Chapter Two
“From the nest they must fall.”
~Isadora Patras
In the weeks leading up to Lucian’s departure, Isadora savored any moment her brother graced their home with his presence, though such instances were few and far between. She chose her battles carefully. No longer waiting up in the kitchen at night, but rather, worrying from her bed and only resting once the shuffle of his footsteps echoed through the house, announcing he’d returned home safe and sound.
Soon enough he’d be on his own and she didn’t want to be an enemy he left behind. But she loved him and that meant worrying about him and suffering silently.
He was changing and that was changing her, too. It had always been the three of them and every day that passed he amputated more of his part of the puzzle from their whole.
Dominant men, like her father, could not be told what to do. Lucian was no different and she sympathized with any woman who dared to love him in the future. The impenetrable armor he’d donned since becoming an adult hid every tender part of him from the outside world—including her and Toni. Though she would miss him when he left, there was nothing quite as excruciating as missing someone living in the same home.
He seemed oblivious to how his emotional withdrawal affected her. She missed her little brother, even though he was still living there. Perhaps this was some cruel trick the universe played to make it easier to push birds from the nest when it was time for them to fly on their own. Her wings had been clipped the day her father left and she feared she’d eventually be left all alone in an empty nest, too afraid to fly after her own dreams—whatever they might be. Today was Lucian’s day to fly away.
As Lucian gave Shamus Callahan a brief hug goodbye, her mind touched on other goodbyes and lingered around fading memories of their mother.
Their parents should have been standing there for this moment in their son’s life. Their mother always took such pride in her children’s milestones. Isadora had grieved such a defining loss long ago, but moments like this, moments when one of them shined, always seemed to prick at the fraying threads that mended the gaping hole in her heart where her mother used to live.
When her brother’s dark stare met hers, Isadora pasted on a brave smile. “You have everything?”
Those flat, onyx eyes rolled as he held out his arms, engulfing her with too much strength for a man his age. “Yes, Isa,” he mumbled, his deep voice full of dry tolerance.
She savored the momentary truce between them, hoping this was the end of their recent scrimmage for the upper hand and they could once again occupy an even playing field.
Taking advantage of the hug, she squeezed him tight. “Make sure you eat and don’t forget to get your books before they sell out.”
He let go and she fought the urge to pull him back and pamper him with a hundred more maternal suggestions. He was leaving, yet she couldn’t seem to picture him gone.
Since their father left and their mother’s presence had faded, Isadora had taken her brother’s nearness for granted. She’d once considered running away, shortly after their mother’s funeral. She’d stood at the front door with a bag in her hand and the provocation to leave burning the hole in her heart a bit deeper than it already was.
As the knob turned in her hand Lucian’s little voice broke the silence. “Where are you going, Isa? You’re not leaving too, are you?”
She’d paused, incapable of explaining to a boy of ten how a father could be so selfish as to abandon his children only weeks after burying their mother. Maybe part of him believed their dad would come back a changed man. But Isadora knew the truth. She knew his absence would steal every opportunity that was her due.
“You’ll be fine.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She was not a replacement for their mother, any more than a nanny.
His little brow pinched as his dark eyes—too big for his face—shimmered up at her. “But we have to stay together—the three of us. We’re a family. Remember?”
She’d stared into his sad, young eyes, realizing his fear was a thousand times bigger than hers. It was then she understood she couldn’t take the easy way out. She could never act like their father and turn her back on those she loved.
And Lucian wasn’t running away now. He was moving on and she was both happy and heartbroken.
Part of her harbored a great deal of envy for the experience he was about to embark on. She’d been ordered to sit at the grownup table when her feet could hardly reach the floor, never being offered the chance to run away to college. She couldn’t reach her future when her father’s neglect sealed her to her past.
Years spent trying to make their broken family whole had certainly come at a cost, but she refused to regret what she’d forfeited. Every sacrifice had been her choice. And the reward was watching her little brother go forward in his life—no matter how much it hurt to see him leave.
Unlike the little boy who stopped her at the door, she wouldn’t stop him now. She was a grown woman and understood goodbyes were a part of life.
She swallowed back any sense of injustice and embraced the positive. Lucian’s progress was a reflection of her sacrifices and she was proud of him. Proud of all of them.
He bent to Toni’s height and gave her ponytail a firm yank. “You be good, brat.”
Their sister threw her arms around his shoulders and he lifted her like a ragdoll, squeezing her tight.
“Bring me back something cool,” Toni instructed.
Lucian lowered her feet to the ground and nodded. “You got it.”
Carrying the last of his bags to the idling SUV, he turned and gave them one final nod. A sharp pinch stabbed in her chest as she watched the door to the SUV close. Trying to see his face through the tinted glass was useless.
As the car pulled away she focused on holding all of her confused emotions inside so as not to upset her sister or make a blubbering mess of herself in front of Shamus.
Toni’s fingers gripped her hand tightly as the childlike sound of her sniffles competed with the crunching gravel. The shock of her sister’s upset was enough to stifle Isadora’s own tears.
