The Bourbon Kings

by J. R. Ward

  "He's cutting me off. He's stopping production."

  Lane jerked forward. "What?"

  "I got a memo the day before yesterday on my desk. I'm not allowed to buy any more corn. No corn, no mash. No mash, no more bourbon." He shrugged and took another hit of the coffee. "I shut the stills down. For the first time since the move to Canada during Prohibition . . . I stopped it all. Sure, I've got some silos that are full, but I'm not doing a goddamn thing. Not until I speak with your father and find out what the hell he's thinking. I mean, is the board up to something? Are they selling us to China and want things to look better on paper by cutting expenses? But even that doesn't make any sense--they want us to delay for six months in the middle of this bourbon boom the country is experiencing?"

  Lane stayed silent, all kinds of bad math happening in his brain.

  "I wish Edward were around." Mack shook his head. "Edward would never let this happen."

  Lane rubbed his aching head. Funny, he thought the same thing. "Well . . . he's not."

  "So, if you don't mind lending me a set of dry clothes, I'm going to go find that father of yours. To hell with your English bulldog downstairs--William Baldwine is going to see me--"

  "Mack."

  "--and explain why--"

  "Mack." Lane looked the man straight in the eye. "Can I trust you?"

  The distiller frowned. "Of course you can."

  "I need to get into the company's computer system. I need access to financials, account details, annual reports. And I need you to not say a word about it to anyone."

  "What are you--why?"

  "Can you help me?"

  Mack set the mug down. "As much as I'm able, yeah. Sure."

  "I'll meet you down by your car." Lane got to his feet. "I'm driving. Help yourself to anything but the seersucker suit in the closet--"

  "Lane. What the hell's going on here?"

  "There's a possibility that the cut-off isn't a business strategy."

  Mack frowned as if something had been spoken to him in a foreign language. "I'm sorry, what?"

  Lane looked out the window, down to the garden, to the tent. He pictured the people who would be under there in about two hours, all of them basking in the extended glory and wealth of the great Bradford family.

  "If you ever say a word about this to anyone--"

  "Really. You're warning me about that."

  Lane glanced back at his friend. "We may be out of money."

  Mack blinked. "That's not possible."

  Heading for the door, Lane said over his shoulder, "We'll see. Remember, anything but the seersucker."

  TWENTY-NINE

  The first thing Edward did when he woke up was curse. Head was pounding. Body was a patchwork of pain, nausea, and stiffness. Brain was . . .

  Surprisingly crystal clear.

  And for once, that wasn't a bad thing.

  As he gathered up the strength to get to his feet, he let images of that woman from the night before filter through his mind. He was still drunk--or pickled, was more like it--so he was able to immerse himself totally in memories of the feel, the smell, the taste of her. The context might have been fake all around, something that had been scheduled and paid for, but the experience had been . . .

  Beautiful, he supposed the word was.

  Rearranging himself in his pants, he grabbed his cane, heaved himself up, and wobbled. The bathroom was about seventeen miles away in that corner, and he--

  When he went to step forward, he kicked something across the floor.

  "What the . . . ?" Frowning, he leaned down, balancing on his cane so that he did not become yet another rug upon the floor.

  It was an evening bag.

  One of those boxy little silk-wrapped numbers with a rhinestone clasp on it.

  The woman had had it with her. He could vaguely recall thinking that it had been exactly the kind of thing Sutton would have used.

  Edward was careful as he made his way over and bent to pick the thing up. God only knew what was in it.

  Shuffling back to his armchair, he grabbed his phone off the side table. Calling Beau's number, he glanced at the clock across the way. Seven thirty. The pimp would be still up, winding down from his night shift.

  "Hello?" a rough voice said. "Edward?"

  "The lady left something at my house last night. Her bag."

  "Y'all sure about that?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Well, see, I was gonna call you. Your girl, the one what I sent, said someone was done already leaving when she got there?"

