The Bourbon Kings #1 (8 page)

“We’ve never shut production down.”

“Nope. Not since Prohibition—and that was only for show, anyway.”

There was a long pause. “Mack … what are they doing?”

“They’re going to ruin this company—that’s what they’re doing.”
He walked over to the woman. “They’re going to take us under on the guise of maximizing profit. Or hell, maybe they’re going to do an IPO finally—every other bourbon maker except Sutton’s is publicly owned now. Maybe they’re trying to artificially inflate profit right before a private sale. I don’t know, and I don’t care. But I’m pretty damn sure Elijah Bradford is rolling in his grave.”

As he headed for the exit, she called after him, “Where are you going?”

“To get drunk. On a whole lot of beer.”

A
s Lane stood outside of his bedroom and stared down at his “wife,” he thought, just like Easterly, she was the same, too.

Chantal Blair Stowe Baldwine was, in fact,
exactly
the same: the whole haircut, spray tan, makeup, and expensive pink clothing routine identical to what he’d left behind. And her voice—still right out of central casting under the heading of Genteel Southern Lady of Leisure.

She still babbled, too, words leaving her mouth in a stream with no consideration of rationing for the listener’s benefit. Then again, for her, conversation was performance art, her hands moving like the wings of doves, arching up and down, that big diamond she’d wanted so badly flashing like a strobe light.

“—Derby weekend! Of course, Samuel Theodore Lodge is coming tonight. Gin’s
all
excited about seeing him …”

Unbelievable. They had literally not seen each other or said a word to one another for nearly two years, and she was talking about who was on the guest list for dinner.

What in the hell had he ever seen in her—

“Oh, Lisa! Excuse me, could you please ask Newark if this Mr. Baldwine
could have his car brought around? We’re going to the club for lunch.”

Lisa?
he thought.
Then again, there had been staff turnover since he’d—

Lane glanced over his shoulder. Lizzie was standing by his father’s bedroom door, two vases of perfectly good, but no doubt freshly replaced, bouquets in her grip.

“Mr Harris is just over there,” Lizzie said stiffly.

“I don’t like to shout. It’s not appropriate.” Chantal leaned in the direction of the other woman, like they were two girlfriends sharing a secret. “Thank you so much, you’re such a help—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Lane demanded.

Chantal recoiled, her head rearing back, her eyes going from ingenue to hired killer in the blink of her false, but tasteful, eyelashes.

“I beg your pardon,” Chantal whispered to him.

Lane tried to catch Lizzie’s stare while he muttered, “Go tell him yourself.”

Lizzie refused to acknowledge him. With a professionally impassive expression, she walked forward, her lithe strides taking her past him and down the long hall to the staff staircase. Meanwhile, Chantal was talking again.

“—address me in front of the help like that,” she hissed.

“Her name’s Lizzie, not Lisa.” Now he was the one leaning in. “And you know that, don’t you.”

“Her name is irrelevant.”

“She’s been here longer than you.” He smiled coldly. “And I’m willing to bet she’ll be here way after you’re gone.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to be under this roof and you know it.”

“I’m your
wife
.”

Lane stared down at her—and wondered why in the hell she was still anywhere near his life. The easy answer was that he’d been pretending that Charlemont didn’t exist. The harder reasoning was tied to what she had done.

I’m your
wife.

“Not for long,” he said in a low voice.

Those penciled brows of hers lifted, and instantly, that Persian-cat-dragged-through-a-toilet-bowl expression disappeared: She became as calm and smooth as a mirror. “Let’s not fight, darling. Our reservation at the club is in twenty minutes—”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. I’m not going anywhere with you. Except to a lawyer’s office.”

In his peripheral vision, he noted that Mr. Newark or Mr. Harris—whatever the butler’s name was—was pulling a discreet turnaround, whisking Mrs. Mollie, the housekeeper, off in the opposite direction.

“Be serious, Tulane.”

God, he hated the sound of his full name on Chantal’s lips: Toooooooouulayne. For godsakes, it had two syllables, not three hundred.

“I am,” he said. “It’s time to end this between us.”

Chantal took a slow, deep breath. “I know you’re upset about poor old Miss Aurora and you’re saying things you don’t mean. I get it. She’s a very good cook—and they are very, very hard to find.”

His molars ground together. “You think she’s just a cook.”

“Are you saying she’s your accountant?”

God, why had he ever … “That woman means more to me than the one who bore me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, she’s black—”

Lane grabbed Chantal’s arm and yanked her up close. “Don’t you
ever
talk about her with that kind of attitude. I’ve never hit a woman before, but I guarantee I will
beat
the shit out of you if you disrespect her.”

“Lane, you’re hurting me!”

At that moment, he realized that a maid was frozen in the doorway of one of the guest rooms, her arms full of stacked, folded towels. As she ducked her head and hustled off, he shoved Chantal away. Jacked up his slacks. Glared at the hallway’s runner.

“It’s over, Chantal. In case you haven’t noticed.”

She clasped her hands together as if in prayer—and he didn’t buy it
for a second. The fake torture in her voice didn’t sway him, either, as she whispered: “I think we should work on our relationship.”

“I agree. This marriage of ours needs to be put out of its misery. That is the work.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“The hell I don’t. Get yourself a good lawyer or don’t—either way, you’re out of here.”

Cue the tears. Big fat ones that made her blue eyes shimmer like pool water. “You can be so cruel.”

Not like she could be, he thought, not even close. And for godsake, he really should have followed through with that prenup, but too bad, so sad, whatever. The good news was that there was always going to be more money—even if she sued him for millions, he could make that up in a year or two.

