Brant's Return Page 24

  “Isabelle, no, it wasn’t like that.” But even I heard the doubt in my own voice. “I wanted to marry you—”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you want to marry me?”

  “Because it made sense. It . . . we talked about all of that.”

  She stared at me then shut her eyes for a moment as if she were searching for strength. Against me. “We want different things. We’re broken, Brant, and I’m leaving.”

  “How can we fix anything if you leave?” I asked, desperate, throwing my hands in the air and letting them drop. “Just stay, Isabelle. We’ll fix this. We can—”

  “No. I . . . I can’t. I’m withering away here and I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m sorry, I love you”—she took a deep breath, pressing her lips together momentarily as if the words had escaped and she wished they hadn’t—“but I can’t stay here.”

  She picked up her suitcase and made to move past me but I grabbed her arm. “Please,” I rasped.

  She tilted her head and I could see tears in her beautiful eyes. “It’s my fault, Brant. I . . . I took a chance. I hoped for love. You didn’t break any promises to me.” She smiled, but it was so damn sad it wrenched my heart. “I broke them to myself.”

  She stepped around me and my hand dropped from her arm, sadness and desperation coursing through my blood and making me feel out of control, crazy. I breathed, trying mightily to rein in my swirling emotions, my mind searching frantically for something that would convince her to stay. But the only word that slipped free of my lips was, “No.” The word was broken, but far too quiet for anyone but me to hear. I raced out the front door, into the empty vestibule. The elevator had already come and gone and I jabbed at the button, a string of swearwords breaking free. When the elevator finally arrived a few minutes later, I rode downstairs, my heart beating a mile a minute in my chest. You’re losing her. You’re losing her. This is it.

  Bursting out of the elevator, I ran toward the front door, almost colliding with Jacob. “Sorry, Jacob, Isabelle—”

  “She just left, Mr. Talbot. A taxi to the airport . . . Mr. Talbot, are you okay?”

  I lifted my arm to acknowledge his question, stepping back on the elevator. The door closed, and I leaned my forehead against the cold metal of the door. She was gone.

  **********

  The morning sun streamed into the room. I’d forgotten to lower the blinds the night before after drinking several shots of bourbon and falling into bed. An empty bed that still smelled like Belle. The scent was delicate, just barely lingering. Like our relationship, I guessed. At the thought, pain radiated through me that had nothing to do with the mild hangover I was also suffering. Rolling over in bed, I stared at the ceiling, unable to stop seeing Isabelle’s anguished face as she’d told me she was leaving the night before.

  And yet her expression had been the polar opposite as we’d traveled to my opening—full of nervous hopefulness. She’d looked stunning, such a classic beauty in her gown, her hair swept up, the sight of the purple orchid pin I’d given her making my heart roll over in my chest. She’d worn it for me, I knew. I knew.

  I winced. God, she’d had an awful experience at my opening, how could she not? Between the idiot fashion reporter making fun of her outfit, being left alone while I was called off to fix problems, and then walking in on Sondra and me—her night had been nothing but miserable. Embarrassing. Humiliating.

  Goddamned Sondra. I’d just fixed several issues when she’d appeared in my office, making snide remarks about Isabelle and then taking me completely by surprise by grabbing the lapels of my jacket and kissing me. It’d taken me all of half a second to unlatch her death grip on my clothing and push her away, but long enough for Isabelle to see. Even though I was pretty sure she believed the kiss had been all Sondra’s doing, it was still a vision that would probably remain in her head. Christ. What a clusterfuck.

  It wasn’t only that, though. It was being here in general. Here in New York, I was able to retain that stiff control, that focus I’d perfected since I’d left Kentucky and began a new life. So yes, maybe I seemed more rigid, more . . . straight-laced. But that was because here, I had to be. Here, where I ran million-dollar establishments, it was expected of me.

  Buttoned-up blowhard.

