He was familiar with Lucian’s other friend. Sawyer’s son Slade was one third of the boys’ trifecta, though Shamus was a year behind the other two.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” He took another step inside the dim office.
“I was just … thinking.” And drinking.
The end of the workweek showed in his opened collar. A day’s worth of creases wrinkled his Brooks Brothers suit. He was roughly a decade and a half younger than her father, who had delayed having children as long as possible.
Though Sawyer was several years older than her, Bishop men wore time well, making it hard to discern their exact age. Sawyer’s years were well hidden behind laugh lines and eyes so clear she could discern they were of the brightest blue—pretty eyes, the sort that shimmered. The sort she liked.
He possessed a swarthy complexion and distinguished elegance that never went out of style, and his son, Slade, had inherited the same sort of devastatingly handsome presence, but disguised it behind youthful attire. Masculine beauty such as theirs was a tricky thing, it made the young man appear older and the older man appear younger.
As he approached, her eyes did a brief perusal of his tall form. Sawyer always dressed to the nines. Even now, his tailored suit and dark vest accentuated his trim build and long torso with timeless aristocracy.
He was seasoned, sleek, and possessed such charm women of all ages tended to fall all over him. Though, to her knowledge, he hadn’t been in any sort of committed relationship since losing his wife, Chelsea, thirteen years ago.
Casual strides led him across the carpet, his smile full of gentle understanding. “Rough day?”
He lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the desk, his broad shoulders relaxing with ease only confident men could master without looking slovenly.
Her gaze traveled back to his eyes. “Lucian left for college today.”
He nodded. “That’s actually why I’m here.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his designer jacket, he withdrew a check. “Your father asked me to deliver this to you.” The heavy paper landed on the desk with little flourish considering the amount inked on it. “He assumed that would be enough, but said to let him know if you need more.”
Several zeroes stared back at her. Three hundred thousand dollars. That was more than enough to fund her brother’s education.
He’s never coming back.
She refused to reach for the paper insult that rested between them, the proof that her father intended to buy his way out of the debt he’d labeled his children.
“Do you need … anything else, Isadora?” Sawyer asked, deep voice soft.
There was no use pretending their situation was normal. It wasn’t, and Sawyer knew that better than anyone after seeing the fallout of their father’s humiliating affairs, which she believed drove their mother to an early grave.
She shut her eyes, fearful she might see pity in his stare. It was no secret their father didn’t love them enough to be there. His absence made it easy to give up and point the blame at her when anything went wrong at home.
But at the same time, his inadequacies made it imperative that she prove she and her siblings were deserving of love and fine without him. It was something of a daily objective.
Sawyer’s question hung in the air like a sharp hook, piercing a veil worn thin with time and neglect. She needed so much, but certain things couldn’t be secured with money.
Shaking her head, she gave a sardonic grin. “I suppose the next time I hear from him will be when Toni’s tuition’s due.”
“I’m truly sorry he isn’t here for you,” Sawyer murmured, his watchful gaze showing genuine remorse.
She hated being the source of anyone’s pity, but was too tired to hide her hurt. “He used to call first, discuss what would happen. Now, he’s sending colleagues.”
Though Sawyer was more than a colleague to their family, it was how their father saw him. Sawyer had been there for every birthday and major life event when their mother was alive, back when they still acknowledged such milestones. Now he was nothing more than her father’s trusted partner, capable of accessing private funds and delivering certified checks—celebratory moments a thing of the past.
But Isadora never minded Sawyer’s presence. Despite their lack of family gatherings, she still drew comfort from his experience and easy guidance whenever their paths crossed. In a way, she sometimes missed him, but only recognized the emotion when his familiar face appeared out of the blue on days like today. This was not the first time he’d been sent to tidy up some financial issue at her father’s bidding.
“Thank you.”
She was past feeling embarrassed by her father’s actions. Sawyer didn’t hold her accountable. As a matter of fact, he seemed to see her apart from Lucian and Toni altogether, as if she wasn’t Christos’s child as much as her younger siblings, when in truth, she’d been his child the longest.
Perhaps it was an age thing, being that she was the oldest. She wasn’t sure when Sawyer stopped treating her like a child and started viewing her as an adult, but his recognition had a way of vindicating certain accomplishments others tended to overlook. He was always there to remind her she was doing a good job when she needed to hear it most.
Tipping his head, he gave her a knowing glance. “Do you think Lucian would have wanted him here?”
He knew her family’s politics too well.
“No.” Her response was succinct and indisputable.
Sawyer nodded, but she recognized disapproval in his eyes. Not for her or her siblings, but for their absentee father.
“He asked for a favor and I accepted. Next time I’ll tell him he needs to—”
“It’s fine.”
Having Sawyer deliver money was probably better than having their father show up unannounced. They would be fine without him. She’d had an emotional day and was simply acting out. “Him being here would only disrupt things.”
Sawyer’s brow lowered with concern. “Are you sure? I won’t offer my help anymore if it only causes more problems.”
“You don’t cause any problems, Sawyer. If anything you’re always there to help us when we need anything. I’m sure it’s better this way and I appreciate you dropping off the money.”
