The Bourbon Kings

by J. R. Ward

  "That's not why. I just . . . let's get married. Please."

  Looking across at her, he frowned so deeply, his eyebrows came all the way together. "You actually sound serious."

  "I am." And she was no fool. She'd tell him about Amelia afterward, when it was harder for him to run, when there was paperwork in place to hold them together until he got over what she'd done. "You and I were meant to be together. You know it. I know it. We've been skirting around this relationship for a lifetime, maybe longer. You date waitresses and hairdressers and masseuses because they're not me. You hold every woman up to my standard and they all fail. You're obsessed with me just like I am with you. Let's stop the lie and do it right."

  He shifted his eyes back out to the hood and ran his beautiful hands around that wooden steering wheel. "Let me ask you something."

  "Anything."

  "How many men have you said that to?" He glanced back at her. "Huh? How many, Gin? How many times have you used those lines?"

  "It's the truth," she said in a voice that cracked.

  "Did you try out the pleading tone with them, too, Gin? Give them those eyes?"

  "Don't be cruel."

  After a long silence, he shook his head. "Do you remember my thirtieth birthday party? The one we had out at my farm?"

  "That has nothing to do with--"

  "It was a good surprise. I had no idea that y'all were waiting for me. I walked into my house--surprise! All those people cheering, and I looked for you--"

  She threw her hands up. "That was five years ago, Samuel! It was--"

  "Actually, it's been the whole story of our relationship, Gin. I looked for you--I went through the crowd, searching for--"

  "It didn't matter! They don't matter--"

  "--you because, like you said, I'm a sap, and you were the only person I truly wanted there. And I found you, all right. Fucking that Argentinean polo player who was a guest of Edward's on my bed."

  "Samuel--"

  "On my bed!" he thundered, slamming his fist into the dashboard. "My fucking bed, Gin!"

  "Fine, and what did you do?" She jerked forward on her hips and jabbed her finger at him. "What did you do then? You took my college roommate and her sister and had sex with them in the pool--"

  He cursed out loud. "What was I supposed to do? Let you walk all over me? I'm a man, not one of your pathetic little fuck buddies! I'm not going to--"

  "I was with the polo player because the week before you went out of your way to sleep with Catherine! I've been friends with her since I was two, Samuel. I had to sit through her going on and on about how you'd given her the orgasms of her life in the back of this very car. After you'd been with me the night before! So don't talk about how you were the one who was--"

  "Stop." Abruptly, he pushed a hand through his hair. "Stop it, stop all of--we're not going to do this anymore, Gin. We're fighting over the same dynamic we had when we were teenagers--"

  "We fight because we care and we're too proud to admit it." As he fell silent again, she had a bourgeoning hope that he was thinking things over. "Samuel, you're the only man I've ever loved. And I'm the same for you. That's just the way it is. If we need to stop anything, it's the fighting and the hurting. We're both too proud and stubborn for our own good."

  There was a long silence. "Why now, Gin."

  "It's just . . . it's time."

  "All because you were strip searched at ten a.m. this morning?"

  "Must you."

  Samuel T. shook his head. "I don't know if you're serious or not, but that is not my problem. Allow me to be perfectly clear--"

  "Samuel," she broke in. "I love you."

  And she meant it. Meant it down to her soul: The terrifying conviction that things were going to go badly for her family had taken root and spread, bringing with it a kind of clarity that she had never had before.

  Or maybe that was more . . . a courage she had been lacking. For all their years together, she had never told him how she truly felt. It had been all about posturing and one-upping. Well, and his daughter's birth--not that he knew about that yet.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  "No." He dropped his head and squeezed that wheel as if looking for some kind of strength inside of himself. "No . . . you can't do this, Gin. Not with me. Don't try to take the pretend down this deep. It's not healthy for you . . . and I don't think I'll survive it, okay? I need to function--my family needs me. I won't let you fuck with my head this much--"

  "Samuel--"

  "No!" he shouted.

