The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (15 page)

“I’m here to refresh your bathroom.”

What he was
not
used to when he was working was a twenty-something blonde in a maid’s uniform standing in the doorway of the Four Seasons–worthy bedroom suite that was serving as his office.

Well, at least not a woman that some misogynist a-hole in the cesspool he worked in hadn’t ordered up from an escort service.

Oh, and with her heavy Southern accent, all that had come out as “Ahhhhhm heeyr to rafrash ya bathrum.”

That
stack of white towels in her arms was like a summer cloud captured on earth and she smelled amazing, some kind of girlie perfume crossing the distance and offering a caress as if she were stroking him. Her face was the sort that its youth was its most attractive attribute, but her eyes were an amazing cornflower blue—and her body turned that actual uniform into something that could have passed at Halloween for a naughty maid.

“You know where it is,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.”

He watched the back view as she sauntered by as if she were naked—and she left the door wide open as she futzed around at his sink … then bent down low to search for something in the cabinet. That skirt of hers rode up so much, the lace tops on her thigh highs flashed.

Craning around, she looked at him. “My name’s Tiphanii. With a
ph
in the middle and two
i
’s on the end. Are you leaving?”

“What?”

She straightened and leaned back against the marble counter, bracing her hands on either side of her hips so that the top of her uniform stretched open. “Your bags are gettin’ all packed?”

Jeff glanced over at the bed. On it, the duffels he’d stuffed full of his things were wide open, clothes spilling out of them like soldiers with knife wounds to the gut. And the stuff was going to stay that way. His OCD stopped at spreadsheets and columns of numbers. He didn’t care what condition his shit was in when he got back home to Manhattan. That was what they made dry cleaners for.

Jeff refocused on the maid. “I have to go back to work.”

“Is it true you’re from Manhattan? New York City?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been.” She rubbed her legs together as if she had a need she wanted him to know about. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

And then she just stared at him.

This was not a good idea, Jeff thought as he got up and walked across the Oriental carpet. This was
really
not a good idea.

Stepping
into the bathroom, he shut the door behind himself. “I’m Jeff.”

“I know. We all know who you are. You’re that friend of Lane’s.”

He put his forefinger on the base of her throat. “Word travels fast.”

On a slow trail, he traced her soft skin down into the V that was made by the lapels of the uniform. In response, she started to breathe heavily, her breasts pumping.

“I’m here to take care of you,” she whispered.

“Are you.”

The uniform was gray with a white collar and white pearlescent buttons—and as he rested his fingertip on the top one, his erection throbbed behind his fly. It had been a brutal seventy-two hours, full of nothing but numbers crunching, headaches, and bad news. This very clear offer was like rain falling on parched earth, as far as he was concerned.

Jeff undid the first button. The second. The third. Her bra was black, just like the thigh highs.

Bending down, he kissed her neck, and as she arched back, he slipped his arm around her waist. Condom. He needed a condom—and knowing Lane’s old reputation, there had to be one around here …

As he pulled the top of the uniform wide and released the front clasp of her bra, her tight nipples were exposed and oh, yeah, they were perfect. And at the same time, he looked around her and opened the first of the drawers.

Good job, he thought as he found a three-pack of bright blue foiled Trojans.

Next thing he knew, he had the maid naked except for the thigh highs. She was magnificent, all real breasts and good hips, supple thighs and sweet flesh. He stayed clothed, and slipped one of those condoms on without losing a beat.

Tiphanii, with two
i
’s at the end, knew exactly how to wrap her legs around and lock her ankles behind his hips, and oh, yeah, the sound she made in his ear. Planting one palm next to the antique mirror on the wall and holding her waist with the other, he started thrusting. As she grabbed on to his shoulders, he closed his eyes.

It
was so damned good. Even though this was anonymous, and obviously the result of his foreigner status making him seem exotic. Sometimes, though, you had to take advantage of what crossed your path.

She found her release before he did. Or at least she put a show on as if she did; he wasn’t sure and wasn’t bothered if it was an act.

His orgasm was for real, though, powerful and racking, a reminder that, at least for him, flesh and blood was better than the alternative every time.

When he was finished, Tiphanii snuggled up to his chest as he caught his breath.

“Mmm,” she whispered into his ear. “That was good.”

Yes, it was, he thought as he pulled out.

“Then let’s do it again,” he groaned as he picked her up and headed for the bed.

D
ownstairs in the parlor, Lane let Ricardo Monteverdi talk everything out even though Lane knew exactly how much was owed and how much of an emergency it was going to be for Monteverdi if those millions weren’t paid back.

A glass of Family Reserve helped pass the time—and cut the retinal burn from that photograph of Rosalinda’s son. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the face, the build of the body—

“And your brother was not helpful.”

Okay, so the speech was wrapping up. “Edward isn’t really involved in the family anymore.”

“And he calls himself a son—”

“Watch yourself,” Lane bit out. “Any insult against my brother is an offense to me.”

“Pride can be an expensive luxury.”

“So is professional integrity. Especially if it’s built on falsity.” Lane toasted the man with his bourbon. “But we digress. I haven’t been back here for two years, and there is a lot to wrestle with in light of my father’s unfortunate demise.”

There
was a pause, during which Monteverdi was clearly calibrating his approach. When the man finally spoke again, his voice was both smooth and aggressive at the same time. “You must understand that this loan has to be paid back now.”

Funny, there had been two weeks only a week ago. Guess the Prospect Trust board had gotten wind of something, or somebody had caught the trail of the loan.

