The Bourbon Kings
Page 102
Lane hightailed it back no more than a second after he was finally finished.
“Get me out of here,” Edward said roughly. “But set the phone back up here first.”
It was the height of impotence that he required his strong, able-bodied younger brother to put things back in order and then heft him to his feet and shuffle him out of the office like he was a geriatric.
And what do you know, Lane gave up trying to help him walk just as they came across that family crest in the carpet. “I’m going to have to pick you up.”
“Whatever you must.”
Edward turned his face away from his brother’s shoulder as his weight was popped off the floor. The ride was a rough one, his pain level ramping up and shifting to all kinds of new places. They made better progress, however.
“What was the paperwork for?” Edward demanded as they moved fast down that hall of conference rooms and offices.
“You’re going to have to walk once we get outside.”
“I know. What was the paperwork about?”
Lane just shook his head as they came to the back door. “I need to put you down.”
“I know—”
The grunt of pain was nothing he could hold in, much as he would have preferred to. And he had to wait to be sure that his legs accepted his weight, his hand biting into Lane’s forearm as he used his brother’s steady body to help stabilize himself.
“You okay?” Lane asked. “Are you good to get over to the truck?”
As if he had a choice.
Edward nodded and pulled the baseball hat down lower over his face. “Check outside first.”
Lane popped the door and leaned out. “Okay, I’m taking your arm.”
“How chivalrous.”
God damn him, but Edward got his legs moving toward that truck like the business center was on fire and that old F-150 was the only shelter he had: No matter how much it hurt, he just gritted his teeth and made it happen.
When he was finally stuffed into the passenger seat with the door closed, his stomach rolled so badly, he had to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth.
Lane jumped in beside him and cranked the engine. There was a grind of protest from under the hood as things were put in gear, and then they …
When there was no forward motion, Edward glanced across. “What?”
In slow motion, his brother’s head turned toward him, a strange reserve hitting Lane’s too handsome face.
“What’s wrong?” Edward demanded. “Why aren’t you driving us out of here?”
Releasing his seat belt, Lane said, “Here, read this. I’ll be right back.”
As the set of documents fluttered over Edward’s legs, he barked, “Where the hell are you going?”
Lane pointed at the papers and got out. “Read.”
When the driver’s-side door was slammed in his face, Edward wanted to throw something. What in God’s green earth was Lane thinking? They had just broken into their father’s—
For some reason, he glanced down at what was on his lap.
And saw the words “Mortgage” and “Instrument.”
“What …?” he muttered, gathering the pages up and putting them in order.
When he was finished reading them, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. In exchange for the good and fair consideration of “$10,000,000 USD or ten million US dollars” to Mrs. Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine … Sutton Smythe had an income stream of sixty thousand dollars a month until the full sum was repaid to her.
The kicker, of course, was the default clause: If the monthly interest wasn’t paid on time, Sutton could foreclose on the entire Easterly estate.
Everything from the mansion, to the outbuildings, to the farmland would be hers.
Not a bad risk profile, considering at last valuation about four years ago, the place had been thought to be worth about forty million dollars.
Edward cracked his lids again and riffled to the signature page. It had been previously notarized—regular practice at BBC on the QT. And William Baldwine had signed on the line that was marked Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine with his own John Hancock and three letters: POA.
Power of attorney.
So even though his mother’s name was the only one on the deed, and she no doubt had no knowledge of the agreement, and wasn’t going to see a penny of the money, everything was nice and legal.
Damn it.
When the door on his side of the truck opened, he cursed and shot a glare at Lane—
Except his brother wasn’t the one who’d done the duty with the handle.
No, Lane was standing off to the side, under a magnolia tree.
Miss Aurora had lost weight, Edward thought numbly. Her face was the same, but far leaner than he remembered. Then again, that was true for the both of them.
He couldn’t meet those eyes of hers.
Just couldn’t.
He did look at her hands, though, her beautiful dark hands, which trembled as they reached for his face.
Closing his lids, his heart thundered as the contact was made. And he prepared himself for her to make some comment about how horrible he looked—or even say something in a tone of voice that told him exactly how mortified she was at what he had become.
She even took off the baseball cap.
He waited, bracing himself—
“Jesus has brought you home,” she said hoarsely as she cradled his face, and kissed him on the cheek. “Precious boy, He has returned you to us.”