  Then he looked over at her, and his pale eyes were cold and narrow, as if he were staring down an enemy. "First of all, I don't believe you, okay? I think you're lying to manipulate me. And secondly? I will not ever allow a wife of mine to disrespect me the way you will your husband. You are constitutionally incapable of monogamy, and more to the point, you're too bored to value a sustainable relationship. You and I can have a roll or two from time to time, but I will never honor a whore like you with my last name. You disparage waitresses? That's fine. But I would so much rather someone like that have my ring on her finger than a spoiled, disloyal brat like you."

  He started the engine, the sweet smell of oil and gasoline briefly flaring on the hot breeze. "I'll see you the next time I have an itch I can't scratch myself. Until then, have fun with the rest of the population."

  Gin had to put both hands over her mouth as he backed up and took off, the old-fashioned car disappearing along the long drive down the hill.

  In his wake, tears fell from her eyes, melting her mascara off--and for once she didn't care.

  She had taken her one shot with him.

  And failed.

  It was her worst nightmare come true.

  TWENTY-THREE

  "Oh, Lisa?"

  As soon as Lizzie heard the Southern drawl percolate through the conservatory, she froze--which was awkward because she was breaking down the bouquet-making tables, and had one balanced on its side.

  "Lisa?"

  Looking over, she found Lane's wife standing in the doorway like she was posing for a camera, one hand on her hip, the other pushing her hair back. She was wearing pink silk Mary Tyler Moore pants from the Laura Petrie era and a low-cut loose blouse that was sunset orange. The shoes were pointed hard in front and had little tiny heels, and topping it off? A dramatic, filmy scarf in acid yellow and green that was wrapped around her shoulders and tied over her perfect breasts.

  All in all, the whole thing created an impression of Fresh, Lovely, and Tempting--and made someone who was Tired, Anxious, and Stressed feel deficient not just on a hair and wardrobe level, but down to molecular genetics.

  "Yes?" Lizzie said as she went back to pounding on one of the legs to collapse it.

  "Could you please stop that? It's very loud."

  "My pleasure," Lizzie gritted out.

  For some reason, as that woman played with her goldilocks, the flashing of the big diamond on her left hand was like somebody dropping the F-bomb repeatedly.

  Chantal smiled. "I need your help for a party."

  Can we just get through tomorrow first? "My pleasure."

  "It's a party for two." Chantal smiled as she loosened that scarf and came in further. "Oh, my, it's hot in here. Can you do anything about that?"

  "The plants do better in the warmth."

  "Oh." She swept her wrap off and put it down beside some of the bouquets that were going to be placed in the public rooms of the house. "Well."

  "You were saying?"

  That smile came back. "It's Lane's and my anniversary soon, and I'd like to do something special."

  Lizzie swallowed hard--and wondered if this was some kind of sick game. Had the woman heard something through the door upstairs? The walls? "I thought you were married in July?"

  "How kind of you to remember. You're so thoughtful." Chantal tilted her head to the side and locked eyes as if they were having a moment. "We were married in July, but I have some special news to share with hi
m, and I thought we could celebrate a little early."

  "What were you thinking?"

  Lizzie didn't track much as all kinds of ideas were thrown out. The only thing that stuck was "romantic" and "private." Like Chantal was looking forward to giving her husband a lap dance.

  "Lisa? Are you writing this down?"

  Well, no, because I don't have a pen and paper in my hand, do I? And PS, I think I'm going to vomit. "I'm happy to do whatever you want."

  "You are so helpful." The woman nodded toward the garden and the tent outside. "I know everything is going to be beautiful tomorrow."

  "Thank you."

  "And we can talk more later. But again, I'm thinking a romantic dinner in a suite downtown at the Cambridge Hotel. You can provide the flowers and special decorations--I want to drape everything in fabric so that it's as if we're in an exotic place, just the two of us."

  "All right."

  Had Lane lied to her? And if he had . . . well, she could have Greta take care of everything at The Derby Brunch while she stayed at her farm with a gallon of chocolate ice cream.

  Except she and her partner weren't speaking.

  Fantastic.

