The Bourbon Kings

by J. R. Ward

  Heading for the conservatory through back channels, she tossed out the tangle in her brain and focused on what she had to do. After the flowers were finally finished, she could put the tablecloths out because there was no chance of rain or wind before the brunch tomorrow. And she was usually in charge of getting all the glassware and plates where they needed to be at the bars and food service stations around the garden. Greta was due in--

  "Good morning."

  Lizzie froze with her hand on the conservatory's door.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she met Lane's eyes. He was sitting off to the side in an armchair, legs crossed at the knee, elbows on the rests, long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing the night before and his hair was a mess, as if he'd slept somewhere other than his bed.

  "Waiting for me?" she heard herself say as her heart pounded.

  *

  Up in her bedroom, Gin fisted a Prada blouse and crammed the thing into the corner of her Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase. "Tissue paper . . . you're supposed to put tissue paper in here. Where is . . ."

  Going on the hunt, she found the pastel pink sheets with her initials stamped on them in a large, flat drawer in her wardrobe room. Back at where she was packing, she licked her forefinger, peeled one free and a waft of Coco tickled her nose--because her maid had sprayed each one individually when they'd arrived. Stuffing the delicate paper around the wad of silk, she backed that up with a McQueen skirt.

  Repeating the process until she had four outfits in there, she leaned back and checked out her work. Horrible. Nothing like what Blanche did for her, but she was not waiting until that woman came in for her shift at noon.

  Gin was in the process of closing things up when she realized she had no underwear, no shoes, no bra, no toiletries.

  She took out a second LV roller, and screwed the tissue paper.

  What did she care, anyway. She was just going to buy whatever else she wanted.

  When she was finished, she picked up the house phone over by her bed, dialed Rosalinda's office, and couldn't believe it as voice mail kicked in. "Where the hell is that woman--"

  A quick glance at the Cartier clock on her desk and she discovered it was just eight-thirty. God, she hadn't been up this early in how long?

  Arrangements for the jets could also be made through her father's executive assistant--and that robot was always at her desk. But Gin didn't want him to know she was leaving until she was halfway to California, and undoubtedly his bulldog in a skirt would hop right on the phone to him if she called.

  God, that expression on his face last night had made her blood run cold. She'd never seen him so furious.

  But, again, she was nothing if not her father's daughter: As with hatred, two were going to play at this game of chicken.

  Ten minutes later, Gin pulled out the handles on her luggage and tripped over the damn things as she rolled herself out into the corridor. With her matching monogrammed bag slapping against her side and one of her heels popping out of the back of her Louboutins as she shut her door, she cursed the lack of a bellman.

  But she didn't trust that butler, either.

  As a matter of fact, she trusted no one in the house.

  Before she took the elevator down to the basement level, she went to Amelia's room and opened the door up.

  For the first time, the decor truly registered on her.

  The pink and white canopied bed was a queen size even though her daughter barely weighed more than a pillow, and there were no Taylor Swift or One Direction posters on the walls. The vanity was French and antique, the en suite bathroom was marble and brass that was sixty years old, and the chandelier in the center was Baccarat and suspended on a silk-sheathed chain below a handmade, gold-leafed medallion.

  It was more the suite of a fifty-year-old than someone who was fifteen.

  Sixteen, as of last night, Gin reminded herself.

  Tiptoeing across the needlepoint rug, she took her favorite picture of her dark-haired little girl, who was now not so dark haired as she was getting blond highlights every six weeks and hardly so little given that she was a sophomore at Hotchkiss.

  The mere thought of her daughter made leaving Easterly feel even more right. She had two friends waiting for her in Montecito, and she'd stay out there until the point had been made that her father might run a billion-dollar-a-year corporation but he was not in charge of her. After that? She would come back here just so he could see her on a regular basis and realize his mistake.

