by Mia Sheridan
Despite my surprise, his words sent a warm frisson of comfort flowing through me. “Thank you, Mr.—”
“Bruce.” He held out his hand and I took it. “Edwin Bruce. But please call me Edwin.”
I nodded, smiling. “I’m Isabelle Farris.”
“Brant’s lovely girlfriend. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Thank you.”
“Did I hear correctly? That you’re from Kentucky?”
“Yes. I actually work at Graystone Hill. That’s how Brant and I met.”
“Ah. Graystone Hill. Home of Caspian Skye. Finest bourbon ever made.”
My smile widened. “Yes. I don’t drink, but Brant explained the legend attached to it, and it’s wonderful.”
“Indeed.” He looked slightly sad for a very brief moment. “Where is that errant man of yours, by the way? Shame on him for leaving you alone like this.”
“He’ll only be gone for a few minutes. He had to clear up an issue.”
“Ah. There are always issues on opening night. I’m sure he’ll resolve them easily.”
“Do you know Brant?”
“Oh, yes.” He glanced around the room quickly. “He has excellent taste”—he nodded his head to me—“on all counts.” He smiled kindly. “I suppose I could take a lesson from him on business and changing with the times.”
“Are you in the bar or restaurant business, Edwin?”
He smiled, taking another sip of his drink. “Not for too much longer. But, yes.”
“Ah. You’re retiring?”
A strange look passed over his face but I didn’t know him and couldn’t read it. “Actually, Ms. Farris, Isabelle if I may, I’m the man whose club your boyfriend is taking over. I currently own The Mustang Room. It all came down to those barrels of Caspian Skye. We waged a battle and Brant won. In the end, Harrison Talbot chose to give them to his son. One can hardly blame him.”
I frowned, confused. “Oh, I didn’t think Caspian Skye had been produced for years though.”
He looked at me strangely. “It hasn’t, but there are barrels of it, aged to perfection, just waiting—” He seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden and I understood why. I’d told him I worked at Graystone Hill and knew all about Caspian Skye. Of course he’d assumed I’d know something as monumental as the fact that there were barrels waiting to be . . . bottled. I was sure that was how he’d been about to end his sentence. But I hadn’t known. Apparently Brant had kept it from me. Why? Was I wrong to expect that he would have mentioned it? And why did I suddenly have a sinking feeling in my stomach? “I do hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t have. Despite everything, I have respect for Brant. He’s a very adept businessman.”
“Adept. Yes,” I murmured.
We spoke for another few minutes, and then Edwin got a tap on his shoulder and was told his table was ready in the VIP lounge. He turned toward me, took my hand in his, and kissed it gallantly, just a soft brush of lips over the top of my hand. “Isabelle, you take care of yourself. And hold your head high like the royalty you are, no matter the whispers of the peasants around you.”
I laughed, not having to feign the warm smile that rose to my lips.
I waited at the bar for Brant to return, but whatever the issue was, it must have been worse than he thought. Or he’d forgotten I was here. I imagined he was used to dates like Sondra Worthington, who fit in and didn’t drink water at the newest, hip bar in New York City while waiting for her man to come to her. Or maybe he’s simply busy, Belle. Don’t doubt Brant. But then there was Caspian Skye. Although Brant had told me so much about the brand, the history, the buildings where the bourbon was made, he’d neglected to tell me there were barrels of bourbon at Graystone Hill waiting to be bottled.
. . . we waged a battle and Brant won. In the end Harrison Talbot chose to give them to his son.
So Brant had wanted something from Graystone Hill after all.
He’d wanted that bourbon. He’d been battling over it as a matter of fact.
My father thinks it’s a good idea if we get married . . .
What’s in it for you?
I finished the first glass of water and then another after the bartender refilled it. I hadn’t minded sitting alone at this bar for a little while, but now my heart was thrumming with dread, with the swirling questions creating a whirlpool of doubt in my mind. I wanted to leave this bar, at least to sit somewhere quiet where I could think more clearly. After another indecisive minute, I gestured to the bartender who came over. “If Mr. Talbot gets here before I get back, will you let him know I’ve gone to the restroom?”