  "You're the best." Chantal checked her diamond watch. "It's about time for you to go home, isn't it? Big day tomorrow--you're going to need your beauty rest. Bye for now."

  When Lizzie was alone again, she sat down on one of the overturned buckets and put her hands on her thighs, rubbing up and down.

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.

  Greta was right, she thought. She wasn't on the level of these people, and not because she was just a lowly gardener. They played a game she could only lose.

  Time to head out, she decided. Beauty sleep wasn't going to happen, but at least she could try and get her head on straight before the bomb went off in the morning.

  Getting up, she was about to leave when she saw that scarf. The last thing she wanted to do was deliver the piece of silk back to Chantal like she was a Labrador returning a tennis ball to its owner. But the thing was right next to all those bouquets, and knowing her luck, something would leak or drop on it and she'd have to save up three months of paychecks to buy a new one.

  Chantal's wardrobe was more expensive than whole neighborhoods in Charlemont.

  Picking the thing up, she thought the woman couldn't have gone far in those stupid kitten-heeled shoes.

  It was not going to be difficult to track her down.

  *

  Gin was still standing underneath the magnolia tree where Samuel T. had left her when a vehicle came up the winding front drive. It wasn't until the SUV stopped in front of her that she realized it was from the Washington County Sheriff's department.

  Good God, what was her father trying to get her arrested for now: Courtesy of this morning's awful field trip downtown, her first instinct was to run, but she was in high heels, and if she really wanted to get away from the officer, she was going to have to bolt through a flower bed.

  Breaking her leg was not going to help her in jail.

  Deputy Mitchell Ramsey got out with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Ma'am," he said, nodding at her. "How are you?"

  He didn't take out any handcuffs. Didn't seem more than politely interested in her.

  "Are you here for me?" she blurted.

  "No." His dark eyes narrowed. "Are you okay?"

  No, not at all, Deputy. "Yes, thank you."

  "If you'll excuse me, ma'am."

  "So you've not come for me?"

  "No, ma'am." He walked up to the front door and started to ring the bell. "I have not."

  Maybe it had to do with Rosalinda?

  "Here," she said, going over to him. "Do come in. Are you looking for my brother?"

  "No, is Chantal Baldwine at home?"

  "Most likely." She opened the grand door, and the deputy took his hat off again as he entered. "Let me find--oh, Mr. Harris. Will you please take this gentleman to my sister-in-law?"

  "My pleasure," the butler said with a bow. "This way, sir. I believe she's in the conservatory."

  "Ma'am," the deputy murmured to her, before striding away after the Englishman.

  "Well, this should be interesting," came a dry voice from the parlor.

  She pivoted around. "Lane?"

  Her brother was standing in front of the painting of Elijah Bradford, and he lifted his squat glass. "Cheers to my divorce."

  "Really." Gin walked in and got busy at the bar because she didn't want Lane to focus on her red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. "Well, at least I won't have to take Mother's jewelry off her neck anymore. Good riddance, and I'm surprised you don't want to enjoy the show."

  "I've got bigger problems."

  Gin took her bourbon and soda over to the sofa and kicked her stilettos off. Tucking her legs under her seat, she stared up at her brother.

  "You look terrible," she said. As bad as she felt, actually.

  He sat down across from her. "This is going to be rough, Gin. The money thing. I think this is really serious."

  "Maybe we can sell stock. I mean, you can do that, right? I have no idea how all this works."

  And for the first time in her life, she wished she did.

  "It's complicated because of the trust situation."

  "Well . . . we'll be all right." When her brother didn't say anything, she frowned. "Right? Lane?"

  "I don't know, Gin. I really don't know."

  "We've always had money."

  "Yes, that has been true."

  "You make it sound past tense."

  "Don't kid yourself, Gin."

  Leaning her head back, she stared up at the high ceiling, imagining her mother laying in that bed of hers. Was that going to be her own future, too? she wondered. Was she some day going to retire and pull the curtains so that she could live in a drug haze?

  Certainly sounded appealing at the moment.

