“It’s worse.”
Lizzie didn’t bother checking to see if anyone was looking. She stepped in close to him and put her arms around him—and his response was immediate, his larger body curling around her own, holding on.
“Well?” he said into her hair. “Would you leave with me?”
She thought about her job, her farm, her life—as well as the fact that as of three days ago, they hadn’t spoken in almost two years.
“Lane …”
“So it’s a no?”
She pulled back … stepped away. “Lane, even if you never come back here again, you aren’t going to be free of this place, these people. It’s your family, your core.”
“I lived without them perfectly well for two years.”
“And Miss Aurora brought you back.”
“You could have. I would have returned for you.”
Lizzie shook her head. “Don’t make plans. There’s too much up in the air right now.” She cleared her throat. “And on that note, I better go back. People are starting to leave, but we’ve got a good four hundred still in there.”
“I love you, Lizzie.”
She closed her eyes. Put her hands to her face. “Don’t say that.”
“I just found out that my father was going to let those murderers have Edward.”
“What?” She dropped her arms. “What are you talking about?”
“He refused to pay Edward’s ransom when he was kidnapped. Refused. He was going to let my brother die there. In fact, I think he wanted Edward to die.”
Lizzie covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. “So you did see him.”
“Yeah.”
“How … is he?”
When Lane sidestepped that one, she wasn’t all that surprised: “You know,” he said, “I’ve always wondered how Edward’s kidnapping happened. Now I know.”
“But why would anyone do that to their son?”
“Because it’s an efficient way to murder a business rival and not have to worry about going to jail for it. You get killers to take him into the jungle and then refuse to pay the agreed-upon price. Coffin for one, please—oh, and then let us play the grieving, tortured father for sympathy in the press. Win/win.”
“Lane … oh, my God.”
“So when I ask you about going away, it’s not just some romantic fantasy.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m wondering if my brother wasn’t onto my father … so the great William Baldwine didn’t try to get rid of him.”
Jesus, she thought, if this was true, the Bradfords truly did take dysfunction to whole new levels.
“What did Edward find out?” she wondered.
“He won’t go into any of it.” Lane’s eyes narrowed. “He is, however, helping me get what I need.”
Lizzie swallowed through a thick throat—and tried not to picture Lane as the victim of some “accident.”
“You’re scaring me,” she whispered.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sutton blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of William Baldwine’s business center. “I’m surprised you’re so cavalier about this.”
William shut them in together and turned on the lights. “We’re competitors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be seen together.”
Glancing around, she decided that the circular reception area definitely reminded her of the Oval Office—and wasn’t that typical of the arrogance of the man. Only Baldwine would demote such a national icon to a place where he kept people waiting.
“Shall we proceed into my office?” he said with the smooth smile of one of those men who did Cialis ads on TV: older, grayer, but still sexy.
“I’m happy to do it here.”
“The papers are in my desk.”
“Fine.”
As they proceeded toward the glass cage of his executive assistant, Sutton found herself wishing that they weren’t alone. Then again, for this, they were both going to want privacy.
And then they were in William’s space.
Which, dear Lord, was kitted up like something out of Buckingham Palace, all kinds of royal purple damask, gold-leafed mirrors and tables, and throne-like chairs making one wonder how the man accomplished anything in such an over-the-top environment.
“Would you mind if I lit a cigar?” he said.
“No, not at all.” She glanced back and found that he’d left the door open—which might have made things a little less creepy had there actually been anyone else around. “So … where are the papers.”
Over at his huge desk, he opened a mahogany humidor and took out what was undoubtedly a Cuban. “I would offer you one, but these are not for a lady.”
“Good thing my money doesn’t wear a skirt, right?” As he glanced at her, she smiled sweetly. “Shall we sign the papers?”
“Would you care to go to the track with me? My wife is unwell.” He cut the butt of the cigar off. “So she will have to stay at home.”
“I’m going with my father, but thank you.”
William’s eyes went down her body. “Why have you never married, Sutton?”