Forcing a smile, she faced Shamus, who held Toni’s other hand. Lucian’s friend forced a smile, as though every little sniffle from Toni’s nose was cutting right into his sensitive heart.
“You’re upsetting Shamus,” Isadora teased and Toni gaped at Lucian’s friend, her big brown eyes glassy and too large for her little face.
Glancing at Toni, his brow creased, his mouth twisting with mock skepticism. “You better cry like this when I leave next year, brat.”
“You’re only going to school down the road. It won’t be the same. Lucian’s going to be all the way in the city.” But Toni’s grip noticeably tightened.
Isadora smiled at the sweet way her sister and Shamus always teased each other. Their special bond filled moments like this with light banter rather than sorrow.
Pretending to be affronted, Shamus scoffed. “Well … maybe I’ll transfer. Luche is stealing all the attention and the last thing he needs is a bigger ego.”
That penetrated her sister’s false indifference. “Don’t you dare!”
Shamus laughed and nudged her shoulder. “I’d never.” He gave her a playful wink. “You know what today feels like?”
Toni hung on his every word. “What?”
“Ice cream. How about we take a ride into the city? You and Isa put on fancy clothes and we’ll make dinner reservations at your dad’s hotel, but we’ll only order off the dessert menu.”
The pinch surrounding Isadora’s heart eased as Toni’s eyes cleared, her cheeks stretching into a wide grin. “What about supper?”
Shamus lovingly knocked a knuckle against her upturned chin. “Some situations call for special exceptions. What do you say we go break the rules of good social conduct?”
“Isa, can we?” Toni bounced with enthusiastic impatience.
“Why don’t you and Shamus go? Have fun. I think I’m going to rest.”
“You’re never any fun, Isa.”
“Hush, brat. Your sister’s entitled to some time to herself.”
Isadora smiled at Shamus, appreciating his help. “Thank you, Jamie.”
He nodded. “Come on, Antoinette. Let’s go make reservations.”
Staring out at the vacant drive, Isadora sighed as Shamus escorted Toni inside the house.
“How come Lucian and Isa call you Jamie sometimes?” her sister’s raspy voice asked as they climbed the porch steps.
“Because that’s my name. Shamus is Irish, but the English version is Jamie or James.”
“I like Shamus,” she told him.
“And I prefer Antoinette to Toni.”
When the house was quiet and Isadora was truly alone, her momentary ease faded. She wandered the silent halls questioning how everything still appeared the same, yet felt so different.
She ended up in her father’s study, the cold ambiance a gentle mocking of the hollowness she felt on the inside. The problem with formidable men, she decided, was when they left there seemed a whole lot of emptiness in their absence.
Twenty-three years old, suffering empty nest syndrome for a son that wasn’t her own, and trapped in a life she never intended to lead—her master plan never had time to truly formulate.
When she’d thought of running away eight years ago, she’d only been a confused little girl chasing a deep yearning for any sense of home. This was her home. It was all she’d ever known, but the desire for more still lingered. The yearning to feel loved and needed—necessary—was perhaps her strongest driving force and what had made her stay rather than go all those years ago.
Easing forward in her father’s chair, she pulled open the top drawer of his desk. The heavy wood gave way and—predictably—an aged bottle of Macallan rolled to the front. She lifted the scotch, cradling it in her lap, and brushed her thumb over the label, never quite able to tell if it was brown or red. Her color blindness was just another one of her characteristics her father ignored, because when certain handicaps could not be resolved with money, he refused to acknowledge their existence.
Turning the bottle, she examined the faded words. She’d held it a hundred times but never took a sip, always worrying—or perhaps hoping—her father would eventually return and want to know who drank his aged scotch.
The ornate cork pulled free with little force, interrupting the silence with a soft pop. While she resented her father’s neglect for her siblings’ sake, she never said much on the subject. Toni was the most indifferent to his absence. But Lucian, who recalled his cruelty well and knew exactly what sort of cold-hearted person could jettison three young children… Lucian digested their father’s abandonment like bitter poison, the sort that left a lingering aftertaste that could only fade once the venom was exorcised.
Toni forgot. Isadora compartmentalized. But Lucian remembered every cruel instance, and those bitter, flammable memories fueled so much of his unyielding drive for success. All of them, including their mother, had been affected by Christos’s toxicity.
Her brother intended to even the score, had vowed to do so since he was old enough to process the abnormalities of their family life. Once he finished college, she had no doubt he’d seek the vengeance he’d always wanted. Maybe then he could find the closure they all desired.
Sitting in the shadows, she raised the aged scotch. “Good luck, Daddy. He won’t stop until he’s beaten you.”
She drew from the mouth of the bottle, forcing back a gasp as the fiery liquid scalded her throat. Taking a long, healthy swallow of air, she laughed in the darkness.
“How does he drink this stuff?”