  Despite myself, I breathed out a small laugh that turned into a groan. Because I knew the truth. That version of myself was capable of keeping her at arm’s-length. It was part of what made me feel safe, in control. It was the part of me that had run her off.

  I’d not only run her off, I’d made her cry when I’d vowed to care for her, to protect her. But vowing to protect her didn’t mean vowing to love her and that . . . Fuck, that I couldn’t do.

  I love you. Her words echoed in my brain, tormenting me, making me hate myself, and yet sending a wave of euphoria through me too, just as they had when she first uttered them. God, I’d wanted to say the words back. They’d risen from my chest and lodged in my throat. Trapped. I’d wanted to say it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Was it as she said? Was it because I was so afraid of loss that I’d rather hold myself away from her—from everyone—rather than risk feeling too much? Maybe. But that was wise. Wasn’t that wise? How could Belle—who’d lost far more than I had—risk loving again when I could not?

  And what the fuck was I going to do about this situation? I missed her. She hadn’t even been gone twenty-four hours and her absence pressed on me like a ten-ton weight. I was suffocating inside my own skin.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, hanging my head as I massaged the back of my neck. And yet, I didn’t have anything more to offer her than this. This . . . I sat up, leaning back as I surveyed the room. Riches, luxury, excess even. I moved forward and knocked on the shiny bedside table. What was this made from anyway? Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it.

  Of all the women I could have chosen, I’d chosen the one who preferred a pair of dusty jeans and a frayed ribbon in her hair to an evening gown and a string of jewels.

  Speaking of fancy clothes, I should get dressed. I had a meeting scheduled at nine. Despite that personally, my night had gone to shit, business wise, the club opening had been a great success. People had crunched numbers for me, gathered online reactions to the new venue, and a hundred other things. I needed to be there, at the very least to thank everyone and apologize for skipping out early.

  I reached for my cell phone and dialed.

  “Graystone Hill. This is May.”

  “Hi, May.”

  “Brant. How are you?” I heard some scuffling, as if she’d taken the phone to another location, her voice lowering as she continued. “Is everything all right between you and Isabelle? This morning when I saw her, she said she was back because you were immersed in work, but she seemed off . . . sad.”

  I sighed. “No, things aren’t great, May. Listen, I can’t get into it, but can you put Isabelle on the phone?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, she’s out riding. Left bright and early. Said her soul was yearning for it.”

  Guilt crept over my skin. She’d told me that too, and I’d dismissed her, told her she should go shopping instead. Fuck.

  I released a frustrated breath. Her cell phone was still sitting on the bureau. Even if she’d taken it with her to Kentucky, she probably wouldn’t have answered it while she was out riding. Or when she saw it was me.

  We’re broken, Brant.

  “Okay. Thanks, May. Will you tell her I called when she gets in?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “And how’s my father doing?”

  “He’s actually had a good couple of days.”

  “That’s encouraging to hear.”

  She sounded worried again as we said goodbye, and I wished I could do something to make her believe everything was going to be okay, but I couldn’t even convince myself of that.

  What a fucking mess. And I’d dragged Isabelle into it. Isabelle, who de
served a life of peace and joy for the rest of her days. I’d just thought . . . ah Christ, I hadn’t thought. I’d wanted her and I’d convinced myself that I could make her happy, never truly stopping to consider her deepest needs. Protection, yes, comfort yes, but also horses and pastures, Kentucky bluegrass and wide-open skies.

  And love.

  Isabelle needed love. She deserved it. And whether I myself thought it was a risk worth taking or not, Isabelle had decided it was.

  I took a chance. I hoped for love, she’d said.

  She’d given her heart to me, a man who didn’t come close to deserving it. And if I truly meant to protect her as I’d said, to ensure she lived a life containing the love she wanted, the children, the most selfless thing I could do was to let her go. No! My brain—the logical side of myself—said one thing but my heart screamed another.

  My fucking head hurt. I picked up the phone again, dialing my assistant. “Josie?”

  “Good morning, sir. How are you?”

