But it wasn’t the worst.

No, the worst that man had done was something that only she seemed to suspect, something that no one else had brought up, whether it was under Easterly’s roof or in the newspapers.

She was convinced that her father was the one who had had Edward kidnapped.

Her brother had been to South America rather often, and as with American executives of his position and stature, he had always traveled with bodyguards and security hired by the BBC. With that kind of coverage, no one should have gotten within twenty yards of the man, and yet somehow her brother had been taken—not on the road traveling, or even at some remote destination.

But from his very hotel suite.

How the hell did that happen?

The first thing she had thought of, when she’d finally been told about the ordeal, was that her father had had a hand in it.

Did she have any evidence? No, she did not. But she had spent her childhood watching that man stare at Edward as if he had despised the very air the child breathed. And then later, when Edward had gone to work at the company, she had had the impression that the relationship between the pair had chilled even further, especially as the Board of Trustees had given Edward more and more responsibility.

What better way to get rid of a rival than have him killed overseas? In a way that would make William Baldwine look like a victim because he was a “mourning” father.

God, Edward had nearly been buried there—and when he’d finally come back? He’d been in terrible shape. Meanwhile, her father had been front and center with the media, the Trustees, and the family, but he had not, even once, gone to see his ruined son.

Disgraceful. And confirmation in her mind that William Baldwine had tried to get rid of a corporate threat he couldn’t fire.

No wonder she didn’t trust men.

No wonder she was never getting married.

Especially not to make her father happy.

FIFTEEN

When Lizzie arrived at Easterly the next morning, it took her two tries to get the Yaris into a proper parking space—which was a sad commentary on her mental state, considering the car was the size of a bicycle. Getting out, she fumbled with her bag and dropped the thing—and as she leaned down to pick her sunscreen off the already hot asphalt, she realized she’d forgotten to bring her lunch.

She closed her lids. “Damn it—”

“You okay there, girl?”

Lizzie straightened up and turned to Gary McAdams. The head groundsman was walking over the grass verge, his gimp foot barely slowing him down, his weathered face wrinkled with concern—like he was assessing a tractor that was about to lose its wheelbase.

Did she look that bad? she wondered.

Then again, she hadn’t slept at all.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Fine and dandy.”

“You sure about that?”

No. “Yes. How’s your team doing?”

“I got the mowin’ done, the ivy’s trimmed, and I’ma have ’em blow the terrace after ten.” Because that was when they were allowed to make that kind of noise around the house. “Tents are up, catering area is ready with the grills in place, but there’s a problem.”

Lizzie jogged her bag up higher on her shoulder and thought she was so ready to deal with an issue she could solve. “What?”

“That Mr. Harry is wanting to talk at you. There’s a problem with those there champagne glasses.”

“The placement of them on the tables?” She shut her car door. “Because they’re going to be passed, I thought.”

“No, they done got only half the order. He thinks you changed the number.”

“Wha—why would I do that?”

“He said you was the only person with access to the rental people.”

“I ordered the tents, that’s it. He’s supposed to handle the cutlery and the glassware and the plates—I’m sorry. Am I yelling? I feel like I’m yelling.”

He put his paw on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry ’bout it, girl. Mr. Harry drives me stupid, too.”

“It’s Mr. Harris.”

“I know.”

She had to laugh. “I’ll go deal with him.”

“Anytime you get bored of him, I got a shovel and a backhoe. Plenty of open country at my place.”

“You are a gentleman.”

“Hardly. Gimme your bag, girl. I’ll walk you up.”

“It weighs nothing. I can handle it.” She started toward the pathway that led up to Easterly’s servant wing. “Besides, I can use it to hit him over the head if I have to.”

“Remember my backhoe,” he called out.

“Always.”

With every step on the cobblestones, her chest tightened, and the choking sensation got worse as the vast back of the white mansion came into view in the distance.

After having passed the wee hours staring up at her ceiling, she had come to no conclusions about her and Lane. What had stuck with her? The sound of him at the end of that call. She remembered that sexy tone in his voice: It had usually meant he was going to find a way to get her alone and undressed ASAP.

It seemed like a complete and total betrayal that her body was nothing but oh, yeah—as if her libido had been waiting for the return of its master. But come on, she was so much more, so much better, than a stolen orgasm or two with a man she should be handling with barbeque tongs and a fire extinguisher.

Craziness.