  Edward frowned, thinking maybe he wasn't quite as with it as he'd thought. "I'm sorry?" he repeated--because that was the only thing that came to him.

  "The girl I sent. She come to your place at ten o'clock, but there was another woman leaving, saying she'd taken care of you. Said she was coming back next week. I can't figure out which of my girls it was. Can you open the purse up and tell me who?"

  Total, clinical sobriety came over Edward sure as if someone had ice bucketed his head. "But of course."

  Holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, he snapped open the bag's flap, a black glossy lipstick tube jumping out and bouncing across the floorboards. There were three thin cards in there, and he bypassed the Centurion Amex and the health-insurance ID . . . and took out the driver's license.

  Sutton Smythe.

  With the correct address of her family's estate.

  "Edward? Hello? Edward, you all right, chere?"

  He must have moaned or something. "It wasn't one of your girls."

  "No?"

  "No. It was . . ." The love of his life. The woman of his dreams. The one person he had vowed not to see again. "An old friend of mine playing a trick on me."

  "Oh, that's funny." Beau chuckled. "Well, you still want someone next Friday?"

  "I'll get back to you. Thanks."

  Edward ended the call and looked over his shoulder toward the sideboard by the door. Sure enough, the thousand dollars was still there, right where he'd put it.

  "Oh . . . fuck," he whispered, closing his eyes.

  *

  After Gin hung up her phone--not with her brother, but with the person she had called after she'd spoken with Lane--she sat in front of her vanity with her head in her hands for the longest time. All she kept thinking of was that she wished she could go back to the night before last, when she'd been on the phone with that idiot from Samuel T.'s law firm, stringing him along as people did her hair and brought her diamonds.

  If only she hadn't taken the Phantom. That had been the domino that had started all the others to fall.

  Then again, her father would still have been trying to maneuver her into marrying someone she hated, and he would still have been doing whatever he had been with the money, and Rosalinda would still have killed herself.

  So actually, no, trying to escape through a reality rewind wouldn't really change anything.

  Was fifty-three million dollars a lot of money? On one level, of course it was. It was more than most people saw in a lifetime, several lifetimes, a hundred lifetimes. But was that a blip on the radar for their family? Or a crater?

  Or a Grand Canyon?

  She couldn't . . . she couldn't imagine a life of nine-to-five. Couldn't fathom budgeting. Saving. Denying.

  And that was what had happened to one whole branch of the Bradford clan. Back in the late eighties, before the stock market crash, her mother's aunt's people had bought into a bunch of bad technology and leveraged their Bradford stock to do it. When those "investments" had proven to be nothing but a black hole, they had ended up losing everything.

  It was a cautionary tale that had been whispered about by the adults when they'd assumed the children hadn't been listening.

  Getting to her feet, she let her silk robe fall to the ground and left the thing where it lay. In her wardrobe room, she walked around and looked at the hundreds of thousands of dollars in fashion, the brilliant swaths and tiny whimsies hanging from crystal holders
that had scented tufted pads so that the shoulders of dresses and blouses did not lose shape.

  She chose a red dress. Red for blood. For fighting. For the Charlemont Eagles.

  And for once, she wore a complete set of underwear.

  She also ensured that her hair looked wonderful, making up in buoyancy and bounce what her mood was sorely lacking.

  When the knock she had been waiting for finally hit her door, she was out in her bedroom proper, sitting at her dainty French desk.

  "Come in," she said.

  As Richard Pford entered, his cologne preceded him, and Gin held on to the fact that at least he smelled good. The rest of him left her cold, however. Even though his pale blue suit was cut from the finest cloth and his bow tie was perfectly done, and in spite of the bowler in his hand and the handmade shoes on his feet, he was Ichabod Crane.

  Then again, compared to Samuel T., even Joe Manganiello looked like he needed some work.

  "Let me make myself perfectly clear," she said as he shut them in together. "I am not doing this for my father. At all. But I expect you to give the favorable terms to the Bradford Bourbon Company as the two of you discussed."

