Brant's Return

PROLOGUE

It was a scene out of a horror movie. Detective Miller stepped carefully around the bloody footprints leading toward the front door, and over a doll lying in the hallway, its sightless glass eyes directed at the ceiling, its painted mouth curved in a smile. An eerie image of innocence lost.

“All three bodies down in the basement?” he asked the first officer who’d arrived on scene.

The young cop nodded and swallowed, looking as if he was barely holding back a throat full of vomit. The detective hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet, but knew this would be one of those scenes that changed the rookie. There was always the one. That first crime scene that suddenly made it all real, that gave you a glimpse of the infinite evil that existed in the world. You could read about it all day long, study case files until the cows came home, but until you were there, until the coppery scent of blood filled your nostrils and you looked upon the dead face of someone who’d been vibrant and alive only hours before, you didn’t really get it. You’d never unsee the expression frozen with the unfathomable terror they’d experienced in their last moments. How could you?

The detective walked around a picture book in the middle of the hall. Love You Forever. Yeah, this would be that one, all right.

“Neighbor called it in?” he asked the rookie over his shoulder.

“Y-yeah.” The kid cleared his throat but remained where he was, holding vigil in the living room as he waited for the crime scene unit. “The guy next door heard shots and came over to see if everything was okay. He said the front door was open. He went downstairs and . . .”

Great. The guy had probably disturbed the scene. He must be the one who’d been leaning on the back of the police cruiser breathing into a paper bag when Detective Miller had arrived a few minutes before.

The basement was dim, the only light filtering in from a window high on the wall. The gray shaft of light illuminated the three forms on the floor—two adults and one child. Jesus.

The detective walked over to the bodies, careful of where he stepped, and then squatted on the floor next to them. The woman was nearest to him, curled on her side, blood puddled on the floor next to her. Reddish-brown hair covered her face, arms extended toward the smaller of the forms. Her last act had been to reach for her child, despite the rope that bound her hands.

He took the pen from his shirt pocket and used the covered end to move the hair from her face. Her eyes were closed, expression peaceful, as if she were only sleeping. She’d been beautiful—he could tell even by her profile. Very beautiful and very young. He always had this vague instinct to apologize to them—the victims at crime scenes. But for what? For not being able to help them before this happened? For the depravity in the world that he was completely helpless against? He didn’t know exactly what he was sorry for, he just fucking was.

He began standing when the woman’s eyes shot open, her mouth widening in a silent scream. The detective let out a small yell, almost falling backward. Holy fuck! Had the rookie not checked her fucking pulse? Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! He pulled his radio from his pocket, the static exploding in the silent space like a fucking bomb. The woman’s vocal chords started working and her high-pitched scream of terror and agony pierced his ears and his heart.

“Detective Miller. Goddammit, send me a medic unit. Now! We have a live one! Fucking hurry!”

CHAPTER ONE

Isabelle

Dawn’s light spread across the rolling hills, transforming the muted gray slopes into sparkling emerald pastures. The sky above brightened as the sun’s rays cast out the morning mist. My lips curved in a small smile as I watched God’s first miracle. Even if there were to be no more today, I’d witnessed this one.

I clicked my tongue, tapping my heels against Seneca’s belly. “Come on, girl. Mr. Talbot will be looking for me in a few minutes.”

The horse whinnied softly, raising her head from the sweet Kentucky grass where she’d been grazing and turning us toward the stable in the distance, the massive Talbot home rising behind it, as it, too, became illuminated by the rising sun.

We rode back at a slow canter as I inhaled the clean, fresh morning air. Warmth touched the back of my neck—today was going to be filled with sunshine.

“Morning, Eli.” I smiled as I climbed off Seneca, leading her toward her stable.

Eli’s face broke into a warm smile, a blush of color appearing on his cheekbones as he stood straight, removing his ball cap and smoothing back his hair. “Isabelle. Good morning.” He walked to me and took Seneca’s reins in his hands. “I’ll take care of this girl.” His gaze hung on me for a beat, two, and I recognized what was in his eyes—desire—and it made me feel skittish, uncomfortable. I truly cared for Eli, but only as a friend. I smiled, stepping away.

Eli cleared his throat. “Anyway, you probably want to get to Mr. Talbot. I was at the house getting coffee, and he’s already in a snit over something.”

My heart jolted. “He’s up? He was sleeping soundly when I left.”

“Yeah. Not sure what the problem is, but I heard him grumbling to May.”

