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Travis didn’t even look at the phone number and he barely waited until she was out of earshot before spinning back to Miles. “Talk.”
Miles glanced at him, then past him. His jaw went tight.
That had Travis glancing in the mirror behind the bar. His eyes bounced off the person approaching as he resumed his quick assessment, looking for a potential threat.
Travis muttered an irritated curse even as he went to do the same, turning. The breath he’d just taken exploded out of him in a harsh burst, quickly followed by, “Isabel.”
Isabel hadn’t had theluxury of friends in her life. Even growing up, she’d been relatively isolated, although her mother, ever the perfect wife for the powerful, suave district attorney Wilson Steele, had made sure her three daughters had the upbringing one would expect from a rich, affluent family.
Isabel had been enrolled in ballet and piano lessons and the girls from both had invited her to parties, just as her mother had taken care to reciprocate—birthdays, Christmas get-togethers, Fourