Brant's Return

Belle.

I put my hand on the doorknob of the master bedroom, turning it slowly and pushing the heavy wooden door open, my past appearing in front of me. My father sat in a huge armchair near the window, his feet on an ottoman, an afghan over his lap.

We stared, his eyes registering shock, confusion, and finally . . . anger.

“Belle!” he bellowed. “Belle. Get in here.”

Jesus, did he not recognize me? Was he loopy on pain medication?

“Belle!”

I heard a door open and bang against the wall and a second later, Isabelle Farris—Belle—appeared in the doorway in nothing more than a towel wrapped around her shapely body, hair secured in a high bun, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “What’s—?” Her eyes met mine and flared with almost the same emotions, and in the same order as my father’s had. She strode forward, coming to stand directly in front of me. Water droplets still glistened on her skin, and she smelled more strongly of almonds and honey—her body wash most likely. Despite the situation, despite all the swirling emotions filling the room, my blood ran hotly through my veins at the sight of so much of Isabelle’s skin. The reaction of my errant body to this woman made me angry all over again, and for a second we all simply glowered at each other.

She pulled her towel more tightly around her, and it only served to showcase her curves more fully.

“I thought we had an agreement about this.”

“What is this, Belle? Is this your doing? Why is he here?” my father yelled.

So he did recognize me. “Nice to see you too, Dad.”

My father’s eyes narrowed as he took me in, his still-bright eyes moving from my face down my custom suit to my black dress shoes. “You all dressed and ready for my funeral? Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve still got a little fight left in me yet.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Isabelle said, jumping in, her knuckle white where she held her towel closed. “I was going to let you know Brant was here. Apparently, he”—she shot me a glare—“beat me to it.” She walked over to him and took his hand in hers—the one not gripping her towel closed. Despite his glower, he didn’t let go. “I called him.” She glanced back at me. “I thought”—she let out a breath—“well, you’d both like a chance to . . .”

Her words faded and there was a beat of silence. “Say goodbye?” my dad grumbled. “We took care of that a long time ago, damn interfering woman.”

Isabelle let go of his hand and my eyes wandered to the shape of her ass, clearly defined under the thin terrycloth of the towel. When I lifted my eyes, my dad’s were narrowed on mine.

“You’re being stubborn,” Isabelle said, raising her voice. “Brant came from New York to see you. You can at least talk to him.” She shot me a disapproving look over her bare shoulder.

My father looked from Isabelle to me and then back to Isabelle. “Go get dressed. You’re half-naked.” He shot me another measuring glare full of what looked like possession, and for some unknown, godforsaken reason, a trickle of jealousy dripped down my spine. Hot acid seeped through my veins. Burning me up inside. I squashed it with violence, forcing myself to cool down. I’d die before I competed for my father’s woman.

“That’s because I didn’t take time to dress when I heard you hollering like the devil.”

“Well, go on then. Leave me and the boy to talk.”

Isabelle picked up my father’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. He tried to hold on to his look of annoyance, but I saw the affection for her in his eyes as clear as day. Saw the way he squeezed her hand back before she let go.

Isabelle turned, giving me a small nod, her expression serious. I breathed in her fresh scent as she walked by—because I couldn’t fucking help it—and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

My father and I stared at each other again, a standoff. I broke eye contact, glancing around the room. The bedding was different, as were the curtains. But everything else was the same: the oriental carpet, the heavy oak furniture, the oil paintings on the walls. “You really dying?” I asked.

“You really care?”

I massaged the back of my neck, not knowing exactly how to answer that question.

“Why are you here?”

“Your Belle called me.”

“Yeah, well, Belle’s too noble for her own good. But you didn’t have to come.” Fuck. Same stubborn-ass bastard.

I paused, hating that his callous reaction to my presence hurt. What had I expected?

“Someone’s going to have to help settle this estate.”