  Out in the hallway again, she kept the cursing to a minimum as she hobbled down to the elevator and loaded herself in. She broke a nail punching repeatedly at the door-closing button, and nearly snapped one of her stiletto heels off when she got off on the cellar level and had to pull the suitcases out.

  She had no idea which way to go. Where the garages were. How to orientate herself underground.

  It took her nearly twenty minutes to find the tunnel that ran out to where the fleet of cars was, and when she surfaced in the ten-bay facility, she felt like she'd not just run a marathon, but won it.

  Except no car keys. Not in the Bentley. Not in the Drophead. And she wasn't taking the Porsche GTS or the Ferrari thingy or that ancient Jaguar that was like Samuel T.'s--because they were all stick shifts that she couldn't drive. Same with the 911s and the Spyker.

  And the Mercedes sedans weren't good enough for her.

  "Damn it!" As she stamped her foot, one of her rolling cases fell over like it had fainted. "Where are the keys?"

  Abandoning the luggage, she marched down toward the office space. Which was locked. As were the garage doors.

  This was totally unacceptable.

  Taking out her cell phone, she was about to dial--well, she didn't know who, but someone--when the lockbox over against the wall caught her eye. Going across to the three-foot-by-one-foot metal door, she pulled at the toggle, and was unsurprised when it didn't budge.

  The good news? She really felt like hitting something.

  Looking around, she saw nothing out of place. From car covers, to spare tires, to cleaning supplies, everything was arranged down the wall with military precision in shelving, on hooks, under container lids.

  Except for the crowbar she found leaning against a neat stack of chamois cloths that were monogrammed with the family crest.

  Gin smiled as she clip-clip-clipped her way over and hefted the hunk of metal up. Back at the lockbox, she swung the thing above her head and had at the key storage like it was her father's head, hitting, hitting, hitting, the sharp ringing sounds stinging her ears.

  Even though she had almost no nail tips left by the time she was finished, that cover was hanging open from its one remaining hinge.

  The Bentley, she decided.

  No, the Rolls. It cost more.

  Taking her luggage to the Phantom Drophead, she opened the suicide door, shoved the suitcases into the back seat and got behind the wheel. Then she punched her high-heeled shoe into the brake, hit the start/stop button, and the engine flared to life with a latent growl.

  Reaching up to the rearview mirror, she pushed every button there was until the door in front of her rose up.

  And she was off.

  The bitch in her made her want to take the front road down so that she passed by the house's family rooms, but it was more important for her to get off the property without anyone knowing--so she settled for flipping her middle finger off at Easterly in that rearview mirror as she used the staff lane.

  When she got to River Road, she hung a left, checked the clock and got out her phone. Rosalinda had to be in by now, and she could finally make the arrangements for a jet--which wouldn't be a problem. Gin called for a plane once a week or more.

  Voice mail. Again.

  The damn brunch. She forgot. All the staff were distracted.

  But she had needs.

  Gin dialed another number, one that was just a single digit different from Rosalinda's. On th
e third ring, she was about to give up when the unmistakable British accent of that butler came over the connection.

  "Mr. Harris speaking, how may I help you?"

  "I need a plane and I can't reach Rosalinda. You're going to have to arrange it now--leaving ASAP going to LAX."

  The butler cleared his throat. "Miss Baldwine, forgive me--"

  "Do not tell me you're too busy. You can make the phone call to the pilots directly, you've done it before, and then you can go back to whatever brunch-related stupidity--"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Baldwine, but there will not be a plane available for you."

  "Are you kidding me." No doubt because of all the corporate guests coming in for the Derby. But she was family, for godsakes. "Fine, just delay someone else and I'll--"

  "That will not be possible."

  "I am first priority!" The Phantom picked up speed as she stomped on the accelerator--at least until she nearly rammed the car in front of her. "This is unacceptable. You call that control tower, or that list of pilots or . . . whatever you need to do and get me a fucking plane to the West Coast!"

  There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, Miss Baldwine, but I will not be able to provide that service to you."

