you aren’t from New York.” He lifted a brow. “I can hear the faint traces of a Southern drawl.”
She shook her head. “California. Palo Alto. I moved to New York to go to school.”
“Are your family still out West?”
“Just my dad. My parents are separated. My mom lives in New York and my sister—” her lips curved “—well, she’s a nomad. She models all over the world. I never know what city I’m calling her in.”
He took a sip of his drink, feeling the smooth brandy burn its way down his throat. “How old were you when your parents separated?”
A rueful glint lit her eyes. “It’s kind of like the divorce that never happened.”
Sounded like hell to him. At least his mother had made up her mind and gotten out. He folded his arms and tucked his drink against his chest, resting his gaze on her face. “How so?”
She shrugged. “My mother’s an actress. Used to the bright lights and the big city. She was always leaving for shoots, for extended appearances in London in the theater...and eventually she just stopped coming home. I think she decided one day that we and Palo Alto just weren’t exciting enough for her.”
He frowned. “Would I know her?”
She hesitated, looked as if this was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Her name is Dayla St. James.”
A vague recollection of a dark-haired bombshell floated into his head. “Was she in a wartime movie? Played a woman whose husband never came back from the front?”
She nodded. “That’s her. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
“Kind of.” He studied her face. “You don’t look much like her.”
“So she likes to tell me.”
He drew his brows together. “I didn’t mean you aren’t beautiful, Isabel. Surely many men have told you that you are.”
Her gaze dropped to her brandy. She swirled it around the glass. “You don’t need to humor me. My mother is a gorgeous movie star...my sister is a glamorous international model. I get it. I’ve been living with it my whole life.”
He held his tongue and counted to five. Anything he said here could and would be used against him. He had three sisters. He knew how their minds worked. “You should have more confidence in yourself,” he said flatly. “You’re a beautiful girl.”
She pressed her lips shut. Stared at him.
His phone rang. Thank the Lord for small favors.
“Can you set the table while I take this?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Plates are in the cupboard beside the sink.”
His partner Mark’s cheerful voice boomed over the line. “Grace told me what happened. You okay, man? That must have been one hell of a ride.”
“This whole day’s been one hell of a ride.” Alex elbowed his way through the door to his study. “But yes, I’m fine.”
“Blue Light wasn’t good?”
He sank down on the corner of his desk. “Something happened between our last meeting and today. Bayne was backing off left, right and center.”
“I think I have the explanation for you,” Mark drawled. “And you aren’t going to like it.”
An uneasy feeling snaked its way up his spine. “What?”
“Taylor Bayne met with Frank Messer last week in London.”
Alex uttered a low curse. “How do you know?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
He grimaced. “No.” His partner, who had seen him through the darkest of times when his career ended and was still his only close confidant, was a programming genius. Which, translated, meant he was a hacker who could crack anything. “So what were they talking about?”
“Don’t know.” He heard his partner take a sip of something, which was undoubtedly coffee. He was addicted to it. “But you can be damn sure it had something to do with today.”
“He’s laying the groundwork for the court case.” It was all starting to fall into place. Having watched Sophoros’s stock value skyrocket, his ex-director of software, Frank Messer, was getting greedy, figuring he’d let them off far too lightly when they’d parted ways seven years ago. So now he was taking them to court claiming he should have been given a much bigger settlement the first time around. And apparently was trying to alienate the people Sophoros did business with.
He slammed his fist against the desk. “Christós, Mark, we should have buried him while we had the chance.”
“Truer words have never been said. The lawyers think we have a hell of a fight on our hands.”
Great. Just what he needed to hear after this fiasco of a day. “I need the jet, Mark. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Way ahead of you, buddy. Grace has them working on it tonight. She’ll give you a call in the morning with an update.”
“Good.” His twenty-three-year-old PA was a formidable force way beyond her years. She’d have that jet in the air tomorrow morning if it was humanly possible.
“Alex...” Isabel’s voice rang out, a panicked, shrill sound that made him stiffen.
“Is that a woman’s voice?” His partner’s tone deepened to one of incredulity. “Seriously, Alex, I don’t know how you do it. You’re grounded in London for a few hours and you have a woman there already?”
“It’s a long story,” Alex said shortly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he beat it toward the kitchen. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.” His partner’s voice dripped with amusement. “Enjoy yourself, buddy.”
He disconnected the call, arriving in the kitchen just in time to see Isabel standing on top of the counter, her hands pressed against a row of wineglasses that had toppled over and threatened to crash to the floor.
“What are you doing?” He hoisted himself up beside her and grabbed a handful of the glasses.
She pushed the rest back onto the shelf. “I’m sorry. I—I just thought we’d want the wineglasses. You had that bottle of wine on the counter and then I got a little dizzy and knocked one over and there was this chain reaction and—”
Visions of an exhausted Isabel falling and cracking her head open on the hard tile let loose a string of curses from Alex. He jumped down to the floor, reached up, wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her down, setting her bottom on the counter. “Did you really think this was a good idea?”
She pushed some stray curls out of her face, her cheeks turning a bright red. “I didn’t feel dizzy before I went up there.”
He