I groaned. Poor May. Mr. Talbot’s usual morning demeanor would have sweet May jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. “Thanks, Eli.” I gave Seneca a nose rub and she leaned into me. Sweet girl. With a nod and a smile, I turned from Eli, leaving the stable and making the short walk up the sloping road to the main house. Graystone Hill. The open verandas and gambrel roofs rose above me. I glanced at the window I knew to be Mr. Talbot’s, but no lights were on.

Jogging up the short set of steps to the huge wraparound porch, I opened the grand carved-wood door and entered the foyer that somehow managed—like the rest of the house—to be both warm and welcoming and also ornate and formal. “May?”

“In here,” I heard from the kitchen. I followed both the sound of May’s voice and the d

elicious fragrances of coffee, cinnamon, and sugar to the massive kitchen at the back of the house. May was taking a sheet of cinnamon rolls from the oven, and I breathed in the delicious scent.

“Eli said Mr. Talbot was up and already grumbling.”

May set the sheet of cinnamon rolls on the counter and removed her oven mitt. “Oh he was. Woke up yelling about a leg cramp. I threw him a heating pad and came back down here. I think he fell back to sleep or that’s what I’m hoping. I don’t think he got much of it last night.”

I frowned. “I know.” I remembered hearing his floor squeak as he moved around in his room far into the night.

“Coffee?” May asked, holding up the coffee pot in question.

I nodded. “In a minute. I’m just going to check on Mr. Talbot, and then I’ll be back down.”

May smiled. “I’ll save a cinnamon roll for you.”

I walked to the grand staircase off the foyer, stepping around the familiar creaks so as not to wake my boss. I made a quick stop in my room, removing my light sweatshirt and tossing it on my bed.

The door to his room opened soundlessly, and I walked inside, the soft white noise of the humidifier masking my footsteps on the hardwood floors. Or so I hoped. Mr. Talbot was in bed, his chest rising and falling steadily in sleep. Tenderness combined with worry welled inside me, causing me to bite the inside of my cheek. He’d always seemed larger than life . . . masculine and hearty. Yet he suddenly looked so frail lying in his king-sized bed, his forehead creased in a frown, even in sleep.

I walked to the side of his bed and adjusted his blanket slightly. His breathing hitched for a moment and I held my own, but then sleep pulled him back under and he was still once again.

A piece of paper drifted to the floor and I looked at where Mr. Talbot’s arm lay. He must have been holding it in his hand before he fell asleep. I bent, picking it up and looking at it in the low light of the room. It was a magazine article about a new bar that had opened in New York City. Bar 52. It was a swanky rooftop setup in Manhattan that overlooked the city and apparently was the new “it” place to see and be seen. I brought the page closer, my eyes zeroing in on a man featured at the bottom. He was in a suit that fit his tall, lean frame to perfection, leaning casually against the sleek bar, his smile slight, his eyes piercing. He was gorgeous. I drank him in, a strange feeling I wasn’t sure how to identify washing over me. He looked familiar, though I knew I’d remember this man if I’d ever seen him in person before. My eyes moved away from his to the caption below the photo, “Brant Talbot, Owner of Bar 52.” The list of bars he owned went on, but I, of course, recognized none of them. Apparently this man was some sort of nightlife entrepreneur in New York. But who was he? A relation, obviously? A nephew maybe?

“Can’t a man have some privacy around here?”

I startled, placing the article on Mr. Talbot’s bedside table before he turned his head, his bright blue eyes narrowed as he blinked sleep away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, it’s you, Belle. I thought it was May. Timid old mouse almost hit me in the eye with the heating pad.”

“And if I know you, you probably deserved it.”

He hrrmph’d at me, starting to move into a sitting position. I moved behind him, pulling his pillows up to provide more support. He grunted. “I can sit up on my own, woman. Open those curtains. I want to see the sky. And it’s time for my pills anyway.”

“You woke up awfully crotchety this morning, didn’t you?” I asked, taking the few steps to the windows and pulling the heavy drapes aside. Sunshine flooded in, and I turned back to Mr. Talbot who was squinting against the light. “You should be nicer to May. You couldn’t do without her, and you know it.”

He reached toward his bedside table, picking up the glass of water May left there earlier and took a sip before sitting back. “I don’t need your advice. You’re my secretary, not my mother.”

No, I was no one’s mother. Not anymore. An aching, hollow feeling opened inside me, but I drew in a breath, taking a moment as I straightened the quilt at the end of the bed. “No, if I was your mother, you’d have better manners,” I quipped. “No offense to your own mother. She did her best I’m sure.”

“My mother ran off with a door-to-door toilet cleanser salesman.”

Or that.