The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,112
my closet, my underwear. I will give you no opportunity to find fault with me.”
She leaned in. “How’s that for legal jargon? And you’re not going to turn this car around because here’s the truth—I’m not signing it, and we’re still getting married. Your entire life, you’ve created nothing. You’ve done nothing that’s your own. You have no respect given to you on your merits, only on your inheritance. You’re going to marry me because then you can hold your head up high at cocktail parties and galas. After all, you are still that kid no one picked for teams in elementary school, but you can be the one to tame the great Gin Baldwine. And that will be worth more to your ego than anything I can ever take from your bank account.” She smiled sweetly. “So you can take your twelve-pound boilerplate and blow it out your ass, darling.”
As his eyes flared with pure murder, she resumed her perusal of the Ohio River. She knew damn well what was coming in her direction when he got home from work later tonight, but in her own way, she was itching to fight it out.
And she was also right.
“Oh, and something else to consider,” she murmured as there was the sound of the paperwork getting put back in his briefcase. “Spousal abuse isn’t going to play well in divorce court, any more than being a whore does. You know, all things considered, it’s a wonder the pair of us don’t get along better.”
Lane sped along, passing by the line-up of traffic that had bottlenecked going into town on spaghetti junction. At one point, out of the corner of his eyes, he was sure he saw the family Drop-head.
No doubt Gin and Richard on the nuptial express.
She was crazy to be marrying that fool, but good luck trying to talk her out of anything. With his sister, criticism merely put a bull’s-eye on whatever it was you were suggesting wasn’t such a hot idea. Besides, as usual, he had other things to worry about.
The parking garage he was looking for was on the corner of Mohammad Ali and Second Street, and he ditched the 911 in the first spot that wasn’t whittled down on both sides by idiots in SUVs who couldn’t park straight.
Funny, usually he did the defensive parking thing because he wanted to protect his paint job on principle. Now? He didn’t want to have to pay to repair any chips and dents.
Or make any insurance claims that might raise his rates.
And speaking of insurance …
Back during the night, when he hadn’t been able to sleep, he’d gone downstairs and over to the business center where he’d let his fingers do the walking in the file room. And there, nestled in between senior management’s employment contracts—all of which he’d pulled—and the original corporate bylaws—all of which he’d read, with subsequent amendments—as well as a top secret HR file that contained some shocking nuggets of bad behavior … there was his father’s corporate life insurance policy.
After he’d read through it three times, he’d called the office who had sold the policy and scheduled this happy little confab.
Some things you wanted to do in person.
The Englishman, Battle & Castelson Insurance Company was located on the thirty-second floor of the old National Charlemont Building, and as he stepped out of the elevator at its lofty perch, he found he had an entirely new appreciation for the view.
Considering that he now knew what free falling was actually like.
Ten minutes later, he was in a conference room with a Coke, waiting for—
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Robert Englishman, of the Englishman part of the name, came in with a legal pad, a smile, and an air of professionalism. “It’s been a crazy morning.”
Tell me about it, Lane thought.
Shaking hands. And then there was some conversation of the condolences, catch-up variety. Lane didn’t know Englishman very well, but they were the same age, and Lane had always liked him whenever they’d run across each other’s paths socially. Robert was the kind of guy who wore golf shorts with whales stitched on them and pink seersucker suits for Derby and perfectly pressed Brooks Brothers navy-and-club-tie get-ups to work—and, no matter what he had on, always seem poised to ride off in a Hacker Craft from the thirties. To a party where Hemingway was stopping. And Fitzgerald was getting drunk in the corner with Zelda.
He was old school meets new school, WASPy without the condescension and