by J. R. Ward
And she behaved herself alllllllll the way to the exit.
Almost.
When she came up to the other woman, Gin leaned in and quickly put her hand on Chantal's stomach. Before Chantal could jump back, Gin spoke fast and low. "I curse this child."
"What? What did you say?"
"You heard me." Gin smiled again. "And when you lose this baby, I want you to think of me."
"What!"
"Bye for now."
Gin sauntered out of the tomb and waited at the bottom of the steps for Samuel T. to catch up. Behind her, Chantal had started to yell and Gin rolled her eyes as he paused to try to do damage control.
Ah, lovely. The discord in her wake was so lovely. Chantal was crying now, and trying to get to Gin, but Samuel T. wouldn't let her.
Meanwhile, Gin was outside in the sun, feeling the warmth on her cheeks and sternum.
After quite some time, Samuel T. emerged and took Gin's elbow again. "Come on, witch doctor. We're over here."
Ordinarily, Gin would have been inclined to pick an argument with him just to keep the drama going, but she remained quiet and content as he escorted her across the grass to the Jaguar. After opening the door for her, he handed her down into the seat--and when she glanced up to thank him reflexively, she was struck by those looks of his.
He was unbearably handsome, it was true. But that wasn't her attraction to him. The sizzle was a result of his arrogance coupled with his rank independence and total disregard for her sense of superiority. She had always wanted to win against him. Have him submit to her and do what she wanted. Force him to be the purebred dog who heeled to her command.
But Samuel T. wasn't like that. Never had been, never would be.
And that was why she loved him.
"You don't have to say it," he murmured as he closed her door.
Gin's eyes tracked every move he made as he went around the long hood and got behind the wheel. After he put his Ray-Bans on, he looked across at her through those dark aviators and her heart leapt.
"What don't I have to say?" Her voice was so husky, it was nearly inaudible, and for a moment, he just stared at her.
I want you, she thought. I just want to feel you in me again.
It seemed as though it had been forever since they'd been together. In reality? It was only the matter of a week or two, maybe less. She couldn't recall.
Wipe Richard's stain off of me, she thought to herself. Fuck him right out of me.
As if he could read her mind, Samuel T. reached across and took her hand in a warm, strong grip. As his thumb made circles on the inside of her wrist, she felt the touch throughout her body.
"Samuel..." she whispered.
With a slow shift, he turned her palm over and then lifted it, as if he were going to brush her knuckles with his lips.
Instead, he held her hand up so that her engagement ring and wedding band were facing her. "I was going to say that, of course, I was going to take us out through the back gates. The last thing we need is to be seen together by the press."
Samuel T. dropped his hold and started the engine. And as he drove them away, he was so calm and in control that they might as well have been in a modern automatic, instead of a classic manual.
Goddamn it, she thought. How dare he be so composed.
The lanes they followed were winding, the views of ponds and weeping willows, stands of specimen trees and beds of ivy, lending precisely the kind of peacefulness that one would wish to find in a final resting place.
None of this reached her as she seethed. But Samuel T. couldn't know that. She didn't want him to see inside of her any more than he already did.
"Aren't you impressed with me," she asked tightly.
"Always."
"And now he decides to be charming. After he turns me down."
"I didn't turn you down."
"You didn't? Hmm...if you in fact kissed me back there and I've forgotten about it already, I'd say you're losing your touch."
"Tell me why I'm supposed to be impressed with you?"
She smiled at the change of subject, taking it as a small victory, but she noted a change in the quality of their banter, and saw in it a loss of something she had once held dear. The back and forth was very much their currency of relating, but gone was the sexual edge and the roiling erotic anger. As recently as a week before, this would have escalated into name-calling and a revisit of all past slights and indiscretions...until they fell into a bed and consumed each other.
Now? She got the sense they were both skating over the real issues, moving across the frozen surface of their past...and the bitter-cold reality of her present.
"What am I impressed with, Gin?"
