The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,64
down to his father’s room, it felt wrong not to knock before Lane opened the door—even though the man was dead. And stepping inside the quiet, dark interior of the masculine room was an all-wrong that made him look over his shoulder for no good reason.
There were few personal effects out on the bureau tops and the bedside tables, everything in the suite a consciously arranged and maintained stage set that announced “A Rich and Powerful Man Lays His Head Here at Night”: from the monogrammed bedcovers and monogrammed pillows, to the leather-bound books and the Oriental rugs, to the banks of windows that were currently hidden behind heavy silk curtains, you could have been at the Ritz-Carlton in New York or a country seat in England or a castle in Italy.
The bathroom was floor-to-ceiling old-fashioned marble and molding mixed with new plumbing, the fancy glassed-in shower enclosure taking up half the room. Lane paused as he saw his father’s monogrammed robe hanging on a brass hook. And then there was the shaving kit with its gold-handled brush and its straight-edge razor. The strip of leather to hone the silver blade. The sterling cup for water. The toothbrush.
There were two gold sinks separated by a mile of marble counter-top, but it wasn’t as if his mother had ever used the vacant one. And over the expanse was a mirror with gold sconces set into its reflective panels.
No medicine cabinet there.
Lane bent down and started opening drawers. The first one had a bunch of condoms in it, and didn’t that make him want to smash something for so many reasons. Next up were supplies like soap, Q-tips, regular razors. On the other side were brushes, combs. Under the sinks were toilet paper, Kleenex boxes, bottles of Listerine.
On some level, it seemed strange that his father had ever used such pedestrian things. Like any other person who was getting themselves ready for work or for bed.
In fact, a mystery had always surrounded the man, although not a cozy one. More a Jack the Ripper pall rooted in their lack of communication, lack of a relationship, lack of any warmth.
Lane found the medications in the tall thin closet by the window seat.
There were six orange pill bottles, each with varying numbers of pills or capsules in them. He didn’t recognize the prescribing doctor or the names of the medicines, but given the number of warnings on the sides about not using heavy machinery or driving while on them, he had to guess they were painkillers or muscle relaxants … or very serious compounds that made you sicker than your disease, at least in the short term.
Getting out his phone, he typed in the physician’s name.
Well. What do you know.
The doctor was at MD Anderson Cancer Center down in Houston.
His father had known he was sick. And likely that he was dying.
“You got kicked out?” Gin demanded across the fragrant air of the conservatory.
“Yes,” her daughter answered.
Fantastic, Gin thought.
In the silence that followed, she tried on a couple of versions of parental indignation, imagining herself stamping a high-heeled shoe or perhaps going with an old-school wag of the forefinger. Neither fit. The only thing that really seemed appropriate was getting Edward to handle this. He would know what to do.
But no. That avenue was cut off.
In the end, she went with, “May I ask why you were asked to leave school?”
“Why do you think. I’m your daughter after all.”
Gin rolled her eyes. “Drinking? Or did you get caught with a boy?”
As Amelia merely lifted her chin, the math added up to an even greater infraction.
“You slept with one of your professors? Are you mad?”
“You did. That’s why you took a break from school—”
The door in from the house opened and Lane appeared like a beacon to a sailor at sea.
“Guess who’s home from school,” Gin said dryly.
“I heard. Come here, Ames. It’s been a while.”
As the girl went into Lane’s arms and their two dark heads drew close together, Gin had to look away.
“She has news,” Gin muttered as she wandered around and picked at orchid leaves. “Why don’t you tell him?”
“I got kicked out.”
“For sleeping with a professor.” Gin waved a hand. “Of all the legacies to live up to.”
Lane cursed and stepped back. “Amelia.”
“Oh, he’s using your real name.” Gin smiled, thinking that Lane sounded like their father. “He means business. Is there someone we can call at Hotchkiss, Lane? Surely we can talk them out of this.”