Brant's Return

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.”

Despite my surprise, his words sent a warm frisson of comfort flowing through me. “Thank you, Mr.—”

“Bruce.” He held out his hand and I took it. “Edwin Bruce. But please call me Edwin.”

I nodded, smiling. “I’m Isabelle Farris.”

“Brant’s lovely girlfriend. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Thank you.”

“Did I hear correctly? That you’re from Kentucky?”

“Yes. I actually work at Graystone Hill. That’s how Brant and I met.”

“Ah. Graystone Hill. Home of Caspian Skye. Finest bourbon ever made.”

My smile widened. “Yes. I don’t drink, but Brant explained the legend attached to it, and it’s wonderful.”

“Indeed.” He looked slightly sad for a very brief moment. “Where is that errant man of yours, by the way? Shame on him for leaving you alone like this.”

“He’ll only be gone for a few minutes. He had to clear up an issue.”

“Ah. There are always issues on opening night. I’m sure he’ll resolve them easily.”

“Do you know Brant?”

“Oh, yes.” He glanced around the room quickly. “He has excellent taste”—he nodded his head to me—“on all counts.” He smiled kindly. “I suppose I could take a lesson from him on business and changing with the times.”

“Are you in the bar or restaurant business, Edwin?”

He smiled, taking another sip of his drink. “Not for too much longer. But, yes.”

“Ah. You’re retiring?”

A strange look passed over his face but I didn’t know him and couldn’t read it. “Actually, Ms. Farris, Isabelle if I may, I’m the man whose club your boyfriend is taking over. I currently own The Mustang Room. It all came down to those barrels of Caspian Skye. We waged a battle and Brant won. In the end, Harrison Talbot chose to give them to his son. One can hardly blame him.”

I frowned, confused. “Oh, I didn’t think Caspian Skye had been produced for years though.”

He looked at me strangely. “It hasn’t, but there are barrels of it, aged to perfection, just waiting—” He seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden and I understood why. I’d told him I worked at Graystone Hill and knew all about Caspian Skye. Of course he’d assumed I’d know something as monumental as the fact that there were barrels waiting to be . . . bottled. I was sure that was how he’d been about to end his sentence. But I hadn’t known. Apparently Brant had kept it from me. Why? Was I wrong to expect that he would have mentioned it? And why did I suddenly have a sinking feeling in my stomach? “I do hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t have. Despite everything, I have respect for Brant. He’s a very adept businessman.”