"That I didn't mention, not even once, that hideous blouse Chantal was wearing. See? I am turning over a new leaf."
"You told her to miscarry her baby. I think on the scale of insults that is far worse."
"I don't get points for honesty? Come now, you've always told me how much you hate when I lie--and I do want her to lose that monstrosity."
"I didn't know you cared that much about the sanctity of your brother's marriage vows."
"Oh, that doesn't concern me in the slightest. I'm just looking to reduce the number of claims to the estate."
"There's my girl."
"Not that there's much to it--and isn't that the true tragedy."
Samuel T. pumped the brakes as they descended a hill and took a turn toward a series of outbuildings. On the far side of them, a concrete wall was broken up by a section of chain-link fence that was wide open.
As they passed through the gate, a couple of uniformed groundsmen who were smoking over in the shade perked up and gawked at the car.
"Remind me not to mess with you," Samuel T. murmured.
"Too late for that."
"Yes," he said grimly. "I believe that is true. So where's your husband, Virginia Elizabeth."
"Don't call me that. You know I despise that name." Gin shrugged. "And Richard is at work. Or in hell. It doesn't matter to me."
"How are things between you?" The inquiry was casual. The tone was not.
Gin stiffened in the old leather seat and thought about what had happened in her dressing room. "The same. He leaves me alone, I leave him alone."
"You want to get a drink?"
"Yes, please."
Chantal treated the doorway of the crypt like it was a Shakespearean theater stage, her arms flying left and right, her weight playing contrapposto to the swings, her hair cascading around her shoulders, a blond ocean in a tempest.
"--treat me like that! I mean, how could you simply stand there as your brother insults me and your sister assaults me!"
Lane watched the show from a distance, easing back against the corner of Elijah's sarcophagus and just letting things roll. He wasn't going to tolerate the emoting forever, but he was operating on the belief that the woman would eventually lose this burst of energy, given that it was eighty-five outside and she wasn't in the shade as long as she stayed where she was.
In fact, he was far more concerned with Lizzie, but he should have known better than to think she'd get involved: She was across the way, one hip against the flank of Constance's marble tomb, her left eyebrow cocked like she was considering what kind of Rotten Tomatoes score to give the performance.
And as for Gin's comment that had started it all?
Well, that could have been worse, couldn't it. Which, considering what had actually come out of his sister's mouth, was a true testament to Gin's history of outrageous behavior.
"Well?" Chantal finally demanded. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I thought my divorce petition was pretty self-explanatory."
"This is not a joke."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"You've tried to keep me out of everything. I wasn't there for your father's will reading, you didn't tell me about this--"
"You were left nothing in the will. And you are not a member of
this family--"
She grabbed her stomach. "This is a member of the family. This is the next Bradford--"
"No," Lane snapped, "that is the next Baldwine. Theoretically."
Chantal wheeled around on Lizzie. "You need to leave. This is between him and me."
Before Lizzie could respond, Lane cut in: "She can stay--or go, but it will be on her terms, not yours."
"You always did have a preference for the help."
Lane smiled coldly. "Watch yourself, Chantal. You went down that road once before and it didn't end well for you."
"Oh, yes, your 'momma.' I forgot--tell me, have you replaced Miss Aurora in the kitchen yet? Or are you going to wait until she dies."
Lizzie shook her head. "I think I will leave, actually."
"And I'm done here, as well." Lane straightened. "This is going nowhere--"
"You can't shut me out of your life, Lane! This gives me rights." Again, she put her hands on her lower belly. "This is the next generation of your family! What you couldn't give me."
As Lane went up to the woman, he tried to keep his temper under control. "You aborted my child, in case you forgot. Which I have not."
Chantal's face went red. "You gave me no choice!"
"And I don't even know if it was mine."
"How dare you."
"After what you did with my father? Really?"
As she raised her hand to slap him, he caught her wrist and held it firmly. "I'm walking out of here right now, and if you know what's good for you, you will let me go. Without. One. More. Goddamn. Word."
