CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

Isabelle

 

Brant’s fingers were laced through mine, our thighs touching as the limousine came to a stop outside his new nightclub. I craned my neck, trying to see what was out the window, but only able to make out a large crowd. I realized I was squeezing Brant’s hand and forced myself to release my death grip. I nervously smoothed my dress, the one I’d finally settled on. It was simple, but I thought—hoped—elegant. The material was silvery gray and shimmery, a thousand tiny crystals catching the light. It had short sleeves and a high neck, but it clung to my body and was as risqué as I felt comfortable going. Chandra had tried to get me to go with something that exposed a daring amount of skin, but I didn’t want to feel any more ill at ease than I would by simply attending this event on Brant’s arm. And I wanted to look calm and relaxed. I wanted to make a good impression, as this was the first social function we’d been to as a couple, not counting May’s small party. At the thought of that day—that happy, hopeful day—my heart jumped slightly, but I took a deep breath and smiled at Brant.

Brant was watching me knowingly and leaned toward me, kissing the side of my neck and whispering, “You look beautiful. This is all just for fun. Relax, okay?”

I nodded, but I knew he was downplaying it. This was his labor of love, his passion. I took him in, handsome in a black tux, his hair combed neatly to the side. I brushed an errant strand off his forehead. “This is how you looked in the picture I first saw you in. I thought you were devastatingly handsome. You’re even more so now.”

He grinned. “Thank you.” His gaze moved down to the purple orchid pinned to my dress and his eyes softened as they had when he’d first seen it. He brought his finger to it, circling the petals and then meeting my eyes. We’d only had a moment together before the car had arrived, but his reaction to the flower was everything I’d hoped it would be. His eyes had flared with recognition, and I thought, the same memories I’d had when I first laid eyes on it. “Belle, about—"

But his comment was cut short when the door opened. He kissed me quickly, stepping out and turning so he could offer me his hand.

I smoothed a piece of hair back that had fallen from the chignon I’d managed earlier—after three attempts—and stepped out onto a red carpet. Flashbulbs went off around me as I stood, taking Brant’s offered arm and following him down the crimson path, the crowd separated by velvet ropes. The voices rose as they apparently recognized Brant, more bulbs going off in quick succession. I looked at him, and he was smiling easily. That made me realize my own expression was frozen in a cross between shock at the crowd size and horror at all the eyes on me. No, not on you, Belle. On Brant. They’re here to see, Brant. Relax. No one’s looking at you.

“Brant Talbot! I want to have your baby!” came a high-pitched female shout from the crowd, followed by laughs and cheers. Brant chuckled uncomfortably, shooting a self-deprecating smile in the direction where the shout had come from and holding up his hand in a gesture of acknowledgment.

Only, no one would have Brant Talbot’s baby. Not even me. The thought threatened to suffocate the hopeful mood I’d been in, but I drew my shoulders back and gripped Brant’s arm more tightly. I would not think about all that tonight. This was Brant’s night. And apparently, he was a celebrity of sorts here in New York City. I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, I had googled the man. Still, to see it on a small silent monitor and to be a part of the flash and the noise were two very different things.

As he waved and smiled at the crowd, I pictured him as he’d been in Kentucky, his jeans slung low, wearing a dusty shirt and his hair windblown from riding. That light that had been in his eyes . . . that fire. Where was it now?

A microphone was shoved in Brant’s face, and we stopped as Brant answered some questions about the new nightclub. I tried to concentrate on what Brant was saying, pulling out words like “state-of-the-art” and “contemporary” but this whole scene had me feeling like I was on a razor’s edge. I was tempted to run, to pull Brant inside so I could draw in a full breath of air, find a dark booth in some corner and regain some calm.

The interviewer thanked Brant, and we walked away but were stopped again as Brant signed an autograph shoved at him over the ropes, and then another, and another.

Over my shoulder I heard the interviewer say, “That, of course, was Brant Talbot, and apparently he has a new girlfriend. I think I can speak for the entire New York City social scene when I express my surprise that he’s no longer with Sondra Worthington. I personally was drooling over what a magnificent wedding that would have been.” Her voice lowered but only slightly. “I have to say, our fashion section won’t be looking to his new girlfriend for inspiration. Her dress is downright dowdy, and she’s paired it with an atrocious—”

Brant glanced at me worriedly as we turned toward the entry of the nightclub. He’d obviously heard the announcer too. My cheeks flamed with heat. I suddenly felt even more exposed, uncomfortable, my body stiff and uncoordinated, my smile brittle. I felt like an imposter.

It seemed as if I was half out of my body at the very brief ribbon cutting at the door, and then we were entering the large, dim space as cheers went up from the inside, the staff stopping and greeting Brant with boisterous shouts and whistles.

He acknowledged the staff and what appeared to be VIP partygoers who had been let in first with a wave and a smile, and then leaned in close to me. “Let me show you around.”

