The Bourbon Kings #1 (2 page)

That was lighted.

In case you needed to work on your chip shot at one a.m.

As far as she had heard, the enormous parcel had been granted to the family back in 1778, after the first of the Bradfords had come south from Pennsylvania with the then Colonel George Rogers Clark—and brought both his ambitions and his bourbon-making traditions into the nascent commonwealth. Fast forward almost two hundred fifty years, and you had a Federal mansion the size of a small town up on that hill, and some seventy-two people working on the property full- and part-time.

All of whom followed a feudal rules and rigid caste system that was right out of Downton Abbey.

Or maybe the Dowager Countess of Grantham’s routine was a little too progressive.

William the Conqueror’s times were probably more apt.

So, for example—and this was solely a Lifetime movie conjecture here—if a gardener fell in love with one of the family’s precious sons? Even if she were one of two head horticulturists, and had a national reputation and a master’s in landscape architecture from Cornell?

That was
just
not done.

Sabrina
without the happy ending, darlin’.

With a curse, Lizzie turned the radio on in hopes of getting her brain to shut up. She didn’t get far. Her Toyota Yaris had the speaker system of a Barbie house: there were little circles in the doors that were supposed to pump music, but they were mostly for pretend—and today, NPR coming out of those cocktail coasters just wasn’t enough—

The sound of an ambulance speeding up behind her easily overrode the haute pitter-patter of the BBC News, and she hit her brakes and eased over onto the shoulder. After the noise and flashing lights passed, she got back on track and rounded a fat curve in both the river and the road … and there it was, the Bradfords’ great white mansion, high up in the sky, the dawning sun being forced to work around its regal, symmetrical layout.

She had grown up in Plattsburgh, New York, on an apple orchard.

What the hell had she been thinking almost two years ago when she’d let Lane Baldwine, the youngest son, into her life?

And why was she still, after all this time, wondering about the particulars?

Come on, it wasn’t like she was the first woman who’d gotten good and seduced by him—

Lizzie frowned and leaned forward over the wheel.

The ambulance that had passed her was heading up the flank of the BFE hill, its red and white lights strobing along the alley of maple trees.

“Oh, God,” she breathed.

She prayed it wasn’t who she thought it was.

But come on, her luck couldn’t be that bad.

And wasn’t it sad that that was the first thing that came to her mind instead of worry over whoever was hurt/sick/passed out.

Proceeding on by the monogrammed, wrought-iron gates that were just closing, she took her right-hand turn about three hundred yards later.

As an employee, she was required to use the service entrance with her vehicles, no excuses, no exceptions.

Because God forbid a vehicle with an MSRP of under a hundred thousand dollars be seen in front of the house—

Boy, she was getting bitchy, she decided. And after Derby, she was going to have to take a vacation before people thought she was going through menopause two decades too early.

The sewing machine under the Yaris’s hood revved up as she shot down the level road that went around the base of the hill. The cornfield came first, the manure already laid down and churned over in preparation for planting. And then there were the cutting gardens filled with the first of the perennials and annuals, the heads of the early peonies fat as softballs and no darker than the blush on an ingenue’s cheeks. After those, there were the orchid houses and nurseries, followed by the outbuildings with the farm and groundskeeping equipment in them, and then the lineup of two- and three-bedroom, fifties-era cottages.

That were as variable and stylish as a set of sugar and flour tins on a Formica counter.

Pulling into the staff parking lot, she got out, leaving her cooler, her hat and her bag with her sunscreen behind.

Jogging over to groundskeeping’s main building, she entered the gasoline- and oil-smelling cave through the open bay on the left. The office of Gary McAdams, the head groundsman, was off to the side, the cloudy glass panes still translucent enough to tell her that lights were on and someone was moving around in there.

She didn’t bother to knock. Shoving open the flimsy door, she ignored the half-naked Pirelli calendar pinups. “Gary—”

The sixty-two-year-old was just hanging up the phone with his bear-paw hand, his sunburned face with its tree-bark skin as grim as she had ever seen it. As he looked across his messy desk, she knew who the ambulance was for even before he said the name.