Lizzie ducked her head and hustled by Chantal, striding for the steps and the Rolls parked down below. The way she stared at the ground scared him. She had made it clear that his drama was not attractive or enticing in the slightest: She loved him in spite of his family, not because of his money and his position and the emotional upset that seemed to be cresting in every corner of his fricking life.
"Lizzie," he called out.
"Will you pay attention to me!" Chantal demanded. "I matter! I am important!"
With a sudden surge, Chantal jumped at him, throwing fists, kicking him, screaming and tossing her head until her hair was in his face, in his mouth. Grabbing on to her, he tried to hold her at bay, but also keep her from falling and hurting herself in those high heels.
"Chantal, will you stop--"
And that was when the flashbulb went off.
From over behind a beech tree trunk, a camera captured the altercation as fast as its shutter could blink open and closed.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, seriously--"
"Lane! Stop, Lane!"
At first, he wasn't sure who was trying to get his attention. But then he realized it was Lizzie, and he did his best to talk over Chantal. "I know, I saw the camera. Go get in the car--"
"Lane! The blood!"
"What?"
As he froze, Chantal curled up a dainty fist with her free hand and served it like a Louisville Slugger, catching him right on the jaw. The impact caused his teeth to clap together, but she wasn't done with him. Ripping her wrist free, a second shot came flying at him and nailed him in the nose, the pain like a bomb burst in the middle of his face.
Oddly, the only thing that went through his mind was those combat classes she'd taken at that health club she was a member of.
Guess they'd done more for her than just burn calories.
"Lane! The blood!"
Yes, he was bleeding and he stepped back from Chantal, bringing up his hands to his face. Meanwhile, Lizzie was right on it, coming to his defense and holding the other woman back.
"Chantal, you're bleeding! You've got to stop this! The baby!"
And that was when the cops showed up.
Yup, that was definitely a police vehicle with its lights going, coming to a halt right behind the Rolls-Royce.
Like a streaker about to get chased off the fifty-yard line, the photographer bolted from behind the tree, the man running like hell across the field of gravestones. But Lane didn't care about that.
What had Lizzie just said? What about the baby?
--
As Sutton got out of the front of the state-police vehicle, she wasn't sure what she was looking at. Yes, that was the Bradford family crypt, with its iron gating open and both brass doors wide. And yes, that was Lane Baldwine, with his Lizzie--and Chantal Baldwine, whom he was in the process of divorcing.
But the rest of it didn't make any sense.
Lane had blood running down his face and staining the shirt under his suit jacket. Worse, however, was the bright red rush on the inside of Chantal's white jeans.
Had someone been stabbed...or shot? Or...
Even though Sutton wasn't sure how to help, she rushed up the steps--and the police officer came with her.
"Chantal," Lizzie was saying, "calm down, you're bleeding!"
Whether it was the state policeman, the squad car, or the fact that there were now two more people involved, Chantal fell back into Lizzie's arms and went lax as if she had either given up...or fainted.
Lane stared at the stain on the jeans. "Oh, dear Lord..."
"What's going on here?" The state policeman who had driven Sutton over from Sanford Airport had been at the end of his shift, but now, he was clearly back on duty. "Do we need an ambulance?"
"Yes," Lizzie said urgently as she helped Chantal lie on the marble landing.
Chantal widened her thighs, looked at the brilliant red stain, and let out a scream that flushed birds from a magnolia tree. "My baby!"
Lane ripped off his jacket and put it across the woman's legs. "Call nine-one-one!"
As the policeman raced back to the squad car, Sutton crouched down. "What can I do?"
"How did you know we needed help?" Lane asked.
"Chantal," Lizzie said to the woman, "just take some deep breaths. You need to stay calm--if you want to help your baby, you have to stay calm...."
Chantal's frantic eyes were the kind of thing you never forgot. "What's happening to me? What's wrong?"
Sutton glanced at Lane and tried to remember--oh, right. "I came in from the airport. I needed a ride over here to make it on time."