Perhaps she’d become a rich lush, like so many older females in similar situations after their children left, their purpose obscured by years of subservience and little chance left to forge their own identities. The thought stung and a misplaced laugh slipped from her lips.
She wasn’t old. She was the age of any college graduate, minus several rites of passage and the luxury of a degree. But she had other luxuries and complaining only made her feel like a spoiled ingrate.
“Don’t be a pathetic martyr.” She slouched in the large leather desk chair. “One day you’ll matter as much as the rest of them.”
“Isadora?”
Her shoulders knotted with a spike of surprise. Her eyes widened, but no one was there. “Hello?” How strong is this scotch?
“Where are you?” the masculine voice called from the hall.
She dropped her hands beneath the surface of the desk, hiding the bottle in her lap. Her face heated, as she feared someone might have overheard her talking to herself like a first class lunatic.
Clearing her throat, she calmly answered, “I’m in the study.”
The door creaked as Sawyer Bishop, her father’s colleague and long-time family friend, gazed into the room. His eyes rested on her for only a moment, before searching the shadows.
“Are you alone? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
Her face flushed with another flood of heat as she reached for the small accent lamp poised on the corner of the desk. A dull amber glow revealed dust over the unused surface.
“No, it’s just me. Antoinette went to the hotel for dinner with Shamus Callahan.”
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. If 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.”
He eyed the scotch and then glanced at her as she patiently waited for him to meet her toast. “Isadora,” he said slowly lowering his untouched glass to the bar. “Perhaps we should call it a night. It’s getting late and Toni will likely be home soon—”
As if on cue, the front door opened and her sister’s footsteps preceded the call of Shamus’s voice. “Isa?”
She returned her glass to the bar next to his. “I only need to thank Shamus and send Toni to bed. Don’t leave just yet.”
He seemed ready to object, but she turned before he had the chance. Leaving the study door open a crack, she hustled down the hall and met her sister and Shamus in the foyer.
“Did you have fun?”
“We had so much fun!” Toni beamed. “Shamus ordered two banana splits made like flambé and they cooked the bananas right at the table with a blowtorch!”
“Wonderful!” She glanced at Shamus. “Do I owe you anything?”
“Knock it off. Besides, the moment Antoinette introduced herself there was no chance we were paying. We got the royal treatment.”
“Thank you.” Her hand brushed lovingly over his sleeve and he stilled, shooting her a peculiar look.
Easing close, laughter dancing in his eyes, he whispered, “Are you drunk, Isa?”
Her cheeks burned, though they already felt unusually warm. “I might have indulged in a nip or two.”
He laughed. “I love it. Good for you.” Directing their attention back to Toni, he said, “Okay, brat, I’m taking off. Why don’t you head up to bed so your sister can enjoy the rest of her night off? Remember everything we talked about.”
Rather than put up a fight like she usually would, Toni smiled and nodded obediently. “Goodnight, Isa.” Her arms wrapped around Isadora’s waist, startling her with the force of such a loving hug.
She glanced at Shamus in question, but he only winked. Her hand rested on Toni’s hair. “Goodnight, baby.”
Toni pivoted and lunged at Shamus, throwing her arms around him with enough force to make him grunt. “Goodnight, Shamus. Thanks for an awesome dinner!”
“Night, brat. Be good.”
Toni made her way up the stairs and Isadora turned back to him. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. I just reminded her that not all sisters would give up so much for their younger siblings. I also might have promised her we could go out again if she stopped being so contrary every time you asked her to do something.”
Impressed, Isadora grinned. “I’m amazed she listened to you. Toni doesn’t listen to anyone.”
“She’s tough. I’ll give you that much. But I remember how difficult I was at her age. Teenagers suck and she’s going to be a challenging one. I figured, with Luche away, you could probably use a little … assistance.”
He was absolutely right, on all counts. “Well, thank you, Jamie. I really mean it.”
He nodded. “Any time. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”
“Goodnight.” She walked him to the door, smiling as his car pulled away.
Standing in the quiet foyer, she wondered why that moment seemed to carry more weight than so many others. Toni was quiet in her room, right where she was supposed to be. Lucian was likely unpacking the last of his belongings in his dorm—she hoped.
Switching off the front lights, she sighed, thinking she might actually get to bed before three in the morning tonight. The house was silent, she was feeling incredibly relaxed, and everything seemed just— Sawyer!
Spinning in the direction of the study, she hurried down the hall, hoping he hadn’t slipped out the back door while she was preoccupied. Wow, she definitely had too much to drink. She almost forgot about him and went to bed! That would have been awful.
Drawing in a deep breath, she pressed into the study and was relieved to find him waiting on the settee, staring into an empty glass. Her excitement that he hadn’t left was inexplicable. He was like a hidden present found under the tree, buried by crumpled paper after all the gifts were already opened.
His gaze lifted and settled on her as she lingered at the threshold, slightly short of breath.
“I’m back,” she whispered.
“So you are,” he said, his level stare seeming totally undistracted by anything else in the room.