CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

Brant

 

“Brant Talbot, pleasant surprise.” Yeah right.

“Mr. Bruce.”

“Please, call me Edwin,” he said, turning and gesturing for me to follow. His assistant, a young blond guy wearing eye makeup winked at me as we passed him where he was sitting at a large modern desk.

Edwin Bruce’s office was a moderate-sized space with tall, open ceilings and industrial-style furnishings. Sleek, hip. Too bad he didn’t extend the same obvious knack for style to his nightclubs.

Edwin took a seat behind the wood and metal desk and I sat on one of the black leather chairs in front of it. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure? Our meeting isn’t scheduled for another few days.” The meeting where I had planned to make him an offer on his failing club, an offer I’d fully expected him to accept. Now though, now things had changed.

“I think we can cut the social nicety crap, don’t you? I would have come even sooner if you weren’t out of town.”

Edwin raised one dark eyebrow, running a hand over his mostly bald head, the meager hair on the sides close-cropped and sprinkled with gray. He leaned forward on his desk, lacing his fingers together. “Blunt. I like blunt.” He smiled, that famous smile I’d seen so often at parties and events, splashed across magazines and on the Internet. “You’re displeased that I made an offer on Caspian Skye.”

“That’d be one way to put it. How’d you even know my father was ill?”

“I didn’t.”

Taken aback, I frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve been offering to purchase Caspian Skye from your father for years now. He’s always solidly rejected me. I called a couple of months ago, and suddenly he was”—he shrugged—“slightly amenable, at least. He’d always turned me down cold in the past, so I made some inquiries. I’m sorry to hear about Harrison’s diagnosis.”

I studied him. The fuck of it was, he looked sincere. And it made me feel uncomfortable. I looked away for a moment, out the window behind him that overlooked an alley and a row of businesses on the other side. “My father and I haven’t spoken for thirteen years. Not until recently.”

His expression didn’t change. He knew that too. I wondered briefly where he got his information, but realized it wouldn’t be that difficult. This industry was a tightknit community. Everyone gossiped so it would be easy enough to find out that I was from Kentucky and never went home. I didn’t advertise that my father and I were estranged, but I’d mentioned it to people in my close circle. Perhaps not as close as I’d thought . . .

Edwin leaned back in his chair. “I’m from a small town not too far from where you grew up. But not too far can also be a world away.” He paused, rocking slightly in his chair. “I’m from a coal mining town in Appalachia. I grew up in the type of poverty most people don’t think exists in this country. That’s where I’ve been for the past couple of weeks, actually, helping an organization with home repairs in what they call the hollers of Kentucky.”

I stared at him, not sure where this was going. Was I supposed to feel admiration for his charitable spirit and sympathy for his upbringing and say it was just fine and dandy that he’d take my mother’s legacy and make it his own? “Let me guess, you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps.”

He laughed. “Boots? I didn’t even have the audacity to dream of boots. We wore old pieces of tire, tied around our feet with twine.” He grinned, but somehow I didn’t think he was making that up, and a kernel of empathy lodged in my throat at the picture it created in my mind. I was tempted to look away but didn’t as he continued on.

“You know what I did when I bought my first club? I took my closest friends out that night and we toasted with the best bourbon in the place. Bet you can guess what it was.” His expression held a hint of tenderness.

“After that, I toasted every success with it. You know what that bourbon is to me? It’s the taste of perseverance. It’s the taste of hard work and luck and a dash of fate, and the kindness of a handful of trustworthy friends. That’s what Caspian Skye is to me.”

“Sweet story, but I hate to break it to you, Edwin. Pretty soon you’re not going to have an establishment to serve that bourbon in.”

His lips tipped up, though his eyes tightened at the corners. He sat back in his chair and watched me for a moment. “I will if I have that label.”

We engaged in a stare-off for another tense couple of beats. He was right. If my father sold that label to him, it would be just the thing he needed to make a comeback. An exclusive, coveted collector’s brand brought back to life and only served in his establishment. Maybe a small renovation . . . some marketing. Yeah, it’d do the trick. My body tensed in anger.

