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.”