“I’m going to go speak with Mother,” he said. “And then call Samuel T. Maybe he can serve you papers over dinner tonight.”

Annnnnnd just like that, the iron core came out again, those eyes growing cold. “I will ruin you and your family if you go through with this.”

What she didn’t know was that she’d already ruined his life. She’d cost him Lizzie … and so much more. But the losses were going to stop there, goddamn it.

“Be careful, Chantal.” He didn’t break the eye contact. “I will do anything, in- and outside of the law, to protect what’s mine.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Just a reminder that I’m a Bradford, my darling. We take care of things.”

Striding away from the woman, Lane knocked on his mother’s door. Even though there was no answer, he stepped into the fragrant inner reaches of the suite and shut things behind him.

Closing his eyes, he needed a second to dose the fury before he faced off this dubious reunion. Just a second to pull it together. Just …

When he reopened his lids, he found yet another stage set that was utterly unchanged.

His mother’s white and cream room was just as it had always been, huge windows overlooking the gardens adorned with ballgown drapes of blush-colored silk, Maxfield Parrish paintings glowing like jewels worn by the walls, fine French antiques too precious to sit on or use properly in the corners. But none of that was the focal point, as impressive as it all was.

The canopied bed across the way was the true showpiece. As resplendent and awesome as Bernini’s
Baldacchino di San Pietro
, the massive steamboat-sized platform had carved columns that rose heavenward and a top that was festooned with waterfalls of that pale pink silk. And there she was, Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine, laying as still and well preserved as a saint, her long, thin body buried under the profusion of satin comforters and down pillows, her pale blond hair perfectly coiffed, her face made up even though she wasn’t going anywhere and wasn’t even conscious.

Beside her, on a marble-topped bombé chest, a dozen orange medicine vials with white tops and white labels were arranged in neat rows, like a platoon of soldiers. He had no clue what was in them and, likely, neither did she.

She was the Southern Sunny von Bülow—except his father had never tried to kill her. At least not physically.

The bastard had done other kinds of damage, though.

“Mother, dear,” he said, striding over to her. When he got in range, he took her cool, dry hand with its paper-thin skin and blue veins into his palm. “Mother?”

“She’s resting,” came a voice.

A woman of about fifty, with red hair and a white and gray nurse’s uniform, came in from the walk-in closet. She was a perfect fit for the decor, and he wouldn’t have put it past his mother to have hired her on that basis alone.

“I’m Patty Sweringin,” she said, offering her hand. “You must be young Mr. Baldwine.”

“Lane.” He shook what she put out. “How is Mother doing?”

“She’s resting.” The smile was as pressed and professional as her
uniform. “She’s had a busy morning. The hair colorist and stylist were here.”

Ah, yes, HIPAA, he thought. Which meant she wasn’t allowed to tell him about his own mother’s condition. But that wasn’t the nurse’s fault. And if his mother was exhausted by getting a couple of foils crimped on her head and a blow-dry? How the hell did he think she was doing.

“When she wakes up, tell her I …” He glanced back over at his mother.

“Tell her what, Mr. Baldwine?”

He thought of Chantal.

“I’m going to be here for a few days,” he said grimly. “I’ll tell her myself.”

“Very good, sir.”

Back out in the hall, he closed the door and leaned against it. Staring across at an oil painting of some Bradford or another, he found that the past came back again like a bee sting.

Fast and painful.

“W
hat are you doing here?”

Lizzie had spoken the words to him out in the garden, out in the darkness, out in a hot, humid summer night. Overhead, thunderclouds had shut out the moonlight, leaving the blooming flowers and specimen trees in the shadows.

He could remember everything about the way she had stood in front of him on the brick walkway, her hands on her hips, her stare meeting his with a directness he wasn’t used to, her Easterly uniform as sexually alluring as any set of lingerie he had ever seen.

Lizzie King had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her on his family’s estate. And with each return during semester breaks from his masters programs, he’d found himself looking for her on the grounds, seeking her out, trying to get in her path.

God, he loved the chase.

And the capture wasn’t half bad, either.

Of course, he didn’t have much experience past that—nor did he want it.

“Well?” she demanded. Like if he didn’t get on topic quick, she was going to start tapping her foot—and her next move was going to be knocking his block off for wasting her time.

“I’ve come for you.”

Wait, that came out wrong. He’d meant to say that he’d come to
see
her. Talk to her. Look at her up close.

But those four words were also the truth. He wanted to know what she tasted like, what she felt like underneath him, what—

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you.”

Lane smiled a little. “I like honesty.”

“I don’t think you’re going to feel that way when I’m done with you.”

Okaaaaay, now he was getting hard—and funny, that wouldn’t have bothered him with the kinds of women he usually toyed with. Standing in front of this particular female with an urge to rearrange himself in his pants, however, seemed kind of … tacky.

“I’m going to spare you a lot of wasted time here.” She kept her voice low, like she didn’t want to be overheard, but that didn’t detract from the power of her message. “I am not, and never will be, interested in someone like you. You are nothing but an entitled bad boy who gets off causing chaos with the opposite sex. That stuff was boring when I was a fifteen-year-old, and considering that I’m closing in on thirty this year, I’m even less attracted to it. So do us both a favor—go to the country club, find one of those interchangeable blond women by the pool, and turn them into your twenty-minute StairMaster. You are
not
going to get that from me.”

He blinked like an idiot.

And he supposed the fact that he was so shocked that anyone would call him on his behavior proved her point.