The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,46
rooms, everything around him was quiet. This was rare. When you had over seventy full-and part-time staff and half a dozen family members under the same roof, usually there was someone coming and going on every level at all times.
Even that English butler was in absentia. Although that was less eerie so much as appreciated.
Outside, night was falling, the darkness easing over the land, smudging the edges of Charlemont’s extraordinary trees and the Ohio’s liquid low point with gray and black pastels.
Checking his phone, he cursed that Edward had yet to call, and to excise his unease, he opened a set of French doors and stepped out onto the terrace that overlooked the garden and the river down below. Walking over to the far edge, his loafers marked the flagstones with a sharp sound that made him think of cursing.
It seemed unbelievable that the grandeur surrounding him, the trimmed flower and ivy beds, the old stone statues, the flowering fruit trees, the pool house, the majesty of the business center … was anything other than rock solid. Permanent. Unalterable.
He thought of everything that was inside the house. The Old Masters paintings. The Aubusson and Persian rugs. The Baccarat crystal chandeliers. The Tiffany and Christofle and even Paul Revere sterling. The Meissen and Limoges and Sèvres porcelain. The Royal Crown Derby sets of dishes and countless Waterford glasses. And then there was his mother’s jewelry, a collection so vast, it had a walk-in safe as big as some people’s clothes closets.
There had to be seventy or eighty million dollars in all those assets. Well over triple that, if you counted the paintings—after all, they had three properly documented Rembrandts, thanks to his grandparents’ obsession with the artist.
The problem? None of it was in cash form. And before it turned green, so to speak, there would need to be valuations, estimates, auctions arranged, and all of that would be so very public. Plus you would have to pay a percentage to Christie’s or Sotheby’s. And maybe there would be faster dispositions with private sales, but those, too, would have to be brokered and would take time.
It was like bringing blocks of ice to a fire. Helpful, but not urgent enough.
“Hey.”
He pivoted toward the house. “Lizzie.”
As he held his arms out, she came to him readily, and for a moment, the pressure was off. She was a breeze through his hair when it was hot, the sweet relief as he put a load down, the exhale before he closed his eyes for sleep desperately needed.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” she asked as she stroked his back.
“I don’t know.”
“We can, if you want. Or I can go and give you some peace.”
“No, I want to be with you.” And as he ran his hand up and down her waist, he just wanted to get closer. “Come here.”
Taking her hand, he led her around the corner and into the garden she had masterminded, the pair of them going past the formal greenhouse and hooking up with the brick path that led to the pool. His body heated up even further as they closed in on the changing house with its awnings and lanai, its loungers, bar, and grill. The pool itself was lit from down below, the aquamarine glow getting stronger as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared over the Indiana side of the river.
Crickets sounded, but it was too early in the season for the fireflies to come out. The enchantment of the soft, humid night was everywhere, though, a melody that was as sexual as a naked form even though it was invisible.
Inside the pool house, there were three dressing rooms, each with its own shower and bath, and he picked the first one because it was the largest. Drawing Lizzie into the sitting area, he shut and locked the door.
He left the lights out. With the pool’s glimmer coming through the windows, he could see plenty well enough.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day long.”
As he spoke, he pulled her in to his body, feeling her against his chest, her hips on his, her shoulders under his hands.
Her mouth was soft and sweet, and as he licked his way inside, she whispered his name on a gasp that made him want to go so much further so much faster. But there were things he needed to tell her. Suspicions he feared but had to share. Plans to be made.