Lane had wondered how the guy had managed to make the deal without getting caught.

“The will is being probated,” Lane said, “and I don’t have access to any of the family accounts except for my own as I have no power of attorney for my mother, and my father named his personal attorney, Babcock Jefferson, as his executor. If you’re looking to be paid, you should be talking to Mr. Jefferson.”

When Monteverdi cleared his throat, Lane thought, Ahhhh, so the man had gone that route already and been shut down.

“I should think, Lane, that you’d prefer to take a more personal interest in this.”

“And why is that?”

“You have enough to keep out of the press as it is.”

“My father’s death is already on the news.”

“That is not to which I refer.”

Lane smiled and got up, heading back to the bar set-up on its brass cart. “Tell me something, how are you going to release the information that my family is broke and not send yourself up the river?” He glanced over his shoulder. “I mean, let’s get it all out in the open, shall we? You’re threatening me with some kind of reveal, and even if it’s an anonymous tip on your part, how exactly is that going to play out for you when your board learns about this loan you and my father thought up together? We’re not a good bet right now, and you must have known that going into the loan. You have access to all the trust information. You knew damn well how much was, and was not, in those accounts of ours.”

“Well, I would think you’d want to spare your mother the ignominy of—”

“My
mother hasn’t been out of bed for almost three years. She’s not reading the newspaper, and the only guests she has are her nurses—all of whom will adhere to any gag order I give them or they’ll lose their jobs. Tell me, did you try that one out on my brother, too, when you spoke with him? I don’t imagine it got you very far at all.”

“I did nothing but help out an old friend. Your family, however, will not survive the scandal—and you must know that your mother’s trust is severely depleted. Unbeknownst to me, your father made a withdrawal of nearly the entire corpus a day before he died. There is less than six million remaining in it. Your sister’s trust is gone. Your brother Max’s trust is empty. Edward’s assets are at zero. And lest you think this is all our mismanagement, your father became the trustee on all of them as soon as he had your mother declared incompetent. And before you ask me why we allowed him to do what he did, I will remind you that he was acting within his legal rights.”

Well. Wasn’t all that a lovely little news flash. Sixty-eight million had seemed like a big deal. And then the hundred and forty million. And now …

Hundreds of millions were gone.

Lane turned his back to Monteverdi as he lifted his glass. He didn’t want the other man to see his hands shake.

The six million in his mother’s trust was a fortune to most people. But with Easterly’s household expenses alone, that figure would be gone in half a year.

“I would have explained this to your brother,” Monteverdi murmured, “but he wasn’t inclined to listen.”

“You went to him first and then to Babcock.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Did Babcock tell you where my father put all the money?” Lane shook his head. “Never mind. If he had, you wouldn’t be here.”

Lane’s brain skipped around, and then he looked at the liquor bottle he’d just had in his palm.

At least he knew where he could get his hands on some cash.

“How much time will ten million buy me?” he heard himself say.

“You
don’t have that—”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

“I can give you another week. But I’ll need a wire. By tomorrow afternoon.”

“And that will reduce the debt to forty-three million.”

“No. That is the price for me risking my reputation for your family. The debt level will remain the same.”

Lane shot a glare over his shoulder. “Aren’t you a gentleman.”

The distinguished man shook his head. “This is not personal, Mr. Baldwine. It’s business. And from a business perspective, I can … delay things for a short period of time.”

Thanks, you bastard, Lane thought. “You’ll get your blood money. Tomorrow.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

After the man gave him the details of where the funds needed to go, Monteverdi bowed at the waist and showed himself to the exit. In the quiet that followed, Lane took out his phone.

He knew where to get the money. But he was going to need some help.

“I
need you to do this.”

As
Edward held the receiver to his ear, his brother Lane’s voice was grim—and so was the news. Everything gone. Trusts drained dry. Accounts wiped out. Generations of wealth dematerialized.

“Edward? You have to go see her.”

For some reason, Edward glanced around into the kitchen proper. Shelby was at the stove, stirring something in a pot that smelled shockingly good.

“Edward.” Lane cursed. “Hello?”

Shelby had a strand of hair that had gotten loose from her ponytail, and she shoved it behind her ear like it was irritating her as she stared down into the soup. Stew. Sauce. Whatever it was.

She had changed her jeans, but not her boots, her shirt but not her fleece. She was always covered up, he noted absently, as if she were cold.

When had he started to catch these little things about her?

“Fine,” Lane snapped. “I’ll go and take care of it—”

“No.” Edward shifted his weight and turned away from the kitchen. “I’ll go.”

“I
need the wire by tomorrow. Monteverdi gave me the routing and account numbers. I’ll text them to you.”

“I don’t have a cell phone. I’ll let you know where to send the account details.”

“Fine. There’s another thing, though.” There was a pause. “They found something. Of Father’s. I tried to call you earlier.”

“Oh? A little piece of the man left behind? Does it have a monetary value? We could use any help we can get.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“You just told me that there is no money anywhere, essentially. Fairly reasonable optimism given the cash constraints.”

There was another period of quiet. And then Lane explained what had been found in an ivy bed.

When Edward said nothing, his brother muttered, “You don’t seem surprised. About any of this, actually.”

Edward’s eyes went to the drapes that were pulled over the windows.

“Hello?” Lane said. “You knew, didn’t you. You knew the money was gone, didn’t you.”

“I had my suspicions.”