The Bourbon Kings #1 (5 page)

Lizzie had long wondered if the Bradfords checked the teeth of the debutantes their sons went out with—like you did with thoroughbreds.

“—collapsed and then the ambulance came.” That heavily diamonded hand lifted to that hair and pushed the stuff back; then brought the iPhone she was talking into over to her other ear. “They took her out the
front
door. Can you believe it? They should have done that around the back—oh, aren’t those lovely!”

Chantal Baldwine put her hand in front of her mouth, all geisha-demure as Lizzie schlepped over to the marble-topped bar and set the blooms on the end that was out of the direct sun. “Did Newark do that? He is
so
thoughtful.”

Lizzie nodded and turned back around. The less time wasted here, the better—

“Oh, say, Lisa, would you—”

“It’s Lizzie.” She stopped. “May I help you with something else?”

“Would you be so kind as to get me some more of this?” The woman nodded to a glass pitcher that was half full. “The ice has melted and the flavor’s become watered down. I’m leaving for the club for lunch, but not for another hour. Thank you
so
much.”

Lizzie shifted her eyes over to lemonade—and
really
tried, honest-to-God tried, not to imagine dousing the woman in the stuff. “I’ll have Mr. Harris send someone—”

“Oh, but he’s so busy. And you can just run it in—you’re
such
a help.” The woman went back to her iPhone with its University of Charlemont cover. “Where was I? Oh, so they took her out the main front door. I mean, honestly, can you imagine …
?”

Lizzie walked over, picked up the pitcher, and then strode back across the gleaming white terrace to the green grass. “My pleasure.”

My pleasure.

Yeah, right. But that was what you were supposed to say when the family asked you to do something. It was the only acceptable response—and certainly better than, “How ’bout you take your lemonade and shove it where the sun don’t shine, you miserable piece of veal—”

“Oh, Lisa? It’s a virgin, okay? Thank you.”

Lizzie just kept on going, tossing another “My pleasure” grenade over her shoulder.

Approaching the mansion, she had to pick her point of entry. As a member of the staff, she wasn’t allowed to enter through the Four Mains: front, side library, rear dining room, rear game room. And she was “discouraged” from using any other doors but the kitchen’s and utility room’s—although she got a pass if she was delivering the three-times weekly house bouquets around.

She chose the door that was halfway between the dining room and the kitchen because she refused to reroute all the way around to the other staff entrances. Stepping into the cool interior, she kept her head down, not because she was worried about pissing someone off, but because she was hoping and praying to get in and out without getting caught by—

“I wondered if you’d be here today.”

Lizzie froze like a burglar and then felt a sheen of tears prick the corners of her eyes. But she was not going to cry.

Not
in front of Lane Baldwine.

And not because of him.

Squaring her shoulders, she kicked up her chin … and started to turn around.

Before she even met Lane’s eyes for the first time since she’d told him to go to hell when she’d ended their relationship, she knew three things: One, he was going to look exactly the same as he had before; two, that was not going be good news for her; and three, if she had any brains in her head at all, she would put what he’d done to her almost two years ago on auto loop and think about nothing else.

Leopards, spots, and all that—

Ah … crap, did he have to
still
look that good?

L
ane couldn’t remember much about his walking into Easterly for the first time in forever.

Nothing had really registered. Not that grand front door with its lion’s-head knocker and its glossy black panels. Not the football-stadium-sized
front foyer with that grand staircase and all of the oil paintings of Bradfords past and present. Not the crystal chandeliers or the gold sconces, nor the ruby-red Orientals or the heavy brocade drapes, not even the parlor and the ballroom on either side.

Easterly’s Southern elegance, coupled with that perennial sweet lemon scent of old-fashioned floor polish, was like a fine suit of clothes that, once put on in the morning, was unnoticeable throughout the rest of the day because it was tailor fit to your every muscle and bone. For him, there had been absolutely no burn on reentry at all: It was immersion in ninety-eight-point-six-degree calm water. It was breathing air that was perfectly still, perfectly humid, perfectly temperate. It was nodding off while sitting up in a leather club chair.

It was home and it was the enemy at the very same time, and very probably there was no impression because he was overwhelmed by emotion he was shutting out.

He did, however, notice every single thing about seeing Lizzie King once again.

The collision happened as he was heading through the dining room in search of the one who he had traveled so far to see.

Oh, God,
he thought.
Oh, dear God.

After having had to rely on memory for so long, standing in front of Lizzie was the difference between a descriptive passage and the real thing—and his body responded instantly, blood pumping, all those dormant instincts not just waking up but exploding in his veins.

Her hair was still blond from the sun, not some hairdresser’s paintbrush, and it was pulled back in a tie, the blunt ends thick and sticking straight out like a nautical rope that had been burn-cut. Her face was free of makeup, the skin tanned and glowing, the bone structure reminding him that good genetics were better than a hundred thousand dollars’ of plastic surgery. And her body … that hard, strong body that had curves where he liked them and straightaways that testified to all that physical labor she did so well … was exactly as he remembered. She was even dressed the same, in the khaki shorts and the required black polo with the Easterly crest on it.

Her scent was Coppertone, not Chanel. Her shoes were Merrell, not Manolo. Her watch was Nike, not Rolex.

To him, she was the most beautiful, best-dressed woman he’d ever seen.

Unfortunately, that look in her eye remained unchanged as well.

The one that told him she, too, had thought of him since he had left.

Just not in a good way.

