“What is all that?” she asked.
“Fifty-three million dollars,” he muttered, scrolling down. “I’ll bet it’s fifty-three million dollars.”
“What do you mean? Wait … are you saying she stole that?”
“No, but I think she helped my father to.”
“What.”
He glanced over at her. “I think my father finally has blood on his hands. Or at least … blood we can see.”
TWENTY-ONE
Refocusing on the computer in his lap, Lane scrolled down the Excel spreadsheet, tracing the entries, trying to add up a rough total. But he needn’t have bothered. Rosalinda provided the sum to him at the very end, in a bolded box offset at the far right of all the columns.
It was not, in fact, fifty-three million dollars.
Nope, it was sixty-eight million, four hundred eighty-nine thousand, two hundred forty-two dollars and sixty-five cents.
$68,489,242.65.
The explanations on the withdrawals ranged from Cartier and Tiffany to Bradford Aviation, LLC, which was the corporation that ran all the company’s planes and pilots, and Bradford Human Resources Payroll—which most likely took care of the household staff’s paychecks. But there was a repeating entry that he didn’t recognize: WWB Holdings.
William Wyatt Baldwine Holdings.
Had to be.
But what was that?
The lion’s share had gone into it.
“I think my father …” He glanced over at Lizzie. “I don’t know, the trust company says he’s put himself—or the family, I guess—into huge debt. For what, though? Even with all this spending, there should be plenty of cash coming in through Bradford Bourbon Company distributions to shareholders, of which we are the largest group.”
“The rental company …” Lizzie murmured.
“What?”
“The rental company didn’t get paid—their accounts payable called Rosalinda last week and she never got back to them.”
“Who else do we owe, I wonder?”
“How can I help?”
He stared over at her, his brain churning, churning. “Letting me get into this file is a good start.”
“What else?”
God, her eyes were blue, he thought. And her lips, those naturally red lips of hers were so perfectly shaped.
She was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear her. It was as if a muffling had come down around him, making him unaware of any sounds around him. And then the computer in his lap and all of its secrets revealed disappeared, too, so that neither the glow of the screen nor the pattern of the columns nor the numbers and letters registered, either.
“Lizzie,” he said, cutting her off.
“Yes?”
“I need you,” he heard himself say hoarsely.
“Of course, what can I—”
He leaned in and put his lips to hers, brushing quick— She gasped and pulled away.
Lane waited for her to get up. Tell him off. Maybe go eighties romance and slap him with an open palm.
Instead, she brought her fingertips up and touched her mouth. Then she closed her eyes. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m not in my right head.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Perfect, he thought. His life was on fire on too many fronts to count, so why shouldn’t he drop another load of flames somewhere else. You know, just to help the inferno along.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have just—”
She launched herself at him with such a quick shift, he nearly jerked away himself. What saved him was the wanting … the vicious craving he’d always had for her that was all pent up from the time they’d been apart.
Lizzie spoke against his mouth. “I’m not in my right head, either.”
With a curse, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her into his lap, the computer sliding off onto the thick carpet—which was fine. He wanted to forget about the money, his father, Rosalinda … even if just for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he pushed her down on the mattress with a twist. “I need you. I just … I need to be in you—”
Knock, knock, knock.
They both froze, their eyes meeting.
“What,” he barked out.
As a muted female voice said something about towels, all Lane thought about was the fact that that door was not locked.
“No, thank you.”
Lizzie pushed her way out from under him, and he moved so she could get to her feet. Meanwhile, the maid in the hall kept talking.
“I’m good. Thanks,” he said roughly.
His eyes tracked Lizzie’s hands as they yanked her shirt back down and finger brushed her hair.
“Lizzie,” he whispered.
She just shook her head as she paced around, looking as if she were considering a leap-out-the-window strategy for escape.
More talk from the maid, and he just lost it. Exploding up to his feet, he stalked over and ripped open the door, blocking the way into his room. The blond twenty-five-year-old on the other side was the same one who’d been in the hallway when he and Chantal had been arguing.
“Oh, hi.” She smiled up at him. “How are you?”