The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,137

go to for what ailed her, however.

And, yes, she supposed she could follow through on her first impulse, which was to go to Lane and have him firstly find out why Amelia had thought it was a great idea to lie about leaving school and then leave him to deal with getting the girl back to Hotchkiss to finish her finals … but abruptly that lacked appeal.

God, she didn’t even know where the school was really, just its area code.

She certainly didn’t know where her daughter was.

Going into her contacts, she found Amelia and initiated a connection. When she got voice mail, she hung up without leaving a message.

Where was the girl?

Getting to her stocking feet, Gin padded out into her bedroom and opened the door to the main upstairs corridor. Whatever drama had been going on had found a resolution or a different location, so she was alone as she went down and knocked on Amelia’s door.

When there was no answer, she cracked the panels and looked inside. The girl was in her bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be asleep—and she wasn’t in lingerie. She was wearing a Hotchkiss T-shirt and was on her side facing the door, those eyelashes of hers, which were every bit as long as Samuel T.’s, down hard on her cheeks.

Amelia frowned and twitched her brows, and then she rolled over onto her back. And then continued onto her other side.

With a deep sigh, she appeared to sink back into her rest.

Gin backed out of the room.

Probably better to get herself cleaned up before she tried to talk sense into anyone.

Back in her own suite, she proceeded into the bathroom and took off the dress she’d slept in. Wadding it up, she threw the thing away and then got into the shower.

She was running a monogrammed washcloth up her arm when the giant diamond on her left hand winked in the overhead light.

From out of nowhere, she heard Samuel T.’s voice in her head: You’ve got to take care of yourself.

FORTY-SIX

“You’re engaged?” Chantal demanded as Lane shut the trunk of the limousine.

“Yes,” Lane answered. For what was it, the hundredth time?

The whole engagement thing had been the woman’s theme song as she had played fruit fly from hell while everyone else had packed as much of her clothes, make-up, and costume jewelry as would fit in the limo’s big extended body. And now she and Lane were alone but for the driver—who was in the vehicle with the doors all shut and his face buried in his cell phone. Like he didn’t want to catch shrapnel.

Good luck getting a tip out of her, Lane thought.

“Really, Lane,” Chantal said as raindrops started to fall yet again.

“You couldn’t wait until the ink was dry even on our separation papers—”

“I should have married her in the first place,” Lane cut in. “And you are not in a position to be indignant about anything.”

As he pointedly looked down at her lower belly, Chantal smiled with as much sweetness as a nine-millimeter pistol had. “When is the will going to be read?”

“My father’s?”

“No, the pope’s. Of course your damn father’s!”

“It already was. There was no provision in it for you or your child. If you want to contest it, go ahead, but that’s going to be about as lucrative as your professional career—oh, wait. You don’t have one, do you. Not one that’s legal, at any rate.”

She jabbed a finger in his face. “I’m keeping this baby.”

“Unlike mine, right?” He ignored the pain in his chest. “Or are you going to make that trip to the clinic in Cinci again when you find out there’s no money in it.”

“Maybe I only wanted your father’s child.”

“Probably. Actually, I don’t doubt that that’s true.” He opened the limo’s rear door. “The executor of the will is Babcock Jefferson. Look him up, give him a call, get in line—and sue the estate or not. Whatever works for you.”

As she got in, she said, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“Boy, those words roll right off your tongue, don’t they. And I look forward to the call—as long as it’ll keep you off my property. Bye now.”

He shut the door on whatever she was going to say next and took the time to give the driver a wave. Then Lane went back into the house. As he closed Easterly’s heavy panels, he had no idea what time it was.

It felt like one a.m.

Heading deeper into the mansion, he found John Lenghe and