  “Fine. Josie, I need you to book a flight for me to Kentucky, leaving about noon?”

  “Of course, sir. I hope it’s not your father—”

  “No. I have some other business to attend to there. My father’s condition hasn’t changed.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’ll email you your flight itinerary.”

  “Great. Thanks, Josie.”

  I headed toward the shower. I had no fucking idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that the answers were not here. They were in Kentucky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Brant

  I opened the door to Graystone Hill, finally exhaling the breath I felt I’d been holding since boarding the plane in New York. “Hello?”

  “In here,” I heard May call. She appeared in the hall as I was stepping into it from the foyer and her smile was instantaneous. Warm. Welcoming. “Brant!”

  “Hi, May.” I gave her a hug and then followed her into the kitchen as she spoke over her shoulder.

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming when we talked earlier.”

  “I didn’t know. I decided after we spoke.”

  “Oh.” She looked off to the side, seeming worried.

  “May? What’s wrong?”

  “Well, if you’re here then I guess you don’t know that Isabelle isn’t.”

  My heart skipped a beat and then resumed in quick staccato. “What do you mean, she isn’t? She’s still out riding?” Was she hurt?

  “No, no. She took the truck and drove to see her parents.”

  Her parents? A jolt of worry speared through me. Why? She’d questioned whether they’d had something to do with the deaths of her family, and dismissed it, but . . . I still didn’t like it. And I had no actual idea how to get to her. “Ah, where?” I asked.

  May walked behind the island, bending and looking at something in the oven. “Well, I know it’s Ohio Amish country. I’m afraid I don’t have the exact address.” She appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Your father might, if she listed them as next of kin on any of the employment forms.”

  “Right. Where is my father? Upstairs?”

  “No. Actually, he rode to the breeding stable with Mick. It’s good for him to get out, and I’m glad whenever he feels up to it.”

  I nodded, and it really hit me standing there looking at May’s kind face that eventually, sooner not later, my father would succumb to his illness. Had I not believed it until now? No . . . I still couldn’t wrap my head around a world that didn’t contain the larger-than-life personality of Harrison Talbot.

  I cleared my throat, feeling a strange swirling inside, overwhelmed by a hundred different emotions simultaneously: worry about Isabelle, sadness about where we had ended up, confusion about my feelings for my father . . . ah, hell, I didn’t even know. “I’m going to go put my bag in my room,” I told May, turning away.

  “Sounds good, Brant. The sheets are clean.”

  The sheets. Those sheets upon which I’d made love to Isabelle again and again, the ones we’d spent that glorious weekend between when we’d had the house all to ourselves. I set my travel bag on the floor, memories both assaulting me and caressing me, heat moving over my skin as cold regret settled in my bones. That weekend . . . I’d been happy, free, but half out of my head in a way that sent dread spiraling through me. The way I felt for Isabelle was a dizzying whirling tornado that I couldn’t control . . . and I, no, I couldn’t let it pull me under. I’d already decided that.

  But if I didn’t, I’d never win Isabelle back.

  I left the room, heading toward the office. The office where Isabelle worked. I could picture her now, sitting in the oversized leather desk chair, one ankle crossed over the other as she bit the inside of her cheek in concentration. Christ, this whole house was filled with memories of her. I clenched my eyes shut, wanting her here with me so desperately it was a physical ache.

  I opened the desk drawers but there were only supplies inside them. There were no file drawers in the office at all. “Where do you keep your employment papers, old man?” I murmured.

  Back in the foyer, I took the stairs two at a time the way I’d done when I was a teenager. My father’s door was half open and I went inside, heading straight for his desk.