Sighing, as if accepting he’d inadvertently walked into an ongoing family squabble, he said, “I think if you check that top drawer you’ll find some fairly decent scotch. I could use a drink. How about you?”
Her gaze flashed to the empty drawer, heat burning her face. Sharp eyes as changing as the sky prompted her to slowly raise her hand, revealing the bottle. “I’ve already had some.”
A deep chuckle crept from his throat, seeming to ease the chill of the office and cast warmth into the dark shadows. “So you have. Do you have a glass?”
“There wasn’t time,” she joked.
He grinned and held out a hand. “May I?”
She hesitated only a moment before passing it over.
He eyed the label carefully, raising a brow in a show of appreciation. “I don’t believe I’ve ever sipped twelve thousand dollar scotch from the bottle.”
He tipped it back and took a slow pull. The shadow of stubble along his jaw and throat drew her attention as he swallowed. Dragging it slowly from his mouth, his tongue traced along his lower lip and he nodded.
“Still delicious.”
As he slid the bottle across the desk, she glanced at his face, searching for disapproval. Seeing none, she wrapped her fingers over the glass surface, still warm from where his hand had been, and raised it in a silent toast.
This time, as the scotch slid down, there was little shock. She welcomed the slow burn and savored the rich, woodsy flavor. Sliding it back to him, she watched as he again admired the bottle.
“There are only four hundred and twenty some labels of this in existence.”
He sipped slowly, easing back into the chair, and appearing completely at ease with his surroundings. She studied
his hands, finding something appealing about the lack of youth in his knuckles, lightly scarred as if he hadn’t always occupied a desk job. He had nice long fingers, lightly tanned with clean nails. Strong.
Her gaze lingered on his ring finger where a gold band used to rest. It had been some time since she saw that ring. His index finger twitched and her gaze jerked to his face, those sharp, raven brows arching in question.
Her heart skipped—clearly he’d caught her staring.
Searching for a distraction, she asked, “How do you know there are only four hundred and twenty bottles in existence?”
“If that.” The side of his mouth lifted. “This is Lalique, bottled in 1910, designed by Rene Lalique.” His inspection of the label was more nostalgic than technical. A slight smile curled his lips. “My father was a collector. I pilfered his stash often when I was a boy. Sometimes he overlooked the transgression and sometimes he didn’t. Suffice it to say, the episode that followed my drinking his Macallan Lalique will be something burned into my brain until the day I die.”
“You drank it?”
“All of it. And I didn’t even appreciate its fineness. I was sick all night, flushing twelve grand of scotch down the drain.”
She laughed. “So you didn’t even keep it.”
“Not for long.”
“Well,” she reached for the bottle. “I’ll be sure to learn from your mistakes and appreciate my father’s scotch, because I still intend to steal it. Restitution, if you will.”
He gave her a full grin as she tipped back the bottle.
They continued drinking over the next hour, passing the emptying bottle back and forth until there was not a penny worth of liquor left. Of course, Sawyer was drinking two sips to her one, but he was a lot bigger.
The more she drank, the more her worries eased and a sense of repose claimed her. It was easy to overlook the shortcomings that usually haunted her every thought when her belly was full of hundred-year-old booze.
Removing the pearl studs from her earlobes, she dropped them beside the heavy letter opener emblazoned with their family initial. Her body seemed to sink into her father’s chair as her head tilted on a soft cloud of alcohol induced contentment.
Sawyer studied her for a brief moment, but his attention no longer weighed as heavily. “It’s a lot for you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Taking care of your brother and sister.”
Her lips molded into an affectionate smile. “They were too young to take care of themselves and my father can’t be bothered. They deserve more than servants looking after them.”
“Perhaps his heart couldn’t take losing your mother.”
“Perhaps.”
As a widower, Sawyer would know more about that type of grief. But they both knew her father well enough to understand dismay probably wasn’t the case here. Still, it was a nice idea.
“Will you continue to do it?”
“Do what? Take care of them?”
He shifted, his posture relaxing. “Lucian’s an adult now. I have no doubt he’ll be self-reliant. But Antoinette…”
“She has a long way to go.” It didn’t need saying that despite her sister’s increasing age she still had a lot of maturing to do.
He nodded his agreement. “Do you plan to be there for her the way you were for Lucian?”
Isa nodded, not sparing the question the level of consideration others might. “Lucian only allowed me to do so much. He was already finding himself when our mother passed. Sometimes I think he should have been born first, but then I wonder if my father would have bothered to have daughters at all. You men certainly love your sons.”
He smirked. “That we do. It’s an arrogance that needs feeding.” Steepling his fingers at his chin, he stared at her, his expression contemplative.
“What?”
He lifted a shoulder and dropped his hands. “I was just imagining… Daughters must be completely different. You hope a son will possess a fair amount of courage, confidence, and chivalry, but daughters…”
She hung on his words, waiting to hear how he’d describe daughters. “Daughters…?”
“They’re fragile. Precious.”
Yes, they were, but even glass could prove stronger than expected. “I wonder if Isabelle Romee would agree.”
