The Bourbon Kings
Page 19

God, her false denial was better than the last full blown orgasm he’d had.
“Am I?” He focused on her lips, and in his mind, he started kissing them, licking his way into her, pulling her up against him. “I don’t think so. And I’d rather be a philandering snob than a coward.”
That was how he left her.
He’d turned away on that brick path, and walked toward the house, leaving her behind.
But he’d known, with every step he took away from her, that she wasn’t going to be able to let things rest like that.
Next time, she would come to him …
And sure enough, she did.
SEVEN
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
As Lizzie spoke, she stared at the flowers in the vase she was holding, and couldn’t remember what she’d meant to do with them—oh, right, put them in a bucket until she got off work; after which she would wrap them in a damp paper towel and a Kroger’s plastic bag, and take them home.
“I’m sorry, come again?” she said, glancing across the conservatory at Greta.
“I was speaking in English that time, too, you know.”
“I’m just all up in my head.”
“The tent people are demanding to be paid up front? Or they’re going to take down everything they’re putting up.”
“What?” Lizzie put the bouquet down next to the empty silver bowls. “Is this a new policy for them?”
“Guess so.”
“I’ll go talk to Rosalinda—do you have the total?”
“Tvelve sousand, four hundred, fifty-nine, zeventy-two.”
“Hold on, let me write that down.” Lizzie grabbed a pen. “One more time?”
After she got the total scribbled into her palm, she glanced out to the garden. The tent people had just stretched the fabric panels out flat and were beginning to lay the poles down as some of them got to stitching the huge sections together with ropes.
Two hours more work for them. Maybe three.
“They’re still going strong out there,” she murmured.
“Not for long.” Greta resumed cleaning the pink garden roses. “The rental office called me, and they’re prepared to order them back into the truck.”
“There’s no reason to get hysterical about this,” Lizzie muttered as she headed outside.
Rosalinda Freeland’s office was in the kitchen wing, and she took the longer, outdoor route because she was pretty damned sick and tired of running into Lane.
She was about halfway across the terrace, passing by the French doors that led out of the dining room, when she looked over toward the business center.
The facility was located where the original stables used to be, and like the conservatory, it opened out to the gardens and the river. The architecture that had been added had been precisely matched to that of Easterly, and the total square footage was nearly the same as the mansion’s. With over a dozen offices, a conference room the size of a college lecture hall, and its own catering kitchen and dining room, William Baldwine ran his wife’s family’s multi-national bourbon company out of the state-of-the-art compound.
You almost never saw anyone loitering around over there, but apparently something was going on because a group of people in suits was standing on the terrace outside of the main conference room, smoking and talking in a tight enclave.
Strange, she thought. Mr. Baldwine was a smoker, so it was unlikely those folks had been banished to the terrace just to get their nicotine fix.
And what do you know, she actually recognized the single nonsmoking woman in the mix. It was Sutton Smythe, heir to the Sutton Distillery Corporation fortune. Lizzie had never met her personally, but there had been a lot of press about the fact that a female might, just might, in the next decade, head one of the largest liquor companies in the world.
Frankly, it looked like she was already the boss, with her dark hair coiffed and her no-nonsense, super-expensive, black pant suit. She was actually quite a striking woman, with bold features and a curvy body that could have taken her into bimbo territory if she’d been so inclined to play that card—which she obviously wasn’t.
What was she doing here, though?
Talk about sleeping with the enemy.
Lizzie shook her head and went in through the rear kitchen door. Whatever was happening over there was not her problem. She was far, far, far down the totem pole, just looking to get a tent erected for her flower arrangements—
Wow.
Talk about a lotta chefs, she thought as she scooted in and out and around all the white-coated, toque-hatted men and women who were giving themselves scoliosis making filo-dough and stuffed-mushroom’y thingies.
On the far side of all of the Gordon Ramsay, there was a heavy, swinging door that opened into a plain corridor full of cleaning closets, laundries, and the maids’ break room—as well as the butler’s living quarters, the controller’s office and the back staff stairwell.
Lizzie went to the door on the right that was marked PRIVATE and knocked once. Twice. Three times.
Given that Rosalinda was as efficient and punctual as an alarm clock, the controller clearly wasn’t in. Maybe she’d gone to the bank—
“—shall check again in an hour,” Mr. Harris said as he entered the hall at the far end with the head housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Mollie.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Harris,” the older woman muttered.
Lizzie locked eyes with the butler as Mrs. Mollie pared off. “We have a problem.”