  God, had Samuel T. really turned her down?

  "Gin, have you been crying?"

  "No," she said smoothly. "Just allergies, dear brother. Just spring allergies . . ."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lizzie hustled out of the conservatory with Chantal's fragrant wrap, all the perfume on the floaty fabric thick in her nose, making her want to sneeze. Funny, she could be surrounded by a thousand real blooms, but this fancy, falsely curated stuff was enough to send her over the Claritin edge.

  Off in the distance, she heard Chantal's unmistakable Virginian drawl and headed in the direction of the dining room to--

  "What is this?" Chantal demanded.

  Lizzie stopped short and leaned around the heavy molding of the archway.

  At the head of the long, glossy table, Chantal was standing next to a uniformed sheriff's deputy who'd apparently just given her a thick envelope.

  "You have been served, ma'am." The deputy nodded. "Have a good day--"

  "What do you mean 'served.' What does that--no, you're not leaving until I open this." She ripped the envelope apart. "You can stay right there while I . . ."

  The papers came out in a bundle that had been folded three times, and as the woman unfurled them, Lizzie's heart pounded.

  "Divorce?" Chantal said. "Divorce?"

  Lizzie rolled out of sight and went flush against the wall. Closing her eyes, she hated how relieved she felt, she really did. But it wasn't like she could pretend that not being a fool for a second time wasn't a good thing.

  "This is a divorce petition!" Chantal's voice grew sharp. "Why are you doing this!"

  "Ma'am, my job is to serve the papers. Now that you've accepted them--"

  "I do not accept them!" There was a fluttering sound as if she might have actually thrown them at the man. "You take them back--"

  "Ma'am," the deputy barked. "I'm going to advise you to pick those papers off the floor--or don't. But any more of that and I'll drag you down to the courthouse strapped to the hood of my patrol vehicle just for getting aggressive with an officer of the peace. Are we clear. Ma'am."
<
br />   Cue the waterworks.

  Between sniffles and what had to be a heaving bosom, Chantal backpedaled at a dead run. "My husband loves me. He doesn't mean this. He's--"

  "Ma'am, that is none of my business and none of my concern. Good day."

  Heavy footsteps sounded out and drifted away.

  "Goddamn it, Lane," the woman hissed with perfect diction.

  Guess the acting happened only when there was an audience.

  Without warning, the clip-clip-clip of those kitten heels across the floor headed in Lizzie's direction. Crap, there was no time to get out of the--

  Chantal rounded the corner and jumped back when she saw Lizzie.

  Even though the woman had turned on the waterworks for that deputy, her eyes were clear and free of tears, her makeup not marred in the slightest.

  Instant. Rage.

  "What are you doing!" Chantal hollered, her body quivering. "Eavesdropping!"

  Lizzie held out the scarf. "I was bringing this to you--"

  Chantal snatched the wrap. "Get out of here. Get out! Get out!"

  And you do not have to ask twice, Lizzie thought as she wheeled away and gunned for the great outdoors.

  As she cut through the tent and weeded around the tables and chairs, she took out her phone and texted Lane a cheerful, No-big-deal, I'm-heading-home-after-a-long-day message.

  God knew that man was going to have a lot on his hands as soon as Chantal found him.

  The good news, at least for Lizzie?

  No anniversary party to plan.

  And Lane had been true to his word.

  It was hard to stop a small smile from surfacing on her face. And when it refused to go away, she let the thing stay where it was.

  *

  Lane's phone let out an electronic bing! just as Chantal marched by the parlor, screaming his name as she headed for the grand staircase. He did nothing to tip off his whereabouts, just let her go upstairs to cause whatever scene was going to roll out in front of the closed door of his empty bedroom.

  Funny, just a few hours before, the fact that she was on the warpath would have been an issue he'd have dealt with. Now? It was down oh, so low on his list of priorities.

  "I need to go see Edward," Lane said without bothering to check who had texted him.

  Gin shook her head. "I wouldn't. He's not well, and the news you will share can only make things worse."