And yet you couldn’t be bothered with it until you knew I was dying and would be out of the picture, my father had said. Hell, he was right. I had made my own success. I had never especially wanted or needed Caspian Skye because it belonged to my father. But to think of it in some stranger’s hands? And especially this stranger? It made my blood boil.

And yet Edwin Bruce had been making offers to my dad for years. Edwin had shown a far greater interest in Caspian Skye than I had. His business plan was solid, and he might have earned the Caspian Skye label. I, on the other hand, clearly had not. A fact my father had pointed out to me.

Then again, my father had also said he wasn’t interested in the bourbon business. That had been my grandfather’s hobby. My father loved Graystone Hill for the land, the horses. So if he wasn’t interested in the bourbon, why hadn’t he sold it to Edwin Bruce long before now? What had he been saving it for all this time? Or who?

Me? Was that even plausible?

A beat of emotion at the idea alone flitted through me, but I didn’t dwell on what I had no real way of knowing. What I did know was that I wasn’t going to give it up to Edwin Bruce without a fight.

I stood. Edwin didn’t so much as blink. Nor did he stand. “I think we both know how this is going to end, Edwin. Buy some golf clubs. It’s time to retire.” I turned, letting myself out of his office, not even glancing at his assistant as I stalked by and out the front door into the brisk New York air.

 

**********

 

I couldn’t fucking focus. I paced my office for a few minutes, finally standing in front of the window, looking out at the New York skyscape, unseeing. I felt antsy, uptight. I’d give anything to be able to hop on a horse and gallop somewhere fast and far, the pounding of hooves loosening the thoughts in my mind and allowing them to fly away, the air rushing at my face, the exhilaration of speed causing that soaring feeling in my chest.

I used to get this feeling inside me . . . sort of like a choir, rising, falling, only one without sound. It would squeeze at my heart one second and then make it feel lighter than air the next.

Belle. What are you doing right now? I needed to stop thinking about her. Her words. Her presence. But how could I? She consumed my thoughts.

I put my hands in my pockets, picturing her in the training yard with the horses, her auburn braid trailing over her shoulder, glinting red in the sun. I pictured the heartbreaking sight of her crying against Mona Lisa’s neck as the rain fell around her, envisioned the way she’d looked later . . . lying in the dying glow of the fire, her skin flushed, her expression filled with wonder-laced passion. “Ah, Christ,” I hissed, running my hands through my hair and holding on to my scalp for a moment. I couldn’t fucking stop thinking about her. She tormented me. Thirteen days of being tormented to be exact.

And you didn’t even say goodbye, you coward. You didn’t say goodbye, and you haven’t called her. What did she think? What could she think?

My thoughts scattered with the ringing of my cell phone. I pulled it from my pocket, glancing at the screen before taking the call. Derek. I gave him a brief rundown of my meeting with Edwin Bruce, ending the call quickly. I’d been brusque, I knew, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

When I turned from the window I was surprised to see Sondra standing in my doorway. How long had she been there? Her face morphed into a smile as she walked into my office, her body shapely in a fitted emerald-colored dress. “Well hello, handsome.”

Her floral perfume met my nose as she leaned in, kissing me on the cheek, and then using her thumb to wipe off the lipstick she must have left there. “Why the glower? Rough day?” she asked, her hips swaying as she walked to the chair and sat.

I sighed, moving to the front of my desk and leaning on the edge. “Yeah.” I rubbed at one eye. “And long. I’m just tired.”

“Poor darling.” She tilted her head. “Why don’t you let me cook for you tonight? We were interrupted that night at your place, and I only saw you for a minute at the fundraiser last week. Some alone time is overdue, don’t you think?” She gave me a flirtatious smile.

I frowned and Sondra looked wounded for a moment. “Don’t look so excited.”

I shook my head. “No, no, I’m sorry, Sondra. It’s just . . .” What did I say? I know we started something but . . . I met someone? I can’t get a different girl out of my head? I look at you and all I want is Belle? A girl I barely know, a girl with a messy braid, calloused hands, and dust smeared on her cheek? I let out a frustrated breath. I needed to forget about Belle. I’d already determined there wasn’t another choice. Still, I didn’t want to lead Sondra on either. I wasn’t interested. Not anymore. Maybe I never had been.

