Eventually, she became convinced he was avoiding her: For the first time since he’d come home on his break from graduate school, she didn’t see him for seven days straight. The good news, if you could look at it that way, was that at least there weren’t any females coming around the house and leaving at odd hours in porn combinations. The bad news was that she was now overprepared with all her speeches, and in danger of revealing exactly how much time she’d wasted yelling at him in her head.
And Lane was definitely still at Easterly. His Porsche—like he would drive anything else—was still around by the garages, and whenever she was forced to take a bouquet up to his room, she could smell his cologne in the air and see his wallet on the bureau with his gold cuff links.
He was playing her—and as much as she hated to admit it, the act was working. She was getting more frustrated and more determined to find him, instead of less so.
He was a master at women, all right.
The bastard.
With yet another fresh bouquet in hand, she headed up the back stairs for his room. She didn’t expect him to be in there, but somehow, the idea of walking into his space and throwing out a couple of choice sound bites was going to offer her a release. When she knocked on his door, it was a hard demand, and after a moment, she pushed her way in—
Lane was there.
Sitting on the edge of his bed. Head in his hands, body bowed.
He did not look to the door.
Didn’t seem to know anyone had come in at all.
Lizzie cleared her throat once. Twice. “Excuse me, I’m here to switch out your flowers.”
He jumped and twisted around toward her. Red-rimmed eyes seemed to struggle to focus, and when he spoke up, his voice was rough. “Sorry? What?”
“Flowers.” She lifted the bouquet a little higher. “I’m here to replace your flowers.”
“Oh. Thank you. That’s awfully good of you.”
Clearly, he had no clue what he was saying to her. The politeness seemed like just a reflex, the conversational equivalent of a lower leg kicking when its knee was hit with a rubber hammer.
This is not your business, she told herself as she went across to the bureau.
The swap took a split second, and then she had the barely wilted, old one in her hands, and was walking back over to the half-open door. She told herself not to look over at him as she left. For all she knew, his favorite hunting dog had ringworm … or maybe that girlfriend of his in Virginia had found out about all his extracurricular exercise here in Charlemont.
That biggest mistake thing happened just as she got to the jambs.
Later, when things had blown up in her face, after she’d overridden her walls of self-protection and gotten burned, she would become convinced that if she’d only kept going, she would have been fine. Their lives wouldn’t have slammed into each other’s and left such shrapnel all over her.
But she did look back at him.
And she just had to open her mouth again: “What’s wrong?”
Lane’s eyes swung up to her. “I’m sorry?”
“What’s your problem?”
He braced his hands against his knees. “I’m sorry.”
She waited for something else. “About what?”
His eyes closed, his head ducking down again.
Even though he made no sound, she knew he was weeping.
And that was so completely not what she expected from someone like him.
Closing the door, she wanted to protect his privacy for him. “What happened? Is everyone all right?”
Lane shook his head, took a deep breath, and recomposed himself. “No. Not everyone.”
“Is it your sister? I’ve heard she’s had some issues—”
“Edward. They took him.”
Edward …? God, she had seen the man around the estate from time to time—and he appeared to be the last person anyone could “take” anywhere. Unlike his father whose office was at Easterly, Edward worked down at BBC headquarters in the heart of the city, and from what little she knew, he was the anti-Lane, a very serious, extremely aggressive businessman.
“I’m sorry, I’m not quite following?” she said.
“He was kidnapped in South America, and the ransom is being negotiated.” He rubbed his face hard. “I can’t imagine what they’re doing to him—it’s been five days since the demand. Jesus Christ, how did this happen? He was supposed to be protected down there. How did they let this happen?”
Then he shook himself, and pegged her with hard eyes. “You can’t say anything. Gin doesn’t even know yet. We’re keeping everything quiet so it doesn’t get out in the press yet.”
“I won’t. I mean, I won’t say a word. Are the authorities involved?”
“My father’s been working with them. This is a nightmare—I told him not to go down there.”
“I am so sorry.” What a pathetic statement. “Is there anything I can do?”
Which was just another pathetic bunch of syllables.
“It should have been me,” Lane muttered. “Or Max. Why couldn’t it have been one of us? We’re worthless. It should have been one of us.”
The next thing she knew, she’d put the vase down somewhere and was over by the bed. “Is there someone I can get for you?”
“It should have been me.”
She sat down next to him and lifted a hand to touch his shoulder, but then she thought better of that—