“Get me out of here,” Edward said roughly. “But set the phone back up here first.”
It was the height of impotence that he required his strong, able-bodied younger brother to put things back in order and then heft him to his feet and shuffle him out of the office like he was a geriatric.
And what do you know, Lane gave up trying to help him walk just as they came across that family crest in the carpet. “I’m going to have to pick you up.”
“Whatever you must.”
Edward turned his face away from his brother’s shoulder as his weight was popped off the floor. The ride was a rough one, his pain level ramping up and shifting to all kinds of new places. They made better progress, however.
“What was the paperwork for?” Edward demanded as they moved fast down that hall of conference rooms and offices.
“You’re going to have to walk once we get outside.”
“I know. What was the paperwork about?”
Lane just shook his head as they came to the back door. “I need to put you down.”
“I know—”
The grunt of pain was nothing he could hold in, much as he would have preferred to. And he had to wait to be sure that his legs accepted his weight, his hand biting into Lane’s forearm as he used his brother’s steady body to help stabilize himself.
“You okay?” Lane asked. “Are you good to get over to the truck?”
As if he had a choice.
Edward nodded and pulled the baseball hat down lower over his face. “Check outside first.”
Lane popped the door and leaned out. “Okay, I’m taking your arm.”
“How chivalrous.”
God damn him, but Edward got his legs moving toward that truck like the business center was on fire and that old F-150 was the only shelter he had: No matter how much it hurt, he just gritted his teeth and made it happen.
When he was finally stuffed into the passenger seat with the door closed, his stomach rolled so badly, he had to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth.
Lane jumped in beside him and cranked the engine. There was a grind of protest from under the hood as things were put in gear, and then they …
When there was no forward motion, Edward glanced across. “What?”
In slow motion, his brother’s head turned toward him, a strange reserve hitting Lane’s too handsome face.
“What’s wrong?” Edward demanded. “Why aren’t you driving us out of here?”
Releasing his seat belt, Lane said, “Here, read this. I’ll be right back.”
As the set of documents fluttered over Edward’s legs, he barked, “Where the hell are you going?”
Lane pointed at the papers and got out. “Read.”
When the driver’s-side door was slammed in his face, Edward wanted to throw something. What in God’s green earth was Lane thinking? They had just broken into their father’s—
For some reason, he glanced down at what was on his lap.
And saw the words “Mortgage” and “Instrument.”
“What …?” he muttered, gathering the pages up and putting them in order.
When he was finished reading them, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. In exchange for the good and fair consideration of “$10,000,000 USD or ten million US dollars” to Mrs. Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine … Sutton Smythe had an income stream of sixty thousand dollars a month until the full sum was repaid to her.
The kicker, of course, was the default clause: If the monthly interest wasn’t paid on time, Sutton could foreclose on the entire Easterly estate.
Everything from the mansion, to the outbuildings, to the farmland would be hers.
Not a bad risk profile, considering at last valuation about four years ago, the place had been thought to be worth about forty million dollars.
Edward cracked his lids again and riffled to the signature page. It had been previously notarized—regular practice at BBC on the QT. And William Baldwine had signed on the line that was marked Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine with his own John Hancock and three letters: POA.
Power of attorney.
So even though his mother’s name was the only one on the deed, and she no doubt had no knowledge of the agreement, and wasn’t going to see a penny of the money, everything was nice and legal.
Damn it.
When the door on his side of the truck opened, he cursed and shot a glare at Lane—
Except his brother wasn’t the one who’d done the duty with the handle.
No, Lane was standing off to the side, under a magnolia tree.
Miss Aurora had lost weight, Edward thought numbly. Her face was the same, but far leaner than he remembered. Then again, that was true for the both of them.
He couldn’t meet those eyes of hers.
Just couldn’t.
He did look at her hands, though, her beautiful dark hands, which trembled as they reached for his face.
Closing his lids, his heart thundered as the contact was made. And he prepared himself for her to make some comment about how horrible he looked—or even say something in a tone of voice that told him exactly how mortified she was at what he had become.
She even took off the baseball cap.
He waited, bracing himself—
“Jesus has brought you home,” she said hoarsely as she cradled his face, and kissed him on the cheek. “Precious boy, He has returned you to us.”