  A cold warning tightened the back of her neck. "What about later this morning."

  "That will not be possible."

  "This afternoon."

  "I'm sorry, Miss Baldwine."

  "What did my father tell you?"

  "It is not my place to comment on--"

  "What the fuck did he tell you!" she screamed into her phone.

  The exhale the man released was as close as he was going to come to cursing out loud. "This morning, I received a memo addressed to the controller and myself, indicating that the resources of the family would no longer be made available to you."

  "Resources . . .?"

  "And that includes petty cash, bank accounts, travel and hotel accommodations, and access to the other Bradford properties around the world."

  Now her foot slipped off the accelerator, and when the car behind her began to sound its horn, she eased off onto the side of the road.

  "I wish there were something I could do to be of aid," he said in a flat tone that suggested that was, in fact, not the case. "But as I stated, I am unable to assist you."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Perhaps coming home would be best. I just saw you leave in the Rolls-Royce."

  "I'm not marrying Richard Pford," she said, and then ended the call.

  As she stared out through the windshield, the jagged skyscrapers of downtown seemed daunting for the first time in her life. She had never been impressed with the city of Charlemont before, having been around the world several times. But all that travel had occurred when she had had unlimited resources at her disposal.

  With a shaking hand, she took out her wallet and popped the flap. She had five one-hundred-dollar bills and a couple of twenties . . . and seven credit cards, including an Amex Centurion. No driver's license because she always took a chauffeur. No health insurance card because she used concierge physicians affiliated with the Bradford Bourbon Company. No passport, but she hadn't planned on leaving the country.

  Two hundred yards up on the left, there was a gas station, and she put the Phantom in drive and jerked out into the rush-hour traffic. When she got to the Shell sign, she cut in front of an oncoming truck and stopped next to one of the sets of gas pumps.

  When she got out, it was not to pump fuel. The tank was full.

  She took out a random Visa card, put it into the reader and pulled the plastic free. Punched in her zip code. Waited to see if the hypothetical transaction was accepted.

  Not Approved.

  She tried her Amex and got the same response from the computer. When two more Visas didn't work, she stopped.

  He'd killed her cards.

  Back behind the wheel, everything went blurry. There were trust funds all over the place, money that was hers . . . but only in two years, when she turned thirty-five, and not one moment before then--something she'd learned when she'd tried to buy a house in London last year on a whim and been turned down by her father: No matter how much she had yelled at her trust company, they'd refused to disperse any funds, stating that she was not allowed access to them until she met the age criteria.

  There was only one place she could think of to go.

  She hated begging, but it was better than that marriage--or admitting defeat to her father.

  Once again in drive, she barged back into traffic and headed in the direction she'd come in. She was not returning to Easterly, however. She was going to--

  All at once, the car went dead. Everything stopped--the engine, the air-conditioning, the dashboard lights. The only things that worked were the steering and the brakes.

  As she jabbed at the start/stop button, she watched her frantic, impotent action from a distance, noticing absently how ragged her fingernails were, the ends snapped off, the perfect cherry-red lacquer chipped. Forced to admit the engine wasn't coming back on, she jerked over to the side of the road so she wasn't rear-ended and--

  Sirens sounded out in the distance and she looked up into the rearview mirror.

  The Charlemont Metro Police car that pulled in behind her kept its lights on as it skidded to a halt. And then a second unit settled onto the shoulder in front and backed up until the Phantom was blocked in.

  Both officers approached her with their hands on their holstered guns, as if they were unsure whether they were going to need to use the weapons.

  "Get out of the vehicle, ma'am," the taller one said in a commanding voice.

  "This is my car!" she hollered through all the closed windows. "You have no right to--"

  "This vehicle is Mr. William Baldwine's, and you are not authorized to use it."

  "Oh, my God . . ." she whispered.

  "Get out of the car, ma'am--"

  Shit, she didn't have her license. "I'm his daughter!"