“Certainly.”
The crowd was still relatively small, people mingling or standing in groups here and there. But more people were spilling inside. Brant had told me the general public would be admitted at nine and then we’d head upstairs to the VIP lounge. Nine! Here in New York City that’s when the party started apparently. Back in Kentucky, I’d have been getting into my PJs.
I wished I were in my PJs now. Curled up in bed at Graystone Hill.
I pushed through the door of the restroom, my heels clicking on the gleaming black tile, the music from the club fading though it could still be heard. There was a girl standing at the row of sinks, her leg bouncing to the beat as she bent forward and slicked lip gloss on her lips, pursing them and then holding her phone up to the mirror. When she saw me watching her, she giggled. I gave her a small smile, opening the door of the nearest stall.
I took a moment to pull my dress up and out of the way before attempting to use the toilet, and as I was getting myself back in order, I heard the door to the ladies’ room open and the clicking of heels on the floor. I was about to leave the stall when I heard Brant’s name. Leaning forward slightly so I could hear over the music being piped into the bathroom, I listened to the conversation.
“I overheard Brant on the phone when I visited him at his office recently. He’s only using that girl to get his father’s bourbon. She’s very temporary.”
“The unpleasant things you have to do for business sometimes,” the other girl said, and they both laughed. “Don’t worry, Sondra, I’m sure he’ll be yours again soon.”
Sondra. She’d been with him recently? I dropped my hand, leaning against the wall of the stall, my heart thundering in my chest.
My stomach cramped. Could Harry really have told Brant that the only way he would own the rights to Caspian Skye was through marriage? With me? Was that why Brant had seemed so enthusiastic about getting married? And then courting me after I’d said no? I squeezed my eyes shut. Why would either of them do that? I didn’t get it, and yet my mind spun with doubts, my chest full of turmoil.
Once Sondra and her friend left, I opened the stall, washed my shaking hands, glancing at myself in the mirror as I did so. My eyes were wide and pained and for a moment, I hardly recognized myself. Except . . . I did. I looked the way I’d looked so often over the last three years. Empty. Heartbroken.
When I stepped into the nightclub, the music burst through my skull. It had been turned up now that the real party was starting.
Where was Brant? I just wanted to find Brant. I had questions and I needed to find him and ask him to soothe my fearful heart. I was so tired of being in the dark about everything.
I know you’re not with me because you love me, I wanted to say. But please tell me you’re with me because you want to be, and no other reason.
The bass of the music filled my head, thumping, vibrating, and the crowd shifted around me, filling every small space. I had to squeeze and weave through it. I turned the corner and stepped into a room that seemed to be one big dance floor. People rotated their hips and raised their arms, gyrating to the music. Women shot provocative looks to the men they were dancing with, seeming to know just how to lower their eyes and flip their hair, their scantily clad bodies shimmying to the beat seductively.
I felt like an alien in some strange land, watching a different species perform some ritual I didn’
t recognize. I felt so absurd suddenly that I almost laughed. Oh Isabelle, how did you end up here? How? But my heart was too filled with fear and uncertainty to muster even the smallest giggle.
I hadn’t heard my father’s voice for a long time, booming out Bible verses as he looked at me with disapproval, but I heard him now, louder than my own thoughts, louder than the music that vibrated around me.
. . . treacherous, reckless, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God . . .
I let out a breath as I made it to the apparent edge of the dance floor, thankful to leave the dark space with the blinking lights and move toward what I thought was the front of the club. The crowd thinned and I was able to breathe again. I turned left down a back corridor, hoping to come upon a member of staff who could tell me where to find Brant. The music grew quieter and relief washed over me. God, get a hold of yourself, Belle. This was all new and . . . different, but it wasn’t like I was in peril. I forced my steps to slow instead of running down the hall like a demon was after me.
