Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  A buzzing had begun in my ears and I felt mildly sick. He was irrational, so misguided. Coming from a place purely based in fear. God, I could relate—though I’d moved through that stage. He never had. He was stuck and unwilling to extricate himself from the mire of pain. “I don’t need you to protect me from loss. That’s not your job, Brant. And it isn’t possible, anyway.”

  “Some things vastly decrease the odds,” he muttered.

  I stared at him. “What if I’m already pregnant?”

  His face registered no reaction but his body tensed. I remembered back to the day he’d come back to Graystone Hill proposing marriage, recalled the hope in his expression when he’d suggested I might be pregnant. What a difference a few weeks made. Strangely, the change in his reaction brought me some measure of hope. He was afraid now because his feelings for me had deepened since then. I hoped. Then again, hope was a tenuous thing to hang a relationship on. “We’ve been careful.”

  “Not always.”

  I watched his expression as he thought about that, recognized when he recalled the night of the party at Graystone Hill. He breathed out a sigh, running his hands through his hair again. “Let’s just hope we got lucky.”

  Lucky.

  Lucky?

  My idea of luck was clearly different than his in this case. And that left me feeling so terribly, terribly despondent.

  “Belle,” he rasped, clearly despondent as well. He moved toward me, taking me in his arms and lying back on the pillows, pulling me close. “Please, we’ll talk about all this later. This is an adjustment period for both of us, and I have the big opening coming up. We . . . we’ll figure it all out, okay?”

  He’d said that before. We’ll figure it out. It had brought hope the first time, and now it only brought emptiness.

  I nodded, having lost my fight. I was tired, emotional, and I just wanted to lose myself in sleep. And yet it was a long time that night before I finally did.

  **********

  I went for a long run on the treadmill in Brant’s home gym the next morning, my mood elevated slightly after the much-needed workout. My heart was still heavy after the night before, but I was not one to sit and wallow. My relationship was already on the rocks, Brant never wanted children—one of my dearest dreams—and even though I’d only been away a short time, I was homesick beyond measure. But what good would it do to sit around and cry? I’d made my proverbial bed, and now I had to face the consequences. And from my experience, sometimes the best course of action was to let things breathe for a day or two. Perhaps Brant would come around, perhaps we’d both gain some clarity . . . perhaps, well, I didn’t know. But if anyone knew that sometimes you just had to force yourself to put one foot in front of the other, it was me.

  I showered and dressed, and then called down to the doorman, requesting a driver. Brant’s opening was that night and I needed a dress, shoes, and possibly jewelry. I really wished I had a friend who knew more about these things who could come with me and tell me what to buy. I’d called Paige earlier to check in with her and get some advice, but she hadn’t answered.

  I wondered how much an appropriate dress would cost. Thankfully, I had some savings as I rarely spent much on myself, and my living expenses were provided for at Graystone Hill. Brant had left me his credit card, but I didn’t feel comfortable using it and so I left it where he’d placed it on the kitchen counter that morning. Something about the sight of that thin piece of plastic caused a heavy feeling in my chest. He’d share everything he had with me . . . except his heart. I didn’t want his millions, didn’t want his luxurious apartment in the sky. I only wanted him—all of him.

  I suddenly remembered the moment he’d brought the jewelry box from his bag in Kentucky and presented it to me in bed as we’d sat naked before each other. I recalled the way he’d bared his heart then as he’d given me the purple orchid of Caspian Skye—the pin he’d called inexpensive, but to me was priceless beyond measure because it spoke of our connection. It spoke of the fact that he knew what would move me when he let his heart guide him.

  My spirit suddenly lifted and I rushed to the master bedroom where I’d put the box in the top drawer of the bureau I was using. I opened it, gazing down at the pin, my eyes moving over the chips and dings that told of its age, of the history it held in its petals, and of the fact that it had once been loved. I thought then what I’d thought when Brant had given it to me. You’re in need of a second chance, aren’t you? Me too. Me too.

  Hope flared inside me as I held the symbol of the love story Brant had told me that night in the old distillery. Caspian Skye. A would-be king who’d given up his kingdom for love. It was perfect. If I wore this tonight, maybe it would be a good reminder of who we’d been together. Maybe it was just me who needed to remember Brant as he’d been that night—open, uninhibited, no pretense at all. I loved all of him, but that was the Brant I first fell in love with. I could only hope this symbol would mean something to him too.

  Twenty minutes later, full of a renewed sense of optimism, I was stepping out of the car and heading into a beautiful boutique on a street the doorman had suggested when I’d asked him the best place to go. “My wife dreams of shopping there,” he’d laughed as he’d written down the address and handed it to me. Classical music played softly in the background and the luxurious smell of mingled perfumes calmed my frayed nerves.

  A woman who looked about my age greeted me when I stepped inside. She was wearing a fitted white suit and her blonde hair was expertly swept into a chignon. I smiled. “Hi, I need a dress for this evening. Something formal.”

  She frowned slightly. “This evening? You won’t be able to have alterations done, but let’s see if we can find something that fits. I’m Chandra, by the way.”

  She took me by the arm and I breathed a sigh of relief. This stylish woman would help me find what I needed, something appropriate. I felt so out of my depth and I was sure she knew that.

  “One thing, Chandra.” I brought the pin from my purse. “I’d like to find a dress to match this.”

  She frowned down at it. “Is that a . . . pin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um, well . . .” Chandra said, pursing her lips. “It’s just that it’s quite . . . large. I can’t think of what it might go with.”

  “I’m sure we can find something. The simpler the better I would think.”

  Three hours later, exhausted, I dropped my shopping bags, draped my garment bag over a chair, and fell onto the couch. Who knew shopping for a few items could be so tiring?

  Brant had said he’d be home just in time to get ready to escort me to the opening. I glanced behind me at the clock on the kitchen wall then jumped up. I barely had enough time to do my hair and makeup and dress before Brant got home. I needed to hurry.

  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.”