Which was her way of telling him to go to hell: With a whip around of the hair, she hipped her way off, swinging what was under that skirt like she had a cat by the tail and a target to hit.
Lane lifted his glass and circled the No. 15. He’d never been particularly involved with the family business—that was the purview of his older brother Edward. Or at least, it had been. But even as a company outsider, Lane knew the nickname of the Bradford Bourbon Company’s bestseller: No. 15, the staple of the product line, sold in such tremendous numbers that it was called The Great Eraser—because its profit was so enormous, the money could eclipse the loss from any internal or external corporate misstep, miscalculation, or market share downshift.
As the jet rounded the airstrips for the approach, a ray of sunshine pierced the oval window, falling over the burled walnut folding table, the cream leather of the seat, the deep blue of his jeans, the brass buckle of his Gucci loafers.
And then it hit the No. 15 in his glass, pulling out the ruby highlights in the amber liquor. As he took another pull from the crystal rim, he felt the warmth of the sun on the outside of his hand and the coolness from the ice on the pads of his fingers.
Some study that had been done recently put the bourbon business at three billion dollars in annual sales. Of that pie, the BBC was probably upward of a quarter to a third. There was one company in the state that was bigger—the dreaded Sutton Distillery Corporation, and then there were eight to ten other producers—but BBC was the diamond among semi-precious stones, the choice of the most discriminating drinkers.
As a loyal consumer, he had to concur with the zeitgeist.
A shift in the level of the bourbon in his glass announced the descent to the landing, and he thought back to the first time he had tried his family’s product.
Considering how it had gone, he should have been a teetotaller for life.
“It’s New Year’s, come on. Don’t be a wuss.”
As usual, Maxwell was the one who started the ball rolling. Out of the four siblings, Max was the troublemaker, with Gin, their little sister, coming in at a close second on the recalcitrant Richter scale. Edward, the oldest and the most strait-laced of them, had not been invited to this party—and Lane, who was somewhere in the middle, both in terms of birth order and likelihood to get arrested at any early age, had been forced into the excursion because Max hated to do bad without an audience—and girls didn’t count.
Lane knew this was a really poor idea. If they were going to hit the alcohol, they should take a bottle from the pantry and go up to their rooms where there was zero chance of being busted. But to drink out in the open here, in the parlor? Under the disapproving glare of Elijah Bradford’s portrait over the fireplace?
Dumb—
“So y’all saying you aren’t going to have any, Lame?”
Ah, yes. Max’s favorite nickname for him.
In the peachy glow from the exterior security lights, Max looked over with an expression of such challenge, the stare might as well have come with sprinter blocks and a starting gun.
Lane glanced at the bottle in his brother’s hand. The label was one of the fancy ones, with the words “Family Reserve” in important lettering on it.
If he didn’t do this, he was never going to hear the end of it.
“I just want it in a glass,” he said. “A proper glass. With ice.”
Because that was how his father drank it. And it was the only manly out he had for his delay.
Max frowned as if he hadn’t considered the whole presentation thing. “Well, yeah.”
“I don’t need a glass.” Gin, who was seven, had her hands on her hips and her eyes on Max. In her little lace nightie, she was like Wendy in Peter Pan; with that aggressive expression on her face, she was a straight-up pro-wrestler. “I need a spoon.”
“A spoon?” Max demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s medicine, isn’t it.”
Max threw his head back and laughed. “What are you—”
Lane slapped a palm on his brother’s mouth. “Shut up! Do you want to get caught?”
Max ripped the hold away. “What are they going to do to me? Whip me?”
Well, yes, if their father found them or found out about this: Although the great William Baldwine delegated the vast majority of fatherly duties to other people, the belt was one he saved for himself.
“Wait a minute, you want to be found out,” Lane said softly. “Don’t you.”
Max turned to the brass and glass beverage cart. The ornate server was an antique, as most everything in Easterly was, and the family crest was etched into each of its four corners. With big, spindly wheels and a crystal top, it was the hostess with the mostest, carrying four different kinds of Bradford bourbons, half a dozen crystal glasses, and a sterling-silver ice bucket that was constantly refreshed by the butler.
“Here’s your glass.” Max shoved one at him. “I’m drinking from the bottle.”
“Where’s my spoon?” Gin said.
“You can have a sip off mine,” Lane whispered.