Lizzie put her hands to her face and leaned back against the doorjamb.

She felt so sorry for the family, of course, but it was impossible not to personalize the tragedy and want to go throw up somewhere.

The one man she never wanted to see again … was going to come home.

She might as well get a stop watch.

“C
ome on. I know you want me.”

Jonathan Tulane Baldwine looked around the hip that was propped next to his stack of poker chips. “Ante up, boys.”

“I’m talking to you.” A pair of partially covered, fully fake breasts appeared over the fan of cards in his hands.
“Hello.”

Time to feign interest in something, anything else, Lane thought. Too bad the one-bedroom, mid-floor, Midtown apartment was a bachelor pad done in nothing-that-wasn’t-functional. And why bother staring into the faces of what was left of the six bastards they’d started playing with eight hours ago. None of them had proved worthy of anything more than keeping up with the high stakes.

Deciphering their tells, even as an avoidance strategy, wasn’t worth the eye strain at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Helllllloooo—”

“Give it up, honey, he’s not interested,” someone muttered.

“Everybody’s interested in me.”

“Not him.” Jeff Stern, the host and roommate, tossed in a thousand dollars’ worth of chips. “Ain’t that right, Lane?”

“Are you gay? Is he gay?”

Lane moved the queen of hearts next to the king of hearts. Shifted the jack next to the queen. Wanted to push the boob job with mouth onto the floor. “Two of you haven’t anted.”

“I’m out, Baldwine. Too rich for my blood.”

“I’m in—if someone’ll lend me a grand.”

Jeff looked across the green fleet table and smiled. “It’s you and me again, Baldwine.”

“Looking forward to takin’ your money.” Lane tucked his cards in tight. “It’s your bet—”

The woman leaned down again. “I love your Southern accent.”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed behind his clear-rimmed glasses. “You gotta back off him, baby.”

“I’m not stupid,” she slurred. “I know exactly who you are and how much money you have. I drink your bourbon—”

Lane sat back and addressed the fool that had brought the chatty accessory. “Billy? Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The guy who’d wanted to go a thousand dollars into debt stood up. “The sun’s coming up, anyway. Let’s go.”

“I want to stay—”

“Nope, you’re done.” Billy took the bimbo with the self-esteem inflation problem by the arm and escorted her to the door. “I’ll take you home, and no, he’s not who you think he is. Later, assholes.”

“Yes, he is—I’ve seen him in magazines—”

Before the door could shut, the other guy who’d been bled dry got to his feet. “I’m out of here, too. Remind me never to play with the pair of you again.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Jeff said as he held up a palm. “Tell the wife I said hello.”

“You can tell her yourself when we see you at Shabbat.”

“That again.”

“Every Friday, and if you don’t like it, why do you keep showing up at my house?”

“Free food. It’s just that simple.”

“Like you need the handouts.”

And then they were alone. With over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of poker chips, two decks of cards, an ashtray full of cigar nubs, and no bimbage.

“It’s your bet,” Lane said.

“I think he wants to marry her,” Jeff muttered as he tossed more chips into the center of the table. “Billy, that is. Here’s twenty grand.”

“Then he should get his head examined.” Lane met his old fraternity brother’s bet and then doubled it. “Pathetic. The both of them.”

Jeff lowered his cards. “Lemme ask you something.”

“Don’t make it too hard, I’m drunk.”

“Do you like them?”

“Poker chips?” In the background, a cell phone started to ring. “Yeah, I do. So if you don’t mind putting some more of yours in—”

“No, women.”

Lane shifted his eyes up. “Excuse me?”

His oldest friend put an elbow on the felt and leaned in. His tie had been lost at the start of the game, and his previously starched, bright white shirt was now as pliant and relaxed as a polo. His eyes, however, were tragically sharp and focused. “You heard me. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you show up here how long ago? Like, nearly two years. You live on my couch, you don’t work—which given who your family is, I get. But there’s no women, no—”

“Stop thinking, Jeff.”

“I’m serious.”

“So bet.”

The cell phone went quiet. But his buddy didn’t. “U.Va. was a lifetime ago. Lot can change.”

“Apparently not if I’m still on your couch—”

“What happened to you, man.”

