Sawyer's brow lowered with concern. "Are you sure? I won't offer my help anymore if it only causes more problems."
"You don't cause any problems, Sawyer. If anything you're always there to help us when we need anything. I'm sure it's better this way and I appreciate you dropping off the money."
Sighing, as if accepting he'd inadvertently walked into an ongoing family squabble, he said, "I think if you check that top drawer you'll find some fairly decent scotch. I could use a drink. How about you?"
Her gaze flashed to the empty drawer, heat burning her face. Sharp eyes as changing as the sky prompted her to slowly raise her hand, revealing the bottle. "I've already had some."
A deep chuckle crept from his throat, seeming to ease the chill of the office and cast warmth into the dark shadows. "So you have. Do you have a glass?"
"There wasn't time," she joked.
He grinned and held out a hand. "May I?"
She hesitated only a moment before passing it over.
He eyed the label carefully, raising a brow in a show of appreciation. "I don't believe I've ever sipped twelve thousand dollar scotch from the bottle."
He tipped it back and took a slow pull. The shadow of stubble along his jaw and throat drew her attention as he swallowed. Dragging it slowly from his mouth, his tongue traced along his lower lip and he nodded.
"Still delicious."
As he slid the bottle across the desk, she glanced at his face, searching for disapproval. Seeing none, she wrapped her fingers over the glass surface, still warm from where his hand had been, and raised it in a silent toast.
This time, as the scotch slid down, there was little shock. She welcomed the slow burn and savored the rich, woodsy flavor. Sliding it back to him, she watched as he again admired the bottle.
"There are only four hundred and twenty some labels of this in existence."
He sipped slowly, easing back into the chair, and appearing completely at ease with his surroundings. She studied his hands, finding something appealing about the lack of youth in his knuckles, lightly scarred as if he hadn't always occupied a desk job. He had nice long fingers, lightly tanned with clean nails. Strong.
Her gaze lingered on his ring finger where a gold band used to rest. It had been some time since she saw that ring. His index finger twitched and her gaze jerked to his face, those sharp, raven brows arching in question.
Her heart skipped—clearly he'd caught her staring.
Searching for a distraction, she asked, "How do you know there are only four hundred and twenty bottles in existence?"
"If that." The side of his mouth lifted. "This is Lalique, bottled in 1910, designed by Rene Lalique." His inspection of the label was more nostalgic than technical. A slight smile curled his lips. "My father was a collector. I pilfered his stash often when I was a boy. Sometimes he overlooked the transgression and sometimes he didn't. Suffice it to say, the episode that followed my drinking his Macallan Lalique will be something burned into my brain until the day I die."
"You drank it?"
"All of it. And I didn't even appreciate its fineness. I was sick all night, flushing twelve grand of scotch down the drain."
She laughed. "So you didn't even keep it." "Not for long."
"Well," she reached for the bottle. "I'll be sure to learn from your mistakes and appreciate my father's scotch, because I still intend to steal it. Restitution, if you will."
He gave her a full grin as she tipped back the bottle.
They continued drinking over the next hour, passing the emptying bottle back and forth until there was not a penny worth of liquor left. Of course, Sawyer was drinking two sips to her one, but he was a lot bigger.
The more she drank, the more her worries eased and a sense of repose claimed her. It was easy to overlook the shortcomings that usually haunted her every thought when her belly was full of hundred-year-old booze.
Removing the pearl studs from her earlobes, she dropped them beside the heavy letter opener emblazoned with their family initial. Her body seemed to sink into her father's chair as her head tilted on a soft cloud of alcohol induced contentment.
Sawyer studied her for a brief moment, but his attention no longer weighed as heavily. "It's a lot for you, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Taking care of your brother and sister."
Her lips molded into an affectionate smile. "They were too young to take care of themselves and my father can't be bothered. They deserve more than servants looking after them."
"Perhaps his heart couldn't take losing your mother." "Perhaps."
As a widower, Sawyer would know more about that type of grief. But they both knew her father well enough to understand dismay probably wasn't the case here. Still, it was a nice idea.
"Will you continue to do it?" "Do what? Take care of them?"
He shifted, his posture relaxing. "Lucian's an adult now. I have no doubt he'll be self-reliant. But Antoinette…"
"She has a long way to go." It didn't need saying that despite her sister's increasing age she still had a lot of maturing to do.
He nodded his agreement. "Do you plan to be there for her the way you were for Lucian?"
Isa nodded, not sparing the question the level of consideration others might. "Lucian only allowed me to do so much. He was already finding himself when our mother passed. Sometimes I think he should have been born first, but then I wonder if my father would have bothered to have daughters at all. You men certainly love your sons."
He smirked. "That we do. It's an arrogance that needs feeding." Steepling his fingers at his chin, he stared at her, his expression contemplative.
"What?"
He lifted a shoulder and dropped his hands. "I was just imagining… Daughters must be completely different. You hope a son will possess a fair amount of courage, confidence, and chivalry, but daughters…"
She hung on his words, waiting to hear how he'd describe daughters. "Daughters…?"
"They're fragile. Precious."
Yes, they were, but even glass could prove stronger than expected. "I wonder if Isabelle Romee would agree."
"Who's Isabelle Romee?"
She smirked. "A mother. Her daughter's name was Joan." She arched a brow. "Of Arc."
He chuckled.
"Touché. Perhaps there's a reason I wasn't given daughters.
I'd be a nervous wreck if I had to watch them run into war."
"Some queens have proven better rul
ers than kings in terms of war. And some men are more fragile than the most delicate woman."