  "Ma'am, I'm ordering you to unlock your doors and vacate the vehicle. Otherwise I'm going to charge you with resisting arrest. As well as operating a stolen vehicle."

  SIXTEEN

  "Of course I've been waiting for you." As soon as Lane spoke, he put out his palms to Lizzie, all hold-up, wait-a-minute. "But only as a friend. Who wanted to make sure you got into work okay."

  Damn, she looked good. She was once again in her black Easterly polo and pair of khaki shorts, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail . . . but somehow, she seemed exotically beautiful.

  Then again, it had been over twelve hours since he'd seen her.

  A lifetime, really.

  As she rolled her eyes, he caught her trying to hide a smile. "I've done the drive a few times, you know," she said.

  "And how was it this morning?"

  There was a pause . . . and then something magical happened. Lizzie burst out laughing.

  Covering her mouth, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but you look like hell. Your hair is all--" She waved a hand around his head. "--a mess, your eyes are barely open, and are you aware that you're weaving back and forth even though you're sitting down?"

  He grinned. "You should see the other guy."

  "Tough, was he?"

  "His hood ornament is now his earring." Lane lifted up an arm and flexed his biceps. "Real man over here--"

  As a set of sharp footfalls came toward them, Lizzie glanced over her shoulder and muttered something under her breath.

  Turned out it was that English butler making a beeline for her--except the guy pulled up short as he saw Lane.

  "Will you excuse us, Lane," Lizzie said quietly. "I've got to work something out here."

  "Work out what?" he asked the butler.

  The Englishman smiled in a way reminiscent of a mannequin at a men's store. "Nothing that you need to be concerned with, Mr. Baldwine. Miss King, if you would be so kind as to come to my office when you are finished with--"

  "What's happened?" Lane demanded.
>
  "Just a misunderstanding," Lizzie muttered.

  "About. What."

  Lizzie focused on Mr. British Holier Than Thou. "The champagne flute order was cut, and he thinks I called Mackenzie's and changed it, but I didn't. I'm happy to help with setup when the stemware and plates arrive, but I'm not responsible for coordinating any of that part of the order. The tents and tables are my job, and they're exactly what and where they need to be."

  Mr. Harris's eyes narrowed. "This is a conversation best conducted in my--"

  "So it has nothing to do with her." Lane smiled coldly at the butler. "And you're done here."

  Lizzie put a hand on his arm, and the contact was such a surprise, it actually shut him up. "It's okay. Again, I'm happy to do whatever I can to help. Mr. Harris, do you want me to go speak with Mackenzie's and try to figure out how to fix this snafu?"

  The butler glanced back and forth between them. "I know what I ordered. What I cannot explain is why only half the count arrived here."

  "Look, I don't want to tell you your business," Lizzie said. "But mistakes on their end have happened before. What we need to do is find out what else is missing and give them a call. It shouldn't be a problem--did you put the order in personally or go through Rosalinda?"

  "I utilized Ms. Freeland, and I gave her the proper counts."

  Lizzie frowned. "She knows how much we order. She's done this for years."

  "She assured me all would be taken care of. I assumed that the only explanation was someone else on the account reduced the number."

  "You go find her, and I'll get Greta and start counting through everything. We'll get this sorted--at least we found out today and not tomorrow morning."

  There was an awkward moment during which the butler said nothing--and Lane wondered how much of the very reasonable plan he was going to have to cram down the little dictator's throat.

  "Very well," the butler said. "Your assistance is much appreciated."

  As Mr. Harris walked away, Lizzie took a deep breath. "And so we enter the T-minus twenty-four hours stage of things."

  "Can't some of the other staff do the counting? It's not your problem."

  "It's all right. At least if Greta and I do it, I know it's right. Besides, everyone else on Easterly's staff is swamped, and it's not like the adjunct chefs can spare--"

  Lane's phone started ringing, and he took it out of his pocket to silence the noise. "Who the hell is this?" he asked when he saw the local area code.