Brant's Return

“What’s he . . . like?” I asked. “Do you remember much about him?”

May’s smile was wistful, affection in her eyes. “Oh, he was a wild thing. Always up to no good.” But despite the words, her smile grew. “Impulsive, but . . . kindhearted. He was so full of life, that one, passionate about everything.” Her smile slipped. “I suppose that’s why they fought so hard, and why their disagreement has dragged on so long. Neither he nor his stubborn father were ever ones to do anything in half measures.”

“Huh,” I said, biting at my lip. Thirteen years. It must have been one hell of a disagreement. What a terrible loss for both of them.

Just then, a couple of the stablemen walked into the kitchen, greeting us both and sitting at the large island. May began pouring them coffee as I took the last bite of my cinnamon roll. I wished them a good day and excused myself, heading to the office on the other side of the house.

I sat at the ornate carved desk, logging in to the computer in front of me. I started to go through emails, pausing as I tapped my foot on the plush oriental carpet beneath my feet. After a second, I clicked off my email account, going to Google where I quickly typed in Brant’s name.

A plethora of hits came up, all related to articles on his myriad New York City nightlife establishments, or so it seemed. I scrolled down, browsing through the headlines for a moment and then clicked on images, an entire page appearing of Brant Talbot at different social events. In almost every one, there was a beautiful woman on his arm, though from what it looked like, rarely the same one. He obviously wasn’t married. The most recent photo showed him with a woman identified as Sondra Worthington, a Manhattan real estate agent. She was tall and gorgeous and they made a striking couple. He wore the same relaxed, yet somehow removed half-smile that he seemed to wear in most of his pictures as she smiled coyly at the camera. Self-consciously, I fiddled with the messy braid hanging over my shoulder, auburn strands loose around my face. I’d never concerned myself too much with my looks before, but staring at the gorgeous woman on the screen made me feel plain, dowdy. God, I’d look like a ragamuffin next to a woman like that.

My eyes moved back to Brant Talbot. May had called him passionate, but the apathetic expression on his chiseled face made me doubt that description still fit. Or perhaps he’d decided passion was better left behind in Kentucky.

Punching at the mouse with perhaps a little more force than was warranted, I opened the desk drawer to do some filing.

I couldn’t say why those blue eyes—Brant Talbot’s eyes—continued to flash in my mind.

CHAPTER TWO

Brant

“Dinner should be ready in fifteen minutes or so.”

Sondra smiled, turning from where she’d been standing at the edge of the balcony. Her smile was seductive. “Your talents never cease to amaze me, Brant Talbot. Entrepreneur”—she moved toward me—“businessman extraordinaire”—she came to a stop directly in front of me—“and master chef, on top of it all?” She reached up to remove what I was sure was an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of my shirt. I knew the game. Knew the rules. Knew exactly how to play. She’d be in my bed by the end of tonight. Her body would be toned, supple, and the sex would be good. I should be looking forward to it. I’d been dating her for a couple of weeks, and she’d been playing hard to get, though there was really nothing hard to get about her. Her expression was carefully casual, but her eyes were calculating. She knew the game too.

So why did I feel this . . . removed? So . . . bored by it all?

I gave a wry tilt of my lips. “I wouldn’t call myself a master. At least not when it comes to cooking.” I winked and her composure slipped briefly, hunger flaring in her eyes. For a moment it concerned me. She was playing a game, but it seemed she wanted me, not just as a lover, but as more. And that wasn’t part of the game. At least not anything I was willing to participate in. She fluttered her lashes, parting her lips as she gazed at me, offering me her mouth.

I turned to the door, looking over my shoulder. “I’m going to the wine room to grab a bottle.”

“Lovely,” she said, not quite able to hide the disappointment in her voice.

The wine room in my apartment was a small, temperature-controlled space just off the kitchen. I pulled air in through my lungs, attempting to get my head together. Sondra Worthington was an extremely successful real estate agent in Manhattan. She sold multi-million-dollar apartments to the ultra-rich. That was how I’d met her. She’d sold me this luxury apartment on the Upper West Side. She was beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, and she was going to let me fuck her on every surface in my apartment later if I wanted to. So why the hell couldn’t I manage even a trickle of anticipation? A small buzz of excitement? And I didn’t mean sexual excitement—I was a young, healthy, red-blooded male. My body would rise to the occasion, so to speak. It was my damn head that was out to pasture for some inexplicable reason.

As I stood there, looking around at the shelves upon shelves of expensive wine, the low hum of the ventilation sounding in my ears, it felt like the walls were closing in. I’d never minded being in here before, didn’t suffer from claustrophobia, so it was a strange feeling, unusual and unexpected.

I’d just been working too damn hard lately. Maybe the best thing I could do was force myself to relax a little, even if only for one night. Some good wine, good food, the release sex would provide. And I’d be back on track.

I grabbed a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild and opened the door, the critically acclaimed vintage in one hand as I returned to the kitchen. That was when I heard Sondra’s voice coming from my living room. Frowning in confusion, I moved toward her obviously annoyed tone.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Talbot is busy. May I—” At the sound of my footsteps, she turned, her scowl turning into a bright smile. “Oh, here he is, actually.” She paused. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Someone named Isabelle Farris for you, darling,” she purred, holding my cell phone out to me. Darling? My lips dipped in a frown. Why the hell was Sondra answering my cell? She eyed me as I took the phone from her and turned away, walking toward the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Mr. . . . um, Brant Talbot?”

“Yes.”

There was a slight pause before the woman’s soft voice came back on the line. “This is Isabelle Farris. I, um . . . work for your father.”

I halted just as I stepped into my kitchen, surprise washing over me. “My father?”

“Yes. Your father. Harrison Talbot.”

“I’m aware of my father’s name. What is this about?”