“Not really.”
When they fell silent, he found that the sound of the party annoyed the crap out of him—especially as he thought about all that money that his father had “borrowed.” He had no idea exactly what the costs of the brunch were, but he could do the math. Six or seven hundred people, top-shelf liquor, even if they got it wholesale, food that was out of a Michelin three-star restaurant? With enough parkers and waiters to take care of the entire city of Charlemont?
A quarter of a million, at least. And that didn’t include the boxes at the track. The tables in the private rooms at Steeplehill Downs. The ball that his family sponsored afterward.
It was a million-dollar event that lasted less than twenty-four hours.
“Listen, you better go.” He didn’t want her to see Edward. Mostly because he was guessing Edward wouldn’t want to be seen. “I’ll come to your place, even if I can’t spend the whole night.”
“I’d like that. I’m worried about you. Lot going on.”
You have no idea, he thought.
He leaned in to kiss her, but she ducked away—which was probably the right thing to do. A couple of groundsmen in a golf cart were coming up the lane from the lower part of the estate, and no one needed to see that.
“I’ll get there when I can,” he said. Then he leaned in. “Know that I’m kissing you right now. Even if it’s only in my mind.”
She blushed. “I … I’ll see you. Tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked if you go late.”
“I love you.”
As she turned away, he didn’t like the look on her face. And it was impossible to hide the fact that he desperately wanted her to say those words back—and not because she was being polite, but because she meant them.
Because her heart was on the line … just as his was.
With his world so off-balance, Lizzie King certainly seemed like the only secure, steady thing on his horizon—
The sound of the door opening behind him ripped his head around.
Not Edward.
Not. Even. Close.
His father, not his brother, came out of the rear door of the business center, and Lane froze.
The first thing he did was look at the man’s hands—and he expected to find blood there. But no. In fact, the only thing on them, or in one of them, rather, was a white handkerchief that was pressed to his mouth as if he were discreetly covering a cough.
His father did not look over, but didn’t appear stressed. Preoccupied, yes. Stressed? No.
And the bastard walked right by the back end of the old truck, the lack of social position associated with such a vehicle putting the F-150 and whatever owner or passenger might be standing with it beneath his radar.
“I know what you did.”
Lane wasn’t aware of speaking until the words came out of his mouth. And his father stopped and turned around immediately.
As one of the garage doors began to trundle up in the background, William’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said.
Lane crossed the distance between them and met his father eye to eye. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You heard me. I know exactly what you did.”
It was eerie how much that face looked so like his own. Also eerie that nothing in it moved … William’s expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“You’ll have to be more specific. Son.”
The cold tone suggested that last word could have been replaced by “waste of my time” or perhaps the more colloquial “asshole.”
Lane gritted his teeth. He wanted to lay it all out, but the reality that his brother was still inside that business center—or at least, hopefully remained in there alive—coupled with the fact that his father would just redouble efforts to cover his tracks, stopped him.
“Chantal told me,” Lane whispered.
William rolled his eyes. “About what? Her demand that her rooms be redecorated for the third time? Or is it that trip to New York she wanted to take—again? She’s your wife. If she wants these things, she needs to discuss them with you.”
Lane narrowed his stare, tracing every one of those features.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lane, I’m going to—”
“You don’t know, do you.”
His father indicated an elegant hand to the Rolls-Royce being pulled out of the garage. “I’m going to be late—and I don’t play guessing games. Good day—”
“She’s pregnant.” As his father frowned, Lane made sure that he enunciated his words clearly. “Chantal is pregnant, and she says it’s yours.”
He waited for the tell, waited for that single pinpoint of weakness to show … used all his experience in poker to read the man in front of him.
And suddenly there it was, the admission spoken in the subtle twitching under the left eye.