The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,133

it. “It’s the only way I’ll agree.”

When Greta reached forward, her large diamond ring flashed, and Lizzie shook her head. Her partner was probably the only horticulturist in the country who was almost as wealthy as the estates she “worked” for. But the woman was constitutionally incapable of not being busy at something.

She was also, aside from Lane, Lizzie’s source of sanity.

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” Lizzie said as they clasped hands. “It could be—”

“Where’s your butler?”

At the sound of an all-too-familiar female voice, Lizzie looked up.

And promptly let out a string of curses in her head: Standing in the doorway, looking like she owned the place, was Lane’s ex-wife. Make that almost ex-wife.

Chantal Baldwine was still every bit as blond as she’d been when Lane had kicked her out—which was to say she was tastefully highlighted. And she’d retained her delicate tan and her short, perfect manicure, and her dress code of Rich, Young, and Socially Superior.

Today’s shift, for example, was peach and pink, floaty as a breeze, and fitted like it had been made for her. Which meant it was just ever so tight around her pregnant lower belly.

“May I help you?” Lizzie said evenly.

At the same time, she put her hand on Greta’s shoulder and pressed down. The woman had started to get out of the chair, but it was hard to tell whether it was to give Lizzie and Chantal some privacy—or to throat punch the other woman on principle.

“Where’s Lane?” Chantal snapped. “I’ve called him twice. My lawyer has repeatedly asked him to grant me access to my private property, but he has refused to respond. So I’m here now to get my things.”

Lizzie gave Greta a sit-stay stare and went over to Chantal. “I’d be happy to escort you upstairs, but I can’t leave you unattended on the premises.”

“So now you’re security, too? Busy, busy. I heard no one came to Mr. Baldwine’s visitation, by the way. Such a shame.”

Lizzie walked by the woman, giving Chantal no option but to follow. “Do you have moving men? Boxes? A truck?”

Chantal stopped in the middle of the staff hallway. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you were here for your things. How do you intend to move them?”

Okaaaaaaaay. It was like watching a first grader try to do advanced physics.

“Mr. Harris handles all that,” was the eventual answer to the question.

“Well, he’s not here. So what’s your plan?”

When that vacant, calculator-with-no-batteries look returned to that beautiful face, Lizzie was tempted to let the woman just stand there for the next twelve hours and enjoy the brain cramp. But there was too much work to be done, and frankly, having Chantal around was uncomfortable.

“What car did you come in?” Lizzie asked.

“A limousine.” As if anything else would be unthinkable.

“Greta?” Lizzie called out. “Would you be able to get some—”

The German came out and headed for the cellar stairs. “—Rubbermaid bins. Ja. Coming.”

Clearly, she had been listening, and it had nearly killed her not to solve the problem. With maybe a shotgun.

“Let’s go,” Lizzie said. “I’ll take you upstairs. We’ll get this done somehow.”

She’d already moved one blowhard out of the house with Mr. Harris’s departure. She kept this up, and it was going to become a core competency.

“Randolph.” Lane started walking toward his car—and his half brother. “How are you?”

“It’s Damion, actually.” The kid pulled at his open jacket, but given his lanky frame and the fact that it wasn’t zippered shut, the thing was not too tight. “And I wasn’t following your car. I didn’t follow you—well, I was going by on the way to school.”

“Which school are you in?” Even though, considering the khaki pants, white shirt, and blue and green tie, Lane knew.

“Charlemont Country Day.”

Lane frowned. “Isn’t that out of the way?”

The kid looked away. Looked back. “I go the long route because I wanted—I want … to see what it’s like. You know, the house … where he lives. Lived.”

“That’s totally understandable.”

Damion stared at the pavement. “I thought you’d be angry at me or something.”

“Why? None of it is your fault. You didn’t ask for this, and just because I don’t want to deal with some of what my father did, doesn’t mean I’m going to be hard on you.”

“My grandmother told me you all would hate me.”

“I don’t know her and I’m not going to disrespect her, but that won’t happen. I meant what I said. You come anytime—I’d take you there right now, but I’m meeting someone