The Bourbon Kings

Oh, hell no, she vowed. You are not going to do this to me.

If he thought she’d been trouble before, wait’ll he got a load of what she was going to do now.

As she marched betwen her bath and her bedroom, plans twisted in her head, many of which involved felonies and her father. Eventually, she had to get out of her dress, and she left the thing where it fell on the floor, stepping free of the pool of silk before continuing to pace in her bustier and her stilettoes and those diamonds that her brother’s slut wife had tried to get first tonight.

As she seethed, all she could think about was the very first time she had hated her father …

She’d been six, maybe seven, when it had happened. New Year’s Eve. She’d woken up because of the fireworks, which had crackled and bloomed over the distant downtown area. Scared, she’d gone looking for Lane, the one she had always taken solace from … only to find him down in the parlor with Max.

Gin had insisted on staying with her brothers and doing whatever they did. It had been the story of her life back then, her always running to keep up, get some attention, be on anybody’s radar. The household had revolved around her parents and catered to her brothers. She was the footnote, the afterthought, the rug that was tripped over on the way out the door to something better, more interesting, more important.

She hadn’t wanted to drink that stuff in the bottle. The bourbon had smelled bad, and she knew it was a no-no, but if Max and Lane were going to have some, she was going to as well.

And then they’d been caught.

Not once, but twice.

As soon as Edward had come into the parlor, he’d ordered her to go back to bed, and she had left via the back way as he’d told her to. When she’d gone down the staff hall, however, she’d heard voices and had had to hide in the shadows or be discovered … when her father had come out of Rosalinda Freeland’s office.

He’d been in his dressing robe and in the process of tying the two halves together as he’d emerged, and he’d been glaring, as if he were angry—but there was no way he could have heard any of their voices down in the parlor. Gin’s first instinct was to run for the front of the house to warn her brothers. Fear had stopped her, though—and then Ms. Freeland had stepped out and grabbed her father’s arm.

Her young mind had wondered why the office lady’s blouse had been untucked, and her hair, which had always been so orderly and stiff, was at bad angles.

The two of them had argued in hushed tones, saying things that she couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. And then her father had marched off and Ms. Freeland had disappeared back into her office and shut her door.

Gin had remained there for what had felt like a year, afraid to leave in case Ms. Freeland came back out. Except then she had gotten scared that her father would come back down that way and find her.

He shouldn’t have been there with that woman.

He would not be pleased that she had seen him.

In her bare feet, she had whispered to the staff stairs and stuck close to the cold plaster wall as she ascended. Up on the second floor, she had become frozen as another round of fireworks went off, and as soon as they finished, she had taken shelter in the open door of a guest suite, wishing she had somewhere safe to go.

Going back to her room alone had seemed terrifying. Plus what if her father was looking for her?

Curling into a sit, she had tucked her legs up against her chest and hugged her knees. Their father must have found her brothers. There was no way the man would have missed them if he’d used the front stairs.

And that frightened her more than any noise outside.

Moments later, Edward came up the grand staircase, and her father was behind him, looming like a monster. For some reason, her brother’s gait was sloppy, and the skin of his face was gray. Her father had been as straight-backed and disapproving as a church pew.

Where were the other two?

No words were spoken as the pair of them proceeded to their father’s door. And when they arrived at their destination, Edward stepped off to one side and then stumbled into the dark room as the way was opened for him.

“You know where the belts are.”

That was all their father had said.

No, no, she thought. This was not fair—Edward wasn’t involved! Why was he—

The door shut with a clap, and she trembled at what was going to come next.

Sure enough, a sharp, slapping sound was followed by a swallowed grunt.

And again.

And again …

Edward never cried. He never cursed.

She had listened to this enough times to know.

Gin put her head down on her thin forearms and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t know why their father hated Edward so much. The man disliked the rest of them, but her brother made him furious.

Edward never cried.

So she cried for him … and decided, then and there, that if her father could hate Edward? Two could play that game.

And she was going to pick the one who was at this very minute wielding that belt.

She was going to hate her father from now on.

Refocusing, Gin found that she had sat down on her bed, put her knees to her chest, and linked her arms around herself—as if she were once again sitting just inside that guest room with nothing but a Lanz nightgown to keep her warm, and what was happening in her father’s room terrifying her to the core.

Yes, that was when it had started for her—and William Baldwine had never given her cause to reconsider her hatred. This business with Richard Pford was just another entry on a very long list.