The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,44

Sutton.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she is entertaining—”

“It’s business.”

Mr. Graham inclined his head. “But of course. The drawing room, if you will?”

“I know the way.”

Edward gimped his way in, passing through the foyer and by a study, heading in the opposite direction of the cocktail hour that was rolling out in the main reception room. Given that matched set of SUVs, it was likely that the Kentucky governor had come for dinner, and Edward could only imagine what was being discussed. The bourbon business. Maybe it was fundraising. Schools.

Sutton was very connected with just about everything in the state.

Maybe she would run for the big seat someday.

He would certainly vote for her.

As he entered a grand space, he glanced around and reflected that it had been a long time since he’d been in this particular room. When had he last walked in here? He couldn’t quite recall … and as he measured the lemon yellow silk wallpaper, the spring green damask drapes, the tasseled sofas, and the oil paintings by Sisley and Manet and Morisot, he decided that, like luxury hotels, there was a certain anonymous quality to homes of pedigree: no modern art, everything perfectly harmonious and priceless, no clutter or knickknacks, the few staged family photos set in sterling-silver frames.

“This is a surprise.”

Edward hobbled around, and for a moment, he just stayed quiet. Sutton was wearing a red dress and had her brunette hair up in a chignon, and her perfume was Must de Cartier, as usual. But more than all that? She had on the rubies he’d bought her.

“I remember those earrings,” he said softly. “And that pin.”

One of her long hands snatched up to her earlobe. “I still like them.”

“They still suit you.”

Van Cleef & Arpels, invisible-set Burmese beauties with diamonds. He’d gotten the set for her when she’d been made vice president of the Sutton Distillery Corporation.

“What happened to your ankle?” she asked.

“Going by all the red, you must be talking about UC tonight.” The University of Charlemont. Go Eagles. Fuck the Tigers. “Scholarships? Or an expansion to Papa John’s Stadium.”

“So you don’t want to talk about your limp.”

“You look … beautiful.”

Sutton fiddled with her earring again, shifting her weight. That dress was probably by Calvin Klein, from his maison de haute couture, not the company’s mass-produced sector, its lines so clean, so elegant, that the woman who had it on was the focus, not the silk.

She cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine you came to congratulate me.”

“On what?” he asked.

“Never mind. Why are you here?”

“I need you to perform on that mortgage.”

She arched a brow. “Oh, really. That’s a shift in priority. Last time you brought it up, you demanded that I rip the thing to shreds.”

“I have the account number for the wire.”

“What’s changed?”

“Where do you want me to send the account information?”

Sutton crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I heard about your father. On the news today. I didn’t know that he’d committed … I’m sorry, Edward.”

He let that hang where it was. There was no way he was going into the death with anyone, much less her. And in the silence, he measured her body, remembered what it felt like to touch her, imagined himself getting up close to her again and smelling her hair, her skin—only this time, he would know it was really her.

God, he wanted her naked and stretched out before him, nothing but smooth skin and moans as he covered her with himself.

“Edward?”

“Will you perform on the mortgage?” he pressed.

“Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“So let’s discuss where you can send that ten million.”

Footsteps out in the hall brought his head around.

And what do you know, he thought as the governor himself came into the ornate archway.

Governor Dagney Boone was, yes, a descendant of the original Daniel, and he had the kind of face that should be on a twenty-dollar bill. At forty-seven, he had a full head of naturally dark hair, a body honed by hours of tennis, and the casual power of a man who had just won his second term by a landslide. He’d been married for twenty-three years to his high school sweetheart, had three children, and then had lost his wife four years ago to cancer.

He’d been single ever since, as far as the public knew.

As he looked at Sutton, however, it was not as a politician would. That gaze lingered just a little too long, like he were respectfully enjoying the view.

“So this is a date,” Edward drawled. “With state troopers as