I heard Brant’s voice, low and gravelly, and my heart jumped, responding even to that small part of him. I sped up, moving toward the half-open door on my left, coming up short when I saw who was inside the room with him. It was a woman I couldn’t mistake, a woman in a dress with a back so low it nearly showed her backside.
Sondra Worthington.
And he was kissing her.
I froze. Stared, sickness rising in my throat. He clasped her upper arms and broke the kiss, pushing her away from him as she gasped and stumbled backward. “Dammit, Sondra—” He spotted me and his face went pale. “Christ, Belle.”
I turned and ran back down the hall, shock thrumming through me, turning my skin hot, then cold, a choked sob bursting free. I put my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t throw up, using my other hand to pull my dress up enough not to trip over my heels. As I rounded the corner, I ran into someone and he grabbed me, steadying me as the sob finally broke free. I looked up into the concerned eyes of Edwin Bruce.
“Isabelle? Are you okay?”
“Isabelle!” Brant called as he came up behind me, a note of desperation in his voice. I turned. His chest was rising and falling, his eyes were panicked. “Belle, that was not what it might have looked like.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Sondra sashaying in the other direction as if nothing of note had just happened . . . as if my world wasn’t crumbling around me.
Oh God, I felt sick. I was going to be sick. I’d seen Brant push Sondra away from him, but it was all too much. Too much, and I just wanted to go home. I shook my head, clenching my eyes shut for a moment. “I . . . I know,” I said, though I didn’t know that at all. “I don’t feel well. I need to leave, Brant.” I knew Sondra may take advantage of that decision, but at least I wouldn’t have to watch.
Brant glanced at Edwin Bruce behind me, his jaw clenching and unclenching, looking so tormented I almost felt bad for him. But not enough to want to stay. This was his world, one he knew how to navigate well. Not mine. “This is your night. Please. I don’t feel well.”
Brant let out a long breath, pushing his fingers through his hair as his eyes moved over my face. “I’ll call my driver—”
“I can take her home,” Edwin said. “Isabelle and I spent some time at the bar getting to know each other, and I was just leaving. My car is already waiting out back.”
Brant’s gaze moved to where Edwin stood, and he regarded him for several beats. He looked back at me, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, his jaw ticking again. “I’ll get out of here the minute I can.” He raised his hand as if to touch my cheek but then dropped it. I nodded, turning away from Brant as Edwin led me toward an exit. I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brant
“Thanks, Jacob,” I said to the doorman as the elevator closed between us. The ride to my penthouse was the longest minute of my damn life. I loosened my bow tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt so I could breathe a little bit easier. It didn’t help.
Edwin Bruce had texted me hours before and told me Belle had gotten home safely. I’d called the cell phone I’d bought her again and again, but she hadn’t answered. Fuck! She never answered that damn cell. I was constantly finding it somewhere, completely uncharged.
I’d left as soon as I possibly could, even though it meant eschewing some of the speeches and toasts I’d been expected to be at in different sections of the club.
I began punching in the code, my fingers stalling as my heart sped up. My breath came out in a sharp gasp as pictures flooded my mind of another room I’d walked into once after a woman had caught the man she trusted kissing another woman. So much blood . . . My skin broke out in a light sweat as I leaned my forehead against the wall. Stop it, Brant. Get a hold of yourself for Christ’s sake.
I stood straight, gathering myself as I punched in the code and pushed the door open. “Isabelle—” Her name died on my lips as I spotted her, sitting on the couch in jeans and a coat, her hands between her knees.
For a moment relief swept through me, but then my heart dropped to my feet. Her luggage was packed beside her. I approached her warily repeating her name, a question this time.
“Hi, Brant.” Her voice was soft, lacking in any emotion, and that scared me. My heart was thrumming against my ribs. What was this?
I glanced at her suitcase and then at her. “What’s going on, Belle?”