“Who’s Isabelle Romee?”
She smirked. “A mother. Her daughter’s name was Joan.” She arched a brow. “Of Arc.”
He chuckled. “Touché. Perhaps there’s a reason I wasn’t given daughters. I’d be a nervous wreck if I had to watch them run into war.”
“Some queens have proven better rulers than kings in terms of war. And some men are more fragile than the most delicate woman.”
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, he laughed. “I didn’t realize you were hiding a little feminist inside. My apologies if I offended you.”
“Oh, she’s not little. She just appears that way next to so many large men.” She reached for the bottle only to lift it and find it empty.
“Too many sons inheriting their fathers’ arrogance, I suppose.”
She considered his words, thought of his son, then realized her huge oversight. “Slade left today.” Feeling like a thoughtless heel, she sat up. “Oh, Sawyer, I’m sorry. Here I am going on and on about my life when you sent your son off—”
He cut her apology short with a wave of his hand. “We men like our sons, but eighteen years with them is enough. I wished him luck, gave him some sage advice about condoms and cafeteria food, and he was as glad to be rid of me as I of him.”
She laughed. “I suppose it’s different for…”
“Mothers?”
“Women,” she amended.
His gaze met hers and something shifted in the air. Perhaps it was the intimate knowledge of the circumstances they shared. Although her mother’s memory wasn’t one she hoped to replace, in another ten years she’d have accumulated more experience parenting than her actual parents could claim. But it still felt wrong calling herself a mother.
Isadora had yet to know what holding a baby in her womb felt like. The love, the worry, the secrets only a true mother could own. But perhaps someday…
“Chances are, Antoinette will regard you as her mother. You do everything a mother and a father typically do for their children.”
“I suppose the unfortunate part of that is that she’ll eventually forget our mom and I’ll never get to just be her sister.”
“You’ll still get to be her sister. Give it time. Before you know it, she’ll be a young woman, confiding in you, asking your advice, and perhaps giving you some of her own. When that friendship comes you can remind her what a great woman your mother was.”
She tilted her head, his prediction stirring a deep craving for such a bond. “One can only imagine what sort of advice a girl like Toni might give in time.” She laughed, trying to imagine her opinionated sister as a mature adult.
His regard suspended for a moment. “You call her Toni? I always assumed she went by Antoinette or Annie.”
“My father calls her Annie. To the rest of us she’s just Toni.”
Silence fell, as if discussing her little sister somehow altered his train of thought. Did mentioning Toni remind him of her age as well? There was nothing inappropriate about their conversation, but maybe getting tipsy together in a dark room bordered on improper to him.
She hunted for something intriguing to say, anything to stifle the sense that they’d run out of topics to discuss. Her liquor soaked mind seemed to be dredging through a thick swamp in search of clever material. She had nothing.
He shifted and glanced at his watch. “I should go.”
“Must you?”
His contemplative gaze collided with hers. There was something unnamable in his stare, something that hadn’t been there before. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted him to voice.
“Isa—”
“There’s another bottle of scotch at the bar. I
f I drink it alone I could end up repeating your mistakes.”
He grinned and settled himself back into the seat. “I can’t let you do that, now, can I?”
Relieved, she rose to retrieve the other bottle, hoping it was indeed scotch. Part of her suspected he was drinking to spare her from alcohol poisoning. If she had finished the last bottle on her own she would’ve passed out—which was still an objective.
Searching the cabinet, she squinted through the shadows. “Glenfiddich. That’s scotch, right?”
“A wonderful brand. What year?”
Breaking the wax seal, she opened the bottle and tipped it out of the shadows, hunting for numbers. Her eyes struggled to read the aged label in the poor lighting. There it was.
“Thirty-seven.” While she was at the bar, she searched for two rocks glasses.
“Shit.”
Confused by his whispered curse, she turned and came up short. Sawyer had vacated his chair and moved right behind her. Sucking in a breath, she stared up at his bright eyes, the scent of his cologne permeating the drunken haze of her mind.
“Let me see that bottle, sweetheart.”
Isadora stepped aside as he examined the bottle and cursed again. Her balance seemed off, but it hadn’t been a second ago. Processing his words on a delay, she frowned. “What’s the matter?”
He laughed and stared at the label, slowly shaking his head. “Son of a bitch. Your father sure is something else.”
“Why?”
“This bottle, the thirty-seven, it’s exquisitely rare. There are only a few left in existence. The last time someone auctioned a bottle it sold for something close to seventy-thousand dollars.”
“For one bottle?”
“Yes. Let’s hope it wasn’t your father placing the bid.”
She took the bottle out of his hands. Perhaps she was being petulant, or maybe the better word was drunk, but she couldn’t muster a bit of concern for her father’s spoiled collection. The seal was already broken anyway.
“Well, it’s already opened, so there’s no sense in wasting it.” They had no choice but to drink it. All evidence must be destroyed. She generously filled two glasses and slid him one. “Cheers.”
Sacrifice of the Pawn: Spin-Off of the Surrender Trilogy (Surrender Games Book 1) Page 3