew.”

“Tulane Baldwine, don’t you dare break the law.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With a sly grin, he hit the gas, shooting the 911 down the hill—and as he passed a quick glance in her direction? He found that Miss Aurora was smiling to herself.

For a moment, all was right in his world.

T
he Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and the bright white of its clapboards stood out among the blocks and blocks of lower-income housing units that surrounded the place. Talk about pristine, though. From its carefully tended-to grounds to its freshly surfaced parking lot, from the flowering pots by the double front doors to the basketball courts out back, the place was as polished and cared for as something from a 1950s postcard.

And at twenty minutes of nine on a Sunday morning, it was teeming with people.

The instant Lane pulled in, the greetings came so fast and so many that he had to slow the car to a crawl. Putting both their windows down, he took hold of hands, called out names, returned challenges for pickup games. Parking in the back, he went around and helped Miss Aurora out; then he led her over to the sidewalk that ran down the side of the church’s flank.

Children were everywhere, dressed in flouncing gowns and little suits, the colors as bright as crayon boxes, their behavior better than that of a lot of the grown-ups who came to the parties at Easterly.
Everyone, but
everyone
, paused and spoke to him and Miss Aurora, checking in, catching up—and in the process, he realized how much he had missed this community.

Funny, he wasn’t a churchgoer, but whenever he was home, he never failed to come here with Miss Aurora.

Inside, there were easily a thousand people, the rows of pews filled with the faithful, everyone talking, hugging, laughing. It was too early for the fans to get broken out, but they would come, usually in June. Down in front, there was a band with electric guitars, drums and basses, and next to them were the risers that would hold the gospel choir. And behind all that? The incredible organ pipes—the kind that could blow the doors and the windows and the very roof wide open—rose as if connecting the congregation directly to Heaven.

Max should be here,
Lane thought. That brother of his had sung in the choir for years before he’d gone off to college.

But that was a tradition that was lost, seemingly forever now.

Two rows from the front there was space for them, a family of seven squeezing in to make room.

“Much obliged,” Lane said, as he shook the father’s hand. “Hey, aren’t you Thomas Blake’s brother?”

“Am, yes,” the man said. “I’m Stan, the older. And you’re Miss Aurora’s boy.”

“Yessir.”

“Where you been? We haven’t seen you here for a while.”

As Miss Aurora cocked a brow to him, Lane cleared his throat. “I’ve been up north.”

“My condolences,” Stan said. “But at least you’re back now.”

“There’s my nephews.” Miss Aurora pointed across the aisle. “D’Shawne is playing for the Indiana Colts now. Wide receiver. And Qwentin beside him is center for the Miami Heat.”

Lane lifted his hand as the two men caught Miss Aurora’s eye. “I remember when they were playing in college. Qwentin was one of the best centers the Eagles have ever had, and I was there when D’Shawne helped us win the Sugar Bowl.”

“They’re good boys.”

“All your family is.”

The organ cranked up, and the band started to play, and from the narthex, the bloodred robed choir strode in, fifty men and women walking together, singing the processional. Behind them, the Reverend Nyce followed with his Bible to his chest, the tall, distinguished man meeting the eyes of his flock, greeting them with honest warmth. When he saw Lane, he reached out and shook hands.

“Glad to have you back, son.”

When it was time for everyone to settle back in their seats, Lane had the strangest feeling come over him. Disturbed, he reached over and took Miss Aurora’s palm.

All he could think of was that tree limb falling the night before. The sight of Lizzie slumped in her car. The electric fear he’d felt as he’d dragged himself over those branches in the storm, screaming her name.

As the band struck up his favorite gospel song, he looked at the cross above the altar and just shook his head.

Of course it would be this one,
he thought.

It was as if the church itself was welcoming him home, too.

Getting up to his feet with Miss Aurora, he started moving with the crowd, back and forth, back and forth.

He found himself singing along:
“I want you to know that God is keeping me …”

A
n hour and a half later, the service ended and the Bubba hour started, the congregation going to the lower level for punch, cookies, and conversation.

“Let’s go down,” Lane said.

Miss Aurora shook her head. “I gotta go back. Work.”

He frowned. “But we always—”

He stopped himself. There was nothing that needed tending to at Easterly. So the only explanation was one that made him want to call 911.

“Don’t look at me like that, boy,” she muttered. “This is not a medical
emergency—and even if it was, I’m not dying in my church. God wouldn’t do that to this congregation.”

“Come on, take my arm again.”

They were very nonchalant as they went against the crowd—and man, he really would have preferred to throw her into a fireman’s hold and defensive lineman his way out of there. And then halfway to the door, he had to stop to talk to Qwentin and D’Shawne—along with seventeen other members of Miss Aurora’s family. Ordinarily, he would have loved the conversation … not today. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was very aware of how much Miss Aurora was leaning on his arm.