The Bourbon Kings

“And I was there listening on the other end of the phone. That was not what was occurring. Further, I can assure you, there were … repercussions … to his failure to comply.”

Lane’s gut got to churning. “They could have killed you.”

After another lift of that bottle, Edward let his head fall back against the chair. “Don’t you know, brother … they did kill me. Now, what the hell are you talking about?”

THIRTY-TWO

She was on a strange type of high, Gin decided as she walked with her new fiancé among her family’s guests, nodding to those who made eye contact, speaking when required to.

The cotton-wool sensation that had enveloped her body was something between a saturation-drunk and a Xanax bender, the outside world coming at her through a filter that slowed down time, thickened the air into a custard-like solid, and removed any sense of temperature from her skin.

Richard, on the other hand, seemed very alert as he told everyone about their engagement, the pride in his face akin to a man who had just purchased a new home in Vail or perhaps a yacht. He did not seem to notice the subtle shock that was so very often quickly hid—or maybe he didn’t care about that.

You win.

As she heard Samuel T.’s voice in her head, she took a deep breath.

Timing, timing, she thought. Timing was everything.

That and money.

Samuel T. and his people were very wealthy by any standard, but they did not have a spare fifty or sixty million to fill up the debt cavern in her family’s balance sheets. Only the likes of Richard Pford IV did—and Gin was prepared to leverage her newfound position as the jackass’s wife to help out her kin.

But that was going to have to wait until after she put a ring on him—

A hold on her elbow brought her head around.

Richard leaned in. “I said, come this way.”

“I’m going to go inside for a moment.”

“No, you’re going to stay by my side.”

Looking him right in the face, she said, “I’m bleeding between my legs, and you know why. That’s hardly something I can ignore.”

An expression of both shock and distaste tightened those features she was already learning to hate. “Yes, do take care of that.”

As if her body were a car with a dent that required fixing.

Walking off, she found that weeding around groups of people who spoke too loud and laughed too much caused her a prickling anxiety—and yet the feeling did not dissipate as she stepped into Easterly’s cool, quiet interior.

She had bled after Richard had been done with her. But she’d already attended to that need with a panty liner.

No, she’d come inside for a different reason.

And she knew just where to go.

The last time she had had sex in this house—excluding that brief hookup in the garden the other evening and what had just happened in her bedroom earlier—had been well over two years ago: She had ended most of her Easterly romps and excursions as soon as Amelia had gotten old enough to know what a slut was.

No reason for the dear girl to witness in person what others were going to tell her about her mother. At least that way, Gin had always thought, mommy might be able to sport a credible denial.

But … two years ago, on a random Thursday evening, after an uneventful sit-down dinner, she had found herself slipping up.

In the wine cellar.

Proceeding down to the staff hallway, she went past Rosalinda’s and Mr. Harris’s offices—or rather, where the butler’s still was and the controller’s had been—and opened a broad door to reveal the stairwell to the basement.

She was entirely unsurprised to find the glow of a light down at the bottom.

There was only one reason for it to be on, especially as all of the bourbon, champagne and chardonnay for the brunch had been delivered to the staging area—and in any event, no part of the family’s private collection would ever be used for such an occasion.

Her descent was silent, the pattern of squeaking boards long since memorized from back in her days as a teenager stealing bottles out of the depths of the tremendous basement. As she came to the bottom of the steps, she slipped off her shoes and put them aside. The uneven concrete was a cold relief on the soles of her feet, and her nose threatened a sneeze as the mustiness registered in her sinuses.

Passing by the bomb shelters that had been made in the forties out of lead walling set at right angles, she padded along, wrapping her arms around herself—although that was mainly a reflex, something she did because she should have been chilled down here.

She still felt nothing.

The wine cellar was separated from the larger basement by a fire-and bulletproof glass wall that was outfitted with polished wood supports and a door that had a code to it. Inside, the gleaming, mahogany-paneled room was fitted, floor to ceiling, with handmade bottle shelves, thousands of lots of priceless wine, champagne and liquor protected from both shifts in temperature and thieves of the human variety.

There was also a tasting table in the center surrounded by oxblood club chairs—and she was right, the thing was being put to use.

And there was a tasting of sorts going on.

Samuel T.’s sacrificial lamb was stretched out on the glossy surface, her blond hair spilling all over to hang off the table’s far end, her naked body gleaming in the low lighting from the brass fixtures. She was completely naked, her peach dress having been thrown carelessly on the top of one of the chairs, and Samuel T.’s head was between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips as he worked her.