"In a state-police car?"
Chantal let out a groan and then stiffened. "My baby!"
"Here." Sutton took off her loose over-shirt. "Your nose is bleeding badly."
As she held the folds out to Lane, he seemed momentarily confused. But then he took what she offered and put it to the lower half of his face.
"T-t-take me inside," Chantal stammered. "There are photographers all around here--I don't want this on the Internet!"
Lane leaned down closer. Through the muffling of the shirt, he said, "Chantal, we don't know what's going on here, so maybe we shouldn't move you--"
"This is embarrassing! I'm bleeding!"
Sutton could only shake her head. "I've got her feet."
Together, the three of them picked the woman up, carried her into the crypt, and laid her down again. Then Sutton went and closed the great brass doors.
"Is the ambulance coming?" Chantal's panic echoed inside the interior. "When is it going to be here? What is happening to me?"
Sutton took a step back and wondered if she should leave. But no, she couldn't do that. Instead, she cracked the doors and stared outside, praying for the ambulance to come--and it seemed like they were in there forever with the dead, with what possibly was another death happening in stages.
In reality, probably no more than ten minutes passed before distant sirens announced that the medics were somewhere in the twisted lanes of the cemetery.
"I see them!" she said. "They're here!"
The state policeman went forward and waved the boxy vehicle over and then Sutton stepped aside as a gurney and equipment were carried up the stairs by a woman and a man in blue uniforms.
"That's my husband," Chantal said as soon as the EMTs entered. "Lane Baldwine is my husband and I'm eleven weeks' pregnant."
"Sir," o
ne of the medics said to Lane, "can you please help me get some basic information down while my partner examines your wife?"
Without thinking about it, Sutton went over to Lizzie and whispered, "Let's step out, shall we?"
"Yes," Lizzie said roughly. "I think that would be best."
As they came out on the front step and went down to the lawn, Sutton blinked in the sunlight. She still wasn't sure why she had come. Didn't like to consider why she couldn't seem to stay away. Really wanted just about everything here to be different.
"Your timing couldn't have been better," Lizzie murmured.
"It's a little uncanny. And I know I shouldn't intrude...I mean, this is not my family. But I--"
"Oh, God--"
Lizzie wobbled on her feet, threw out an arm, and Sutton caught her just as she seemed about to fall down. "Are you okay?"
"I'm going to be sick."
Sutton glanced about and couldn't see any paparazzi, but who the hell knew. "Come over here."
Drawing Lizzie around the corner of the tomb, Sutton held the woman's hair back as Lizzie crouched and dry-heaved.
For some reason, tears came to Sutton's eyes.
Oh, who was she lying to. She knew exactly why.
Edward should have been here. And in her convoluted thinking, she had come as his proxy.
Yes, because that made sense. It wasn't like they were together or anything. Then again, she supposed that when someone was in your heart to the degree Edward was in hers, it was as if you carried them with you wherever you were. And he should have been here for them all.
"Shh..." Sutton murmured as she rubbed Lizzie's back. "It's all right...."
When the heaving relented, Lizzie collapsed on the ground, sitting against the tomb. "Oh, that's cool. That's good."
With a curse, the woman let her head fall back. Her flushed cheeks were cherry red, but her mouth was a slash of white. And then she dropped a bomb.
"I think I'm pregnant," she said in a thin voice.
"No, I'm not going in the ambulance with her." As Lane shut that idea down, he didn't care that the medics looked shocked. "We're separated. She is not my wife and that is not my child."
But he was going to go to the hospital. For one, he wanted to find out whether or not Chantal had in fact lost a baby. For another, they were taking her down to University Hospital, where Miss Aurora was, and he'd intended to visit his momma, anyway.
First, though, he had to talk to Lizzie.
As the medics got Chantal up off the cold marble floor and started strapping her onto the gurney, he left them to their job and went out. Lizzie and Sutton were down at the car, the Phantom's suicide door wide open, Lizzie sitting in the front passenger seat.