As his mouth moved, Lane realized he was speaking some combination of words, but he wasn’t tracking. There were too many images filtering through his brain, all memories from the past: her naked body in messy sheets, her hair threaded through his fingers, his hands on her inner thighs. In his mind, he heard her saying his name as he pumped into her hard, rocking the bed until the headboard slammed against the wall—

“Yes, I knew you’d come,” she said levelly.

Talk about different wavelengths. He was off-kilter down to his Guccis, in the midst of reliving their relationship, and she was utterly unaffected by his presence.

“Have you seen her yet?” she asked. Then frowned. “Hello?”

What the hell was she saying to him? Oh, right. “I hear she’s already home from the hospital.”

“About an hour ago.”

“Is she okay?”

“She left here in an ambulance on oxygen. What do you think.” Lizzie glanced in the direction she’d been headed in. “Look, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to—”

“Lizzie,” he said in a low voice. “Lizzie, I’m …”

As he trailed off, her expression became bored. “Do us both a favor and don’t bother finishing that, okay? Just go see her and … do whatever else you came here to do, all right? Leave me out of it.”

“Christ, Lizzie, why won’t you hear me out—”

“Why should I, is more the question.”

“Because civilized people give others that common courtesy—”

And
BOOM!
they were off.

“Excuse
me
?” she demanded. “Like just because I live over the river and I work for your family, that makes me some kind of an ape? Really—you’re going to go there?”

“That is not what I meant—”

“Oh, I think it is—”

“I swear,” he muttered, “that chip on your shoulder—”

“Is what, Lane? Showing again? Sorry, you’re not allowed to twist things around like I’m the one with the problem. That’s on you. That has
always
been on you.”

Lane threw his hands up. “I can’t get through to you. All I want to do is explain—”

“You want to do something for me? Fine, great, here.” She shoved a half-full pitcher of what looked like lemonade at him. “Take this to the kitchen and get someone to refill it. Then you can tell them to take it back out to the pool house, or maybe you can deliver it yourself—to your
wife
.”

With that, she spun around and punched out the nearest door. And as she strode off across the lawn toward the conservatory, he couldn’t decide what held more appeal: putting his head into the wall, throwing the pitcher, or doing a combination of both.

He picked option four: “Goddamn, mother
fucking
,
shit …
”

“Sir? May I be of service?”

At the British accent, Lane glanced over at a fifty-year-old man who was dressed like he was the front house of a funeral parlor. “Who the hell are you?”

“Mr. Harris, sir. I am Newark Harris, the butler.” The guy bowed at the waist. “The pilots were kind enough to call ahead that you were en route. May I attend to your luggage?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Very good, sir. Your room is in order, and if you require ought further than your wardrobe upstairs, it will be my pleasure to procure any necessaries for you.”

Oh, no, Lane thought. Nope, he was not staying—he knew damn well what weekend was coming up, and the purpose for his visit had nothing to do with the Derby social circus.

He shoved the pitcher at Mr. Dandy-man. “I don’t know what’s in here and I don’t care. Just fill it up and take it where it belongs.”

“My pleasure, sir. Will you be requiring—”

“No, that’s it.”

The man seemed surprised as Lane pushed past him and headed in the direction of the staff part of the house. But, of course, the Englishman didn’t question him. Which, considering the mood he was in? Not only was that proper butler etiquette, but it would fall under a self-preservation rubric as well.

Two minutes in the house. Two damn minutes.

And he was already nuclear.

L
ane marched his way into the massive professional kitchen and was immediately taken aback by both the olfactory “noise” and the auditory silence. Even though there were a good dozen chefs bent over the stainless-steel counters and the Viking stoves, none of the white coats were speaking as they labored. A few of them did look up, however, recognized him and stopped whatever they were doing, he ignored their OMG! reaction. He was used to that double take by now, his reputation having preceded him across the nation for years.

Thank you,
Vanity Fair
, for that exposé on his family a decade ago. And the three follow-ups since. And the speculations in the tabloids. And don’t get him started on the Internet.

Once that lowest-common-denominator¸ media-packaged celebrity status sucker-fished you?

No getting it off.

As he went over to a door marked P
RIVATE
, he found himself retucking his shirt, pulling up his slacks, smoothing his hair. Now he wished he’d taken time to shower, shave, change.

And he really wished that meeting with Lizzie had gone better. Like he needed another thing on his mind?

His knock was quiet, respectful. The response he got was not:

“What are you knocking for,” barked the Southern female voice.

Lane frowned as he pushed open the door. And then he stopped dead.

Miss Aurora was at her stove, the hot-oil smell and snare-drum crackle of chicken frying in a pan rising into the air in front of her, her weave done in a short bob of super-tight black curls, her housecoat the same one he’d seen her in when he’d left to go up north.

All he could do was blink, and wonder whether someone had played a sick joke on him.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she snapped at him. “Wash y’all hands and get out the trays. I’m five minutes out.”

Right, he’d expected to find her laying in bed with a sheet up to her chest and a fading light in her eyes as her beloved Jesus came for her.

“Lane, snap out of it. I’m not dead yet.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as a wave of exhaustion sandbagged him. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he closed them in together, he searched for signs of physical weakness in those strong shoulders and those set legs of hers. There was none. There was absolutely nothing about the sixty-five-year-old woman to suggest that she had ended up in the emergency room that morning.

Okay, so it was a toss-up, he decided as he eyeballed the rest of the food she’d prepared for him. A toss-up between him being relieved … and him feeling furious that he’d wasted the time coming down here.