I let out a sigh of relief at being through all the hoopla, so glad to finally be alone with Brant and out of the spotlight. I was tempted to apologize to Brant for my dress, for being so ignorant when it came to style, for embarrassing him tonight of all nights, but I swallowed down the words. Brant would tell me I looked beautiful, he’d make me believe it, but tonight was not about me. Tonight was not about him having to talk me off a ledge every five minutes. I was a grown woman. I could deal with a catty, mean-spirited reporter. I’d dealt with much worse.

The nightclub was classy and modern with more of that gleaming unknown material making up the high-top tables and barstools. But there were also rustic touches that somehow complemented the contemporary décor—a wall that was planked in old, rough wood, a gigantic wrought iron piece hanging over the bar that held glasses in every shape and size. I smiled internally. It was so Brant, those two sides of him blended together to form an establishment that was a cohesive mix of luxurious and primitive. “It’s magnificent,” I told him, and I meant it.

The second floor was quieter with large velvet booths creating intimate seating for guests and music turned down lower so conversation was easier. As I looked around, a woman in a black strapless gown stood from one of the tables and made her way toward us, her slim but voluptuous body sashaying as she moved. Wow, she was gorgeous. And with a sinking stomach, I recognized her. Sondra Worthington. The woman I’d first seen in the online pictures on Brant’s arm. The woman the entertainment reporter outside had said everyone expected him to marry.

I personally was drooling over what a magnificent wedding that would have been, the reporter had said.

Sondra gave me a cursory look and then offered Brant a warm smile, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek, lingering a few beats too long. “Brant, darling, you look gorgeous as always. The club is wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Sondra. Thanks for coming. This is my girlfriend, Isabelle.”

Her gaze settled on me, her eyes moving to the high neck of my dress and then to my pin. Her lip quirked as if she was barely holding back a laugh. I put my shoulders back and lifted my chin. I was shaking inside, but I would not let this woman know that. This woman who had once been intimate with Brant, I could only assume. This woman who everyone expected him to marry.

Why hadn’t he been interested in marrying her? She was beautiful, successful, obviously sophisticated. They’d been a couple until right before he came to Kentucky. Perhaps beyond that . . . Jealousy, hot and fierce, prickled underneath my skin.

I felt sick inside as I offered my hand to her, managing a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”

She made a sound that could have meant nearly anything, her eyes moving to Brant as she took my hand briefly and then dropped it as if I might be contagious. “She’s not at all what I expected, Brant,” she said, smirking as her eyes again roved my body quickly. I had the urge to fidget, to straighten my dress, to apologize for something, though I wasn’t sure what, but I forced myself to remain still. “Well, I hope you’ll both be happy,” she continued. “I have to get back to my date, but do keep in touch.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek again, whispering something to him that I couldn’t hear. She didn’t acknowledge me again, turning and gliding away.

A man rushed up to Brant, telling him there was a problem with one of the VIP guests and he was demanding to see someone. Brant swore softly. “I have a manager who’s supposed to take care of this kind of thing.”

“Sorry, sir,” the young kid said, looking completely uncomfortable. “He’s putting out a fire in the kitchen.” He put his hands up quickly. “Not literally.”

Brant expelled a breath, turning to me. “Sorry, Belle, do you mind taking a quick trip downstairs with me to take care of this?”

“Actually, I’ll walk with you downstairs and wait at the bar. I’m thirsty.”

Brant smiled, putting his hand at the small of my back as we turned. “Perfect. Save a seat for me.”

He kissed me quickly after I’d taken a seat on the bar stool downstairs, signaling the bartender and telling me he’d be back as quickly as possible before turning away. A minute later I had a glass of water with lemon in front of me and was turned slightly in my seat so I could people-watch. I heard Brant’s name and looked at a group of girls at a high-top table nearby, whispering loudly and shooting me glances. I smiled, figuring they were just talking about the owner of the bar and turned away, catching a few snippets of their conversation. “Brant Talbot . . .” “Puritan.” Something about “. . . if I knew dressing like a nun would get me a guy like him, I’d have put on a habit long ago.” Hilarious giggles. Oh God. So it hadn’t only been the reporter outside. I had done this all wrong. I was in a high-style New York nightclub, on the arm of a handsome, successful man—the owner—and I looked . . . frumpy? I looked every bit the Amish girl I’d once been. Because I didn’t know how to be . . . this. Whatever this was supposed to be.

“Ignore them.”

I turned my head to find an older, balding man standing at the bar next to where I sat. He took a sip of the amber liquid in his glass. “You look like a queen. And they’re all hideously jealous. A fresh-faced beauty like you, who doesn’t have to show an indecent amount of skin to catch the eye of every man in the place? They can’t see straight with envy. And so they tear you down. Oldest human downfall in the book. Tedious really.”

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.