  "That is my agreement with him."

  "Your agreement is with me now." She smoothed her hair. "We will live here. This is what Amelia is used to, and there is a guest room next door to this suite."

  "That is acceptable."

  "I am prepared to act as your wife at all social engagements. If you indulge in affairs, and I expect you will, please keep them discreet--"

  "I will not be having any extramarital affairs." His voice grew low. "And neither will you."

  Gin shrugged. Given the way things were going, she didn't expect herself to find any male of any interest for quite some time.

  "Did you hear me, Gin." Richard came across to her and loomed. "You will not like what happens if you disrespect me in that regard."

  Gin rolled her eyes. She had been double-crossing boyfriends for years and none of them had found out--unless she'd wanted them to. If the mood struck her, she had no intention of denying herself.

  "Gin."

  "Yes, yes, fine. Where's the ring?"

  Richard reached into his pocket and took out a dark blue velvet box. As he opened it, the emerald-cut diamond inside flashed and sparkled.

  At least he hadn't lied about that. It was enormous, on the Elizabeth Taylor scale.

  "I have already drafted the announcement," he said. "My representative will get it out to the press as soon as they hear back from me. The wedding will be as soon as possible."

  She went to take the ring, but he snapped the lid closed. "There is one other detail to iron out."

  "What is that?"

  He reached forward and touched her shoulder. "I think you know. And do not tell me to wait until the justice of the peace comes. I do not find that acceptable."

  Gin burst out of the chair. "I have no intention of sleeping with--"

  Richard grabbed her by the hair and yanked her against him. "And I have no intention of buying a Ferrari just to look at it in my garage."

  "Take your hands off me--"

  "Intimacy is a sacred part of marriage." His eyes went to her lips. "And something I am prepared to enjoy--"

  "Let go of me!"

  He began to drag her over to the bed. "--even if you do not."

  "Richard!" She punched at his shoulders, his chest. "Richard, what are you doing--I don't want--"

  As he clamped his hand over her mouth and shoved her down, his smile was that of a predator. "How did you know I like it rough? See, we are compatible, after all . . ."

  It was unfathomable what happened next. As much as she struggled, as thin as she had assumed he was, he got her skirting up and her panties to the side--

  He penetrated her on a hard shove.

  A surge of nausea went through her, but she wasn't going to demean herself by showing any weakness in front of him. Focusing on the ceiling, she let him grunt and push into her, the burning sensation deep inside making her think of the color of her dress.

  Halfway through it, she fisted up the duvet and winced.

  "Tell me you love me," Richard growled in her ear.

  "I will not--"

  Richard arched up and put his hand around her throat. As he squeezed, she began to gasp.

  "Tell me."

  "I will not!"

  Black rage narrowed his eyes and he switched grips, raising his right hand . . .

  "If you slap me, people will talk," she sneered. "I won't be able to cover the stain up, and I have to go to the brunch. My absence will be noted."

  His upper lip peeled back . . . but he dropped his hand. And fucked her so violently, the headboard slammed against the wall.

  When he was through, he shoved himself off of her and tucked himself away. "I want you to change. Red is vulgar."

  "I will not--"

  With a quick move, he grabbed the skirt and ripped it in two, right up the front. Then he jabbed his finger in her face. "You show up in something else red and we shall have words. Test me if you wish."

  Richard left, striding out and shutting the door with a declarative clap.

  It was only then that Gin started to shake, her body trembling hard, particularly her open thighs. Sitting up, she felt a welling between her legs.

  That was when she began to throw up.

  She emptied her stomach into the ruined skirt--not that she'd eaten much in the last twenty-four hours, anyway. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she felt her eyes sting, but she pulled herself back from that ledge.

  In her mind, she heard her father telling her she was worthless. That marrying Richard Pford was the only thing she would ever do for the family.

  She wasn't doing it for the family.

  As usual, she had made the decision in her own selfish interest.

