Lane shook his head, took a deep breath, and recomposed himself. “No. Not everyone.”
“Is it your sister? I’ve heard she’s had some issues—”
“Edward. They took him.”
Edward …? God, she had seen the man around the estate from time to time—and he appeared to be the last person anyone could “take” anywhere. Unlike his father whose office was at Easterly, Edward worked down at BBC headquarters in the heart of the city, and from what little she knew, he was the anti-Lane, a very serious, extremely aggressive businessman.
“I’m sorry, I’m not quite following?” she said.
“He was kidnapped in South America, and the ransom is being negotiated.” He rubbed his face hard. “I can’t imagine what they’re doing to him—it’s been five days since the demand. Jesus Christ, how did this happen? He was supposed to be protected down there. How did they let this happen?”
Then he shook himself, and pegged her with hard eyes. “You can’t say anything. Gin doesn’t even know yet. We’re keeping everything quiet so it doesn’t get out in the press yet.”
“I won’t. I mean, I won’t say a word. Are the authorities involved?”
“My father’s been working with them. This is a nightmare—I told him not to go down there.”
“I am so sorry.” What a pathetic statement. “Is there anything I can do?”
Which was just another pathetic bunch of syllables.
“It should have been me,” Lane muttered. “Or Max. Why couldn’t it have been one of us? We’re worthless. It should have been one of us.”
The next thing she knew, she’d put the vase down somewhere and was over by the bed. “Is there someone I can get for you?”
“It should have been me.”
She sat down next to him and lifted a hand to touch his shoulder, but then she thought better of that—
A cell phone went off on the bedside table, and when he made no move to answer it, she asked, “Do you want to pick that up?”
When he didn’t reply, she leaned to the side and looked at the screen. Chantal Blair Stowe.
“I think it’s your girlfriend.”
He glanced over. “Who?” Lizzie reached around and picked up the phone, showing the screen to him. “No, I don’t want to talk to her. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
Is she aware of that, Lizzie wondered as she put the thing back.
Lane shook his head. “Edward’s the only one of us who’s worth a dime.”
“That’s not true.”
He laughed in a hard burst. “The hell it’s not. And that was your point last week, wasn’t it.”
Abruptly, Lane focused on her, and there was a strange silence, as if it were only then that he realized who was in the room with him.
Lizzie’s heart began to pound. There was something in those eyes of his that she hadn’t seen before—and God help her, she knew what it was.
Sex with a playboy was nothing she was interested in. Raw lust with a real man? That … was so much harder to walk away from.
“You need to go now,” he said in a tight voice.
Yes, she told herself. I do.
And yet for some crazy reason, she whispered, “Why?”
“Because if I wanted you when it was just a game”—that stare of his locked on her mouth—“in my current mood, I’m desperate for you.”
Lizzie recoiled, and this time when he laughed, it was deeper, lower. “Don’t you know that stress is like alcohol? It makes you reckless, stupid, and hungry. I should know … my family deals so well in—”
“It is taken care of, Miss King.”
Lizzie jumped out of her skin with a gasp. “What!”
Mr. Harris frowned. “The tent rental. It has been taken care of.”
“Oh, yes, great. Thanks.”
She stumbled as she turned away from the butler. Then she went the wrong way down the hall, heading toward the public rooms of the house. Before Mr. Harris called that to her attention, she doubled back, found a door to the outside, and broke out—
Right into the garden.
Right below Lane’s bedroom window.
Putting her hands to her face, she remembered how he had kissed her two nights after she had sat with him in his bedroom.
She had been the one to seek him out—and there hadn’t been any flower excuse that time: She had waited for as long as she’d been able to stand it, and then she’d deliberately gone to his room at the end of her work day to see how he was doing, what was going on, whether there had been any resolution.
Nothing had made it into the press at that point. All that coverage had come later, after Edward had finally come home.
That second time she’d gone to his bedrom, she had knocked more softly—and after a moment, he had opened the way in … and she could still picture how much he had aged. He’d been gaunt, unshaven, with black circles under his eyes. He had changed his clothes, although they were just different versions of what he had always worn: A monogrammed button-down—except it was untucked on one side. Expensive slacks—except they were creased at the bend of the pelvis and unpressed at the heads of the knees. Gucci loafers—no, he’d only had dark socks on.
And all that pretty much told her what she needed to know.
“Come with me,” she’d said to him. “You need to get out of this room.”