Out at the Red & Black, Edward sat in an old leather armchair in front of a television that was so ancient it still had bunny ears poking out on either side of its cereal-box-sized screen. The room he was in was dim, but gleaming—the result of the countless racing trophies that were crammed into the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves across the way.
The stables’ cottage had one bedroom, a bath with a claw-foot tub, a galley kitchen, and this area here, which was a library, study, living room, and parlor all rolled into one. There was no second floor, only an attic full of old horse-racing memorabilia, and no garage. Total square footage was less than the dining room of Easterly—and ever since he’d moved in, he’d learned the value of having a place small enough so you could hear and see almost everything. Back at the mansion, you never had a clue who else was in the sprawling house, where they were, what they were doing.
For someone like him, whose only mistress was night terrors and whose primary job was attempting to keep his brain from cannibalizing itself, the tight quarters were much easier to handle—especially around this time of the year. Such a shame he’d been down in South America right before the Derby when he’d been kidnapped. The anniversary of him getting held for corporate ransom ruined what had always been a most enjoyable weekend.
He checked his watch and cursed. Now that the sun was down, the evening hours presented themselves in a hazy twist, minutes lasting a century and a second at the same time. His night job? To somehow make it to sunrise without screaming.
At his elbow, the bottle of vodka was nearly finished. He’d started off with five cubes of ice in his tall glass, but they were long gone and he was drinking things neat at this point. Last night it had been gin. Two evenings ago he’d had three bottles of wine: a pair of reds and a white of some variety.
During the initial, acute stage of his “recovery,” he’d had to learn the ins and outs of pain management, how you timed your pills and your food so that riding the nerve impulses of a ruined body was not worse than the torture he’d endured to earn his wounds. And that Master’s in Medication Management had translated nicely over to this second, chronic part of his “recovery.” Thanks to the early trial and error he’d had with the bottles of pills, he was able to arrange things for optimal sedative effect: Every afternoon, he would have a meal of some sort around four p.m., and by six o’clock, when the stables flushed out of employees, he could start drinking on an essentially empty stomach.
Nothing set his quick temper off faster than someone getting in the way of his buzz—
When the knock sounded out, he reached for the handgun beside the Grey Goose and tried to remember what day it was. The Derby was the day after tomorrow … so Thursday. It was Thursday night at some hour past sunset.
So this was not one of the prostitutes he paid to come service him. They were Friday. Unless he’d scheduled a twofer this week—and he hadn’t done that.
Right …? Or had he.
Reaching for his cane, he pushed himself off the chair and shuffled over to the front window. As he parted the drapes, the gun in his hand was steady, but his heart was pounding. Even though logically he knew there were no mercenaries here in Ogden County looking for him, even though he was aware that he was safe behind all of the locks and the security system he’d installed, and in spite of the forty millimeter against his palm … his brain had been permanently rewired.
When he saw who it was, he frowned and lowered the weapon. Going over to the door, he undid the chain, three dead bolts, and the latch and opened up, the hinges squeaking like mice—another warning mechanism for him.
“Wrong client,” he muttered dryly at the small blond woman wearing old jeans and a clean muscle shirt. “I order brunettes. In ball gowns.”
For a reason he preferred to keep to himself.
She frowned. “’Scuse me?”
“I only take brunettes. And they are supposed to be dressed properly.”
He wanted long dark hair that curled at the end, a gown that reached the floorboards, and they had to wear Must de Cartier. Oh, and keep their mouths shut. They weren’t allowed to speak to him as he fucked them: Although the whores could get the outside almost right, the fragile illusion would be broken the instant their voices didn’t sound like the woman he wanted but could not have.
He had enough trouble keeping an erection going as it was—in fact, the only way he could get it up at all was if he believed the lie for the duration it took him to pump his way to an orgasm.
The woman standing on his doorstep put her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe I know what you’re talkin’ ’bout. But I know I’m in the right place ’chere. You’re Edward Baldwine, and this is the Red and Black.”
“Who are you?”
“Jeb Landis’s daughter. Shelby. Shelby Landis.”
Edward closed his eyes. “Goddamn it.”
“I’ll appreciate you not takin’ the Lord’s name in vain in my presence. Thank you.”
He cracked his lids. “What do you want?”
“My father’s dead.”
Edward focused over her head, at the moon that was rising above Barn C. “You want to come in?”