The Bourbon Kings

One call. That was all she’d been allowed—just like in the movies.

“In here,” the guard said, stopping by an African-American man in uniform and opening a thick door.

“Lane—!” Except she stopped rushing toward her brother when she saw who was sitting at the table. “Oh, God. Not him.”

Lane came in for a tight embrace as the door was shut. “You need a lawyer.”

“And I’m free,” Samuel T. drawled. “Relatively speaking.”

“I am not talking in front of him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not one word.”

“Gin—”

Samuel T. cut her brother off. “Told you. Guess I’ll just take my things and go.”

“Sit. Down,” Lane barked. “Both of you.”

There was a heartbeat of silence—which Gin took as a sign that Samuel T. was as surprised by that tone of command as she was. Lane had always been, out of the four Baldwine children, the go-with-the-flow type. Now, he sounded like Edward.

Or the way Edward had used to be.

After she settled uneasily in a chair as hard and chilly as an ice block, Lane jabbed a finger in her direction. “What did you do?”

“Excuse me?” she said on a recoil. “Why is this my fault? Why do you think it was me—”

“Because it usually is, Gin.” He slashed his hand through the air when she started to argue. “Cut the shit, I’ve known you too long. What did you do this time to piss him off? I will get you out of this, but I gotta know what I’m dealing with.”

As Gin glared up at her brother, she wanted nothing more than to tell him to fuck off. But all she could think of was that image of her credit cards going into the slot of that gas pump and the words Not Approved flashing on the digital screen. Who else was going to help her?

She glanced over at Samuel T. He wasn’t looking at her, and his face was impassive, but the haughty disapproval he was enjoying was as obvious as the scent of his cologne in the air.

“Well?” Lane demanded.

Weighing her options, she realized she was wholly unfamiliar with situations involving rocks and hard places. With enough money and amnesia, there was nothing she’d been unable to opt out of, whether it was through paying someone off, refusing to stay, or refusing to go.

Unfortunately, those endless arrays of options had been funded by a lifestyle that had only looked like something that was hers. In fact, it had been owned by someone else. She simply hadn’t known that until this morning.

She cleared her throat. “Samuel T., will you … give me a moment alone with my brother.” She put her hand out. “I’m not—I’m not saying you can’t be my lawyer, I just need to be in private with him. Please.”

Samuel T. cocked a brow. “First time I’ve heard you say that word. At least with your clothes on.”

“Watch it, Lodge,” Lane growled. “That’s my sister.”

The man shook himself, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone with her. “My apologies. That was inappropriate.”

“Don’t go far.” Lane started pacing around, his hand yanking at his short, dark hair. “For the love of God, we need good representation.”

As Gin’s attorney, lover, and baby daddy—though he didn’t know that last part—left, she stared down at the pointed toes of her silk stilettos. The left one had a smudge running across the top of the toe box, something she’d gotten while sliding herself into the back of the cop car.

There was a click as the door shut behind Samuel T., and she didn’t wait for another prompting. “He wants me to marry Richard Pford.”

“Richard … I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me. Father is cutting me off unless I marry the man. He says it’s because that goddamn distributing company will give us better rates or something.”

“Is he insane?” Lane breathed.

“You wanted to know why I took the car—that’s why I took the car, and that’s why Father called the police.” She looked up at her brother. “I’m not marrying Richard. No matter what our father does to me—and that is what you’re dealing with.”

Getting up, she went over to the door and opened it herself. “You can come back in.”

“Such an honor,” Samuel T. murmured.

As her lawyer resettled in the chair by his briefcase, she said, “So how do I get out of here.”

“You make bail,” Samuel T. replied. “And then we try to get the charges dropped, either because we plea you out or your father gets over whatever you’ve done.”

“What kind of bail are we talking about?” Lane asked.

“First-time offender works in her favor, the flight risk does not. Only about fifty grand, tops. McQuaid is a friendly judge to people like us, so it’s not going to be high.”

Fifty thousand dollars, she thought. Indeed, that had never seemed like much before. Nothing but a trip to Chanel in Chicago.

She thought of what little was in her purse. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

Samuel T. laughed. “Of course you do—”

“I’ll make sure it’s paid,” Lane cut in.

Samuel T. opened his briefcase and took out some papers. “Do you authorize me to represent you in this matter, Virginia?”

Since when did he call her by her proper name? Then again, maybe he didn’t want her brother to pound him into the concrete floor by any further familiarity. “Yes.”