  The first drawer I opened held a stack of manila file folders, the top one unlabeled. Of course. Just like my father. He’d always been so disorganized. I pulled it out and opened it, and it appeared to be a pile of business receipts, for tax purposes presumably. The folder underneath that one didn’t have a label either, and I pulled it out, expecting more random papers and instead came face to face with . . . my own face. It was an article from a few months before about my nightclubs. Frowning, I took it out, finding another article underneath that one—a review of the food at one of my bars. What the hell? Sitting in the desk chair behind me, I put the folder on my lap and leafed quickly through the huge stack of articles and clippings. They were all about me, going back to the very first business I’d opened when I was twenty-five.

  He’d kept updated, on my life, my successes and my failures, all these years. My heart clenched painfully in my chest, emotion overwhelming me. Oh Jesus, Dad. Despite everything, he had cared. I didn’t know how to feel about it, didn’t even really want to think about it all, considering the turmoil I was already in regarding Isabelle. Too much. It’s too much.

  I started to put the file folder back when I glimpsed the edge of a piece of paper with what I recognized as my mother’s handwriting. My heart lurched, and I reached for it as if I’d spotted the tips of her fingers appearing through a cloudy wall of mist. It was a note, and as my eyes scanned the lines, a lump filled my throat and I closed my eyes tight. Oh God.

  I was so surprised, so overwhelmed with emotion, I didn’t hear my father come up the stairs, didn’t know he was in the house at all until he stepped in the door. His eyes moved to the stack of papers in my lap, the note in my hand, and then to my face. For a second he appeared frozen, but then his expression melted into one of resignation.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “For what good reason, Brant?”

  He stepped farther into the room, and I could see that he was moving as if in pain, one measured step before another. He sank into the armchair, taking a deep breath and looking at me.

  “The truth. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

  “You were hurting. How much more would it have hurt to know about that?” He waved his hand toward the note still clutched in my hand.

  “My mother was having an affair, Dad. She was leaving you for another man for Christ’s sake! And you let me think you were the bad guy.”

  “Ah, Brant. I was the bad guy. Life isn’t a fairy tale. In real life, there can be more than one villain.”

  As I stared at him, that day came back to me in living color. My mother had taken me out to lunch. She’d been in that mood of hers that I hated: flighty, erratic, unpredictable, crazy. She’d poured salt on the table from th
e shaker and had drawn pictures in it and laughed. I’d been embarrassed and ashamed. We’d come home and walked into the house, and there was my father, kissing his secretary against the wall. Mom had crumbled, and horror and betrayal had coursed through me as I’d tried to comfort my sobbing mother. I’d found her later that day in a pool of blood in the bathroom.

  Because my father had cheated on her in her own home and she couldn’t bear it. Only . . .

  “I messed up, Brant. Your mother had left that note for me a few days before. She was in love with another man and was leaving with him. We fought, she cried, told me it wasn’t her fault, that you loved who you loved and that was it. I told her if she was going to skip out on her family, she’d have to be the one to tell you. It was her responsibility, not mine. I figured, ah hell, I figured she’d change her mind, come to her senses. You know your mother was prone to these ideas that—”

  “That flew away with the next strong breeze.”

  He sighed. “Yeah.” He shook his head, suddenly looking every minute his age, his illness, his limited time . . . “But I loved her. I loved her spirit. She wasn’t always the way she was near the end. In the beginning, she was this beautiful girl who loved to dance in the rain. Full of life, full of joy and laughter.”

  “I saw that side of her too, Dad.” I looked away from him, out the window where the Talbot land stretched before me. “I think it’s the only one I chose to remember.”

  My father regarded me for a moment, looking at me in that sharp-eyed way of his that led me to believe he understood exactly what was going on in my head. Hell, maybe he did. Hadn’t he always?

  “Is that why you began an affair with your secretary? Because my mother was leaving you?”

  “I wasn’t having an affair with my secretary. I was hurting that day, weak. I thought your mother was out telling you she was leaving us. I kissed Moira because she was there and I was needy. I used her, and I regretted the hell out of it. She was a decent woman who I knew had what you’d call a crush on me, I guess. I just . . .” His voice trailed off, but he took a breath and continued. “Christ, she was there and I was so goddamned sad.”