“I died waiting for you to bet or fold.”

Jeff muttered as he made a stack of reds and blues and tossed them into the center. “’Nother twenty thousand.”

“That’s more like it.” The cell phone started to ring again. “I’ll see you. And I’ll raise you fifty. If you shut up.”

“You sure you want to do that?”

“Get you to be quiet? Yup.”

“Go aggressive in poker with an investment banker like me. Clichés are there for a reason—I’m greedy and great with math. Unlike your kind.”

“My kind.”

“People like you Bradfords don’t know how to make money—you’ve been trained to spend it. Now, unlike most dilettantes, your family actually
has
an income stream—although that’s what keeps you from having to learn anything. So not sure it’s a value-add in the long term.”

Lane thought back to why he’d finally left Charlemont for good. “I’ve learned plenty, trust me.”

“And now you sound bitter.”

“You’re boring me. Am I supposed to enjoy that?”

“Why don’t you ever go home for Christmas? Thanksgiving? Easter?”

Lane collapsed his cards and put them face-down on the felt. “I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny anymore, goddamn it, and turkey is overrated. What
is
your problem?”

Wrong question to ask. Especially after a night of poker and drinking. Especially to a guy like Stern, who was categorically incapable of being anything but perfectly honest.

“I hate that you’re so alone.”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding—”

“I’m one of your oldest friends, right? If I don’t tell you like it is, who’s going to? And don’t get pissy with me—you picked a New York Jew, not one of the thousand other southern-fried stick-up-the-asses that went to that ridiculous college of ours to be your perpetual roommate. So fuck you.”

“Are we going to play this hand out?”

Jeff’s shrewd stare narrowed. “Answer me one thing.”

“Yes, I am seriously reconsidering why I didn’t crash with Wedge or Chenoweth right now.”

“Ha. You couldn’t stand either of those two longer than a day. Unless you were drunk, which actually, you have been for the last three and a half months straight. And that’s another thing I have a problem with.”

“Bet. Now. For the love of God.”

“Why—”

As that cell phone went off a third time, Lane got to his feet and stalked across the room. Over on the bar, next to his billfold, the glowing screen was lit up—not that he bothered to look at who it was.

He answered the call only because it was either that or commit homicide.

The male Southern voice on the other end of the connection said three words: “Your momma’s dyin’.”

As the meaning sank into his brain, everything destabilized around him, the walls closing in, the floor rolling, the ceiling collapsing on his head. Memories didn’t so much come to him as assault him, the alcohol in his system doing nothing to dull the onslaught.

No,
he thought.
Not now. Not this morning
.

Although would there ever be a good time?

“Not ever” was the only acceptable timetable on this.

From a distance, he heard himself speak. “I’ll be there before noon.”

And then he hung up.

“Lane?” Jeff got to his feet. “Oh, shit, don’t you pass out on me. I’ve got to be at Eleven Wall in an hour and I need a shower.”

From a vast distance, Lane watched his hand reach out and pick up his wallet. He put that and the phone in the pocket of his slacks and headed for the door.

“Lane! Where the fuck are you going?”

“Don’t wait up,” he said as he opened the way out.

“When’re you going to be back? Hey, Lane—what the hell?”

His old, dear friend was still talking at him as Lane walked off, letting the door close in his wake. At the far end of the hall, he punched through a steel door and started jogging down the concrete stairwell. As his footfalls echoed all around, and he made tight turn after tight turn, he dialed a familiar phone number.

When the call was answered, he said, “This is Lane Baldwine. I need a jet at Teterboro now—going to Charlemont.”

There was a brief delay, and then his father’s executive assistant got
back on the connection. “Mr. Baldwine, there is a jet available. I have spoken directly with the pilot. Flight plans are being filed as we speak. Once you get to the airport, proceed to—”

“I know where our terminal is.” He broke out into the marble lobby, nodded to the doorman, and proceeded to the revolving doors. “Thanks.”

Just a quickie, he told himself as he hung up and hailed a cab. With any luck, he would be back in Manhattan and annoying Jeff by nightfall, twelve midnight at the very latest.