  After much introspection, she had come to acknowledge a fundamental truth about herself: She couldn't survive in any other world. And Richard could give her this lifestyle she needed--even as her family might no longer be able to.

  It was going to cost her, apparently . . . but she had lost her self-respect years ago.

  To sacrifice her body at the altar of money?

  Fine. She would do what she had to.

  THIRTY

  In retrospect, it was the very best day to play Hardy Boys with a computer at the Old Site.

  As Lane parked Mack's truck behind the two-hundred-year-old cabin and the various storage barns, there was no one around. No administrators. No floor workers. No one accepting deliveries of supplies. No tourists, either.

  "That coffee helped," Mack said as they both got out.

  "Good."

  "You want some of this PowerBar?"

  "Not without a gun to my head."

  Heading over to the refurbished log cabin, Lane stood to one side as Mack put his pass card through the reader and pushed his way inside. The interior glowed with old wood carefully tended to, the light from outside passing through bubbled glass that had been added in the late 1800s. Rustic armchairs offered those waiting places to sit, and a trestle table with a lot of modern office equipment was clearly where Mack's assistant spent her time.

  "How long since you've been here?" the Master Distiller asked as he hit the light switch.

  "Actually, about a day or two." When the guy looked over, Lane shrugged. "Needed a place to think, so I went and sat around the barrels. I used the old pass code."

  "Ah. Yeah, I do that, too."

  "It didn't help."

  "Doesn't work for me, either, but maybe one day." Mack nodded to the rear of the reception area. "I'm still here in the back."

  The Distiller's office took up most of the cabin's interior, and for a moment, as Lane stepped into the space, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The M.D. of the Bradford Bourbon Company was nearly a religious figure in not just the organization, but the state of Kentucky as a whole, and that made this place sacred--accordingly,
its walls were covered from floor to ceiling with a pastiche of the company's liquor labels dating from the mid-1800s all the way up to the early 2000s.

  "God, it's just the same." Lane looked around, tracing the evidence of his family's history. "My grandfather used to take me here when they were putting it all together for the first time as a tourist site. I was five or six and he'd bring only me. I think it was because he wanted an architect in the family, and knew that Edward was company bound, and Max wasn't going to turn into anything."

  "What did you end up doing with yourself?" Mack sat down behind his desk and turned on his computer. "Last I heard you were in New York?"

  "Poker."

  "I'm sorry?"

  Lane cleared his throat, and felt inadequate. "I, ah, I play poker. Made more money than I would've if I'd gotten a desk job--considering I majored in psychology and haven't worked my entire adult life."

  "So you're good with the cards."

  "Very." He changed the subject by nodding at the walls. "Where are your labels?"

  The computer let out a beeeep, and then Mack signed in at the log-in screen. "Haven't put any up."

  "Come on, now."

  "My father's thirty-fifth run of Family Reserve, right over there"--he pointed to the far corner, by the floor--"was the last."

  Lane grabbed a chair from a conference table and rolled it across the bare, polished floorboards. "You need to get your batches counted."

  "Uh-huh." Mack sat back in the great leather throne. "So what do you need? What can I try to find for you?"

  Lane moved in next to the guy and focused on the blue-green glow of the computer screen. "Financials. I need profit and loss statements over time, account balances, transfer records."

  Mack whistled under his breath. "That's uphill of my pay grade. Corporate's got all that--wait, the board book."

  "What's that?" Jesus, shouldn't he know?

  Mack started going through the file system, opening documents, and hitting Print. "It's the materials handed out in advance of the Trustees' meetings. Senior management gets them--and so do I. Of course, the real stuff happens behind closed doors with the executive committee an hour before the open session, and there are no notes on that. But this should give you an idea of the company--or at least what they're telling the Board about the company."

  As the man started handing over page after page from the printer, Lane frowned. "What exactly goes down at the executive committee?"

  "It's where they debate the meat of things, as well as the stuff they don't want anyone else to know about. I don't think there are even minutes taken."