“Resources …?”
“And that includes petty cash, bank accounts, travel and hotel accommodations, and access to the other Bradford properties around the world.”
Now her foot slipped off the accelerator, and when the car behind her began to sound its horn, she eased off onto the side of the road.
“I wish there were something I could do to be of aid,” he said in a flat tone that suggested that was, in fact, not the case. “But as I stated, I am unable to assist you.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Perhaps coming home would be best. I just saw you leave in the Rolls-Royce.”
“I’m not marrying Richard Pford,” she said, and then ended the call.
As she stared out through the windshield, the jagged skyscrapers of downtown seemed daunting for the first time in her life. She had never been impressed with the city of Charlemont before, having been around the world several times. But all that travel had occurred when she had had unlimited resources at her disposal.
With a shaking hand, she took out her wallet and popped the flap. She had five one-hundred-dollar bills and a couple of twenties … and seven credit cards, including an Amex Centurion. No driver’s license because she always took a chauffeur. No health insurance card because she used concierge physicians affiliated with the Bradford Bourbon Company. No passport, but she hadn’t planned on leaving the country.
Two hundred yards up on the left, there was a gas station, and she put the Phantom in drive and jerked out into the rush-hour traffic. When she got to the Shell sign, she cut in front of an oncoming truck and stopped next to one of the sets of gas pumps.
When she got out, it was not to pump fuel. The tank was full.
She took out a random Visa card, put it into the reader and pulled the plastic free. Punched in her zip code. Waited to see if the hypothetical transaction was accepted.
Not Approved.
She tried her Amex and got the same response from the computer. When two more Visas didn’t work, she stopped.
He’d killed her cards.
Back behind the wheel, everything went blurry. There were trust funds all over the place, money that was hers … but only in two years, when she turned thirty-five, and not one moment before then—something she’d learned when she’d tried to buy a house in London last year on a whim and been turned down by her father: No matter how much she had yelled at her trust company, they’d refused to disperse any funds, stating that she was not allowed access to them until she met the age criteria.
There was only one place she could think of to go.
She hated begging, but it was better than that marriage—or admitting defeat to her father.
Once again in drive, she barged back into traffic and headed in the direction she’d come in. She was not returning to Easterly, however. She was going to—
All at once, the car went dead. Everything stopped—the engine, the air-conditioning, the dashboard lights. The only things that worked were the steering and the brakes.
As she jabbed at the start/stop button, she watched her frantic, impotent action from a distance, noticing absently how ragged her fingernails were, the ends snapped off, the perfect cherry-red lacquer chipped. Forced to admit the engine wasn’t coming back on, she jerked over to the side of the road so she wasn’t rear-ended and—
Sirens sounded out in the distance and she looked up into the rearview mirror.
The Charlemont Metro Police car that pulled in behind her kept its lights on as it skidded to a halt. And then a second unit settled onto the shoulder in front and backed up until the Phantom was blocked in.
Both officers approached her with their hands on their holstered guns, as if they were unsure whether they were going to need to use the weapons.
“Get out of the vehicle, ma’am,” the taller one said in a commanding voice.
“This is my car!” she hollered through all the closed windows. “You have no right to—”
“This vehicle is Mr. William Baldwine’s, and you are not authorized to use it.”
“Oh, my God …” she whispered.
“Get out of the car, ma’am—”
Shit, she didn’t have her license. “I’m his daughter!”
“Ma’am, I’m ordering you to unlock your doors and vacate the vehicle. Otherwise I’m going to charge you with resisting arrest. As well as operating a stolen vehicle.”
SIXTEEN
“Of course I’ve been waiting for you.” As soon as Lane spoke, he put out his palms to Lizzie, all hold-up, wait-a-minute. “But only as a friend. Who wanted to make sure you got into work okay.”
Damn, she looked good. She was once again in her black Easterly polo and pair of khaki shorts, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail … but somehow, she seemed exotically beautiful.
Then again, it had been over twelve hours since he’d seen her.
A lifetime, really.
As she rolled her eyes, he caught her trying to hide a smile. “I’ve done the drive a few times, you know,” she said.