Chantal took a slow, deep breath. “I know you’re upset about poor old Miss Aurora and you’re saying things you don’t mean. I get it. She’s a very good cook—and they are very, very hard to find.”
His molars ground together. “You think she’s just a cook.”
“Are you saying she’s your accountant?”
God, why had he ever … “That woman means more to me than the one who bore me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, she’s black—”
Lane grabbed Chantal’s arm and yanked her up close. “Don’t you ever talk about her with that kind of attitude. I’ve never hit a woman before, but I guarantee I will beat the shit out of you if you disrespect her.”
“Lane, you’re hurting me!”
At that moment, he realized that a maid was frozen in the doorway of one of the guest rooms, her arms full of stacked, folded towels. As she ducked her head and hustled off, he shoved Chantal away. Jacked up his slacks. Glared at the hallway’s runner.
“It’s over, Chantal. In case you haven’t noticed.”
She clasped her hands together as if in prayer—and he didn’t buy it for a second. The fake torture in her voice didn’t sway him, either, as she whispered: “I think we should work on our relationship.”
“I agree. This marriage of ours needs to be put out of its misery. That is the work.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“The hell I don’t. Get yourself a good lawyer or don’t—either way, you’re out of here.”
Cue the tears. Big fat ones that made her blue eyes shimmer like pool water. “You can be so cruel.”
Not like she could be, he thought, not even close. And for godsake, he really should have followed through with that prenup, but too bad, so sad, whatever. The good news was that there was always going to be more money—even if she sued him for millions, he could make that up in a year or two.
“I’m going to go speak with Mother,” he said. “And then call Samuel T. Maybe he can serve you papers over dinner tonight.”
Annnnnnd just like that, the iron core came out again, those eyes growing cold. “I will ruin you and your family if you go through with this.”
What she didn’t know was that she’d already ruined his life. She’d cost him Lizzie … and so much more. But the losses were going to stop there, goddamn it.
“Be careful, Chantal.” He didn’t break the eye contact. “I will do anything, in-and outside of the law, to protect what’s mine.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a reminder that I’m a Bradford, my darling. We take care of things.”
Striding away from the woman, Lane knocked on his mother’s door. Even though there was no answer, he stepped into the fragrant inner reaches of the suite and shut things behind him.
Closing his eyes, he needed a second to dose the fury before he faced off this dubious reunion. Just a second to pull it together. Just …
When he reopened his lids, he found yet another stage set that was utterly unchanged.
His mother’s white and cream room was just as it had always been, huge windows overlooking the gardens adorned with ballgown drapes of blush-colored silk, Maxfield Parrish paintings glowing like jewels worn by the walls, fine French antiques too precious to sit on or use properly in the corners. But none of that was the focal point, as impressive as it all was.
The canopied bed across the way was the true showpiece. As resplendent and awesome as Bernini’s Baldacchino di San Pietro, the massive steamboat-sized platform had carved columns that rose heavenward and a top that was festooned with waterfalls of that pale pink silk. And there she was, Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine, laying as still and well preserved as a saint, her long, thin body buried under the profusion of satin comforters and down pillows, her pale blond hair perfectly coiffed, her face made up even though she wasn’t going anywhere and wasn’t even conscious.
Beside her, on a marble-topped bombé chest, a dozen orange medicine vials with white tops and white labels were arranged in neat rows, like a platoon of soldiers. He had no clue what was in them and, likely, neither did she.
She was the Southern Sunny von Bülow—except his father had never tried to kill her. At least not physically.
The bastard had done other kinds of damage, though.
“Mother, dear,” he said, striding over to her. When he got in range, he took her cool, dry hand with its paper-thin skin and blue veins into his palm. “Mother?”
“She’s resting,” came a voice.
A woman of about fifty, with red hair and a white and gray nurse’s uniform, came in from the walk-in closet. She was a perfect fit for the decor, and he wouldn’t have put it past his mother to have hired her on that basis alone.
“I’m Patty Sweringin,” she said, offering her hand. “You must be young Mr. Baldwine.”
“Lane.” He shook what she put out. “How is Mother doing?”