Back in the morning sunshine, he fell into a flat-out run for Easterly’s kitchen entrance. Busting through, he ran past the stainless-steel counters and punched open the door into the staff hallway. He took the back stairs two at a time, nearly plowing into a maid who was vacuuming her way to the second floor.
Down the hall. Past his room. Past Chantal’s.
To his father’s.
Lane skidded to a halt in front of the door, and thought that he really wasn’t ready to have a Rosalinda, Part II, with his own father—but not because he didn’t want to see the dead body of one of his parents.
No, it was more because if the man was going to need a coffin, Lane was going to damn well be the one who put that bastard’s head on the tufted pillow.
Lane threw things open. “Father,” he barked. “Where are you.”
Marching in, he listened for a response and then shut the door behind himself—just in case the man was alive: He was going to hurt the sonofabitch, heaven help him, but he was so going to hurt him.
Chantal might be a slut and a liar, but a woman should never be hit. No matter the circumstance.
“Where the fuck are you,” he demanded as he opened up the bathroom.
When he didn’t find the man hanging in the glass shower enclosure, he doubled back and went into the wardrobe room.
Also nothing.
No, wait.
His father’s suitcase, the monogrammed one he used so often, was open and partially packed. But … packed badly. The clothes were messy inside, hastily thrown in by someone who had little to no experience in doing the duty for himself.
Rifling through the contents, Lane found nothing of note.
But he did notice that his father’s favorite watch, the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak, was missing from the lineup inside the velvet-lined watch case. And his wallet was gone.
Heading back into the bedroom, he surveyed the furniture, the books, the desk, but had no idea if there was anything out of place. He’d been in here only a handful of times … and not for at least a good twenty years.
“What are you up to, Father,” he asked the quiet, still air.
Following an instinct, he went out, reshut the door, and jogged back down the staff stairs to the first floor. It took him less than a minute to get out to the garages and once inside, he counted the cars. The Phantom was still there, but two of the Mercedeses were missing. Chantal had obviously been in one.
His father had to have taken the other.
The question was … where.
And when.
FORTY-FOUR
“Y’all can’t be doing this again. Come on, now, wake up.”
Edward batted at the hand that pulled at his arm. “Lea … me ’lone.”
“The heck I will. It’s cold in here, and you’re not up to this.”
Edward opened his eyes slowly. Light was coming through the open bay at the end of the stable, catching swirls of hay dust and the profile of one of the barn cats. A mare whinnied across the way, and somebody kicked their stall—and off in the distance, he caught the low-pitched growl of one of the tractors.
Holy shit did his head hurt, but it was nothing compared to his ass. Funny how a part of the body could be both totally numb and in pain.
“Y’all need to get the hell up …”
All the chatter made him curse—and try to focus.
Well, what do you know. There were two Shelbys talking at him: His newest employee was standing over him like a disapproving teacher, her hands on her lean hips, her jeans-clad legs and booted feet braced as if she were considering soccer-balling his head.
“I thought you didn’t curse,” he mumbled.
“I don’t.”
“Well, I believe you just said a bad word.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you getting up, or am I sweeping you out of here with the rest of the debris.”
“Don’t you know that ‘hell’ is a gateway word? It’s like marijuana. Next thing you know, you’ll be dropping ‘fuck’ bombs left and right.”
“Fine. Stay there. See if I care.”
As she turned and walked off, he called out, “How was your date the other night?”
She pivoted back around. “What are you talking about?”
“With Moe.”
At that, he struggled to get himself up off the cold concrete floor of the stable. When he couldn’t manage it, she lifted a brow. “You know, I do believe I will leave you there.”
Above his head, Neb snickered like the stallion was laughing.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Edward gritted out.
Without warning, his hand slipped and his body slammed down to the concrete so hard his teeth clapped together.
“You are going to kill yourself,” she muttered as she marched back over.
Shelby picked him up with all the care one might offer to a fallen pitchfork—but he had to give her credit. Even though she came up to only his breastbone, she was more than strong enough to get him down the aisle, out of the bay, and across the lawn to his cottage.
Once they were inside, he nodded to his chair. “Over there would be—”
“Y’all hypothermic. That’s not going to happen.”
Next thing he knew, she’d sat him down on his toilet seat and was starting the bath.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said, leaning to the side and letting the wall catch him. “Thanks.”
He was just shutting his eyes when she slapped him in the face. “Wake up.”