Maybe my whole life was a big game of pretend. Maybe? Like hell. “Listen, Sondra—”

“Brant, I know what this is. You’re all twisted up because your father is dying. It’s understandable, darling. What you need is a little time to get your head back in the game so to speak.” She moved toward me, taking my hands in hers. Her palms were baby soft, smooth, not a callous to be found. “Just remember.” She paused, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. “I’m not the type of woman you keep waiting for long.”

She gave my hands one final squeeze and then turned, sashaying out of my office, the door clicking quietly behind her.

I let out a breath, relieved she was gone, but her final words repeated in my head. I’m not the type of woman you keep waiting for long.

And then the words my father had said, anger lacing his voice.

Isabelle’s the type of woman who will expect you to marry her.

Could my father have been right about that? I still didn’t think so, but . . . I mean, fuck, what if he was right? What if, because of her upbringing, Isabelle was so naïve she thought sleeping together meant I’d marry her? Me leaving like that must have felt like a desertion. Especially after she’d already been left to helplessly fend for herself once, even if under very different circumstances. Abandoned.

I dropped into the chair behind my desk, turning on my laptop. I had so much damn work to do, and yet I couldn’t fucking focus.

Look her up, my father had said. I hadn’t, because looking at her story as a news article on the Internet sounded intrusive, painful. Now that I’d heard the details from the woman who’d been there, the horror of the memory clear in her voice, the grief etched into her expression, how could I stomach experiencing it reduced to a few unemotional paragraphs typed out in black and white? And yet, despite my reservations, I brought up a search bar. I still didn’t know her married name, but now that I knew the crime she’d been a victim of and the rough timeframe, finding the information was easy using specific search terms: Kentucky home invasion, lone survivor, family murdered in their home. Fuck me. I already felt sick.

I pulled up the first article, scanning through it. It was a summary of what Isabelle had told me. I already knew the events, yet it still caused my chest to hurt, my jaw to clench. I clicked on the second article, speed-reading, scrolling down the screen. I stopped, one line jumping out at me that I hadn’t seen in the other article. Zeke Harvey, the man who’d invaded their home that evening, killing Isabelle’s family and leaving her with scars on her body and in her soul that she’d wear for the rest of her life, had held them tied up for four hours. Four. Hours.

I groaned aloud. She hadn’t told me that. I wondered why, wondered if the memory of those hours were filled with so much unfathomable anguish that she couldn’t even speak of them. To watch your child cry for you to save her the way her daughter must have done . . . I clenched my eyes shut, closing the top of my computer without even turning it off. No wonder her heart had broken all over again the night Mona Lisa couldn’t comfort her foal, the one Isabelle must have known was crying for its mother. No wonder.

I leaned my elbows on the desk, holding my head in my hands for long minutes. What she’d gone through . . . it was even worse than I’d thought, if that were possible. And the feeling roiling through my gut, shooting into my limbs and compelling me to do something was possession. Protection. Distress that I was here and she was there. And yet, she was safe now, safe at Graystone Hill. Her refuge.

But what if . . . fuck, maybe my father was right. Isabelle needed more than a house and a job. She needed someone who knew. She needed someone who understood her emotions when a foal went missing, or a mother horse died during labor, or a million other things that might come up during a lifetime that would pierce her heart and cause her more suffering, even if only for an hour or two. Surely the people surrounding her at Graystone Hill knew that she’d been through a harrowing tragedy, if not all the details. Only I knew the details from her perspective. Only I had seen the look in her eyes as she’d recounted that horrific day. Only I had witnessed the way her strength waned and her composure crumbled in the midst of an event that triggered her terrible grief. That in itself was a certain responsibility, wasn’t it? Isabelle had suffered enough in this lifetime. I couldn’t knowingly leave her to fight her future demons on her own. If I could do anything to ensure she didn’t suffer anymore, that’s what I was going to do.