She sighed, tucking her hands more deeply between her legs, as if they were cold. My sudden impulse was to take them between my own, to warm them, to do anything to relieve even her most minor discomfort. “I’m leaving.”
For a moment I didn’t—couldn’t—speak. “Why?” It sounded choked, incredulous, but I couldn’t say I was honestly that surprised. You idiot, Brant. You damn idiot. “Belle, what you saw with Sondra—"
“I know you pushed her away, Brant. I saw that.”
“Of course I did. Sondra kissed me, Belle. I didn’t expect it, nor did I do anything to invite it.”
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes moving over my face, to my hands that were clenched at my sides. Hope flashed through me, a trickle of deep relief. What she’d seen had understandably upset her, but I could fix this. I could make this right.
“I would never cheat on you, Belle. I’m not like him. I’m not like my father.” Even I heard the intensity in my voice, the plea that she believed me. It was the truth.
She looked at me again for a long moment, nodding, though her expression contained . . . disappointment. “I believe you,” she said. “But I’m still leaving.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Something came into her face, some expression I hadn’t seen before. She looked resigned. My Belle, the woman who never gave up. Ever. My survivor, my fighter, had given up on me.
On us?
“I don’t want you to be faithful because you’re afraid of turning into your father, Brant. I want your devotion to be pure, not inspired by fear, but inspired by love. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Is that what this is back to then? Love?” I ran both hands through my hair, squeezing it in fistfuls and letting out a frustrated breath. “Belle, I told you—”
She put her hand up. “I know. You’re not capable. Only, you’re wrong. You’re scared for some reason I can’t understand because you won’t talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
She clenched her eyes shut and then opened them, her expression bleak. “I’m losing myself, Brant. Losing my soul. Every hard-earned piece of it I managed to gain back.” Her voice was weak and, combined with her sorrowful confession, I felt stricken, as if she’d slapped me with her words. “Somehow . . . I don’t know, but I’m not happy here.”
“It’s just temporary, Belle.”
“Yes, but it won’t always be, will it? I won’t be happy with this arrangement indefinitely. And
I doubt you will be either. I don’t fit in your world, Brant, and you need someone who does.” She offered me a small smile, but it was laced with sadness. “I guess I’m old-fashioned after all. If we’re not moving toward . . . more, there isn’t a point.”
I threw up my hands and dropped them. “Jesus, I’m the one who asked you to marry me and you said no.”
“Because I didn’t want a marriage without love. Not again. Tell me about the bourbon.”
Confusion overcame me again, a sense of emotional whiplash. “The bourbon?”
“Caspian Skye. Why didn’t you tell me there were barrels ready to be bottled?”
“What?” I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to clear my brain. “I didn’t know, at least not when we talked about it that night in the distillery. I found out later and . . . fuck, so much was going on. You told me about the money you found . . . I was working on my opening, we started planning this trip—”
“Did you ask me to marry you because it was the only way your father would give you the barrels and everything that comes with the name? Is it why you’re with me now?”
What the fuck? I wondered. Where was this all coming from?
“Edwin Bruce,” she said as if reading my mind. “He thought I knew. And then I overheard Sondra say something similar.”
My father’s words returned to me now, from the day we stood on the front porch after I’d spent the night with Isabelle in the distillery.
. . . if you married Isabelle, you could share Graystone Hill, and the distillery would be yours. Seems like a good deal to me. She gets her horses, and you get the distillery and everything that comes with it.
“No.” I shook my head, but I was suddenly confused, tired . . . fuck. I didn’t feel like I knew up from down anymore. What had happened to us? “I mean my father, he . . .” I blew out a breath, trying to remember what the hell I’d been feeling. “He wanted us to get married. He feels protective of you. I told you that. He threw in Caspian Skye to try to convince me, but—”
Isabelle stood, her arms hanging limply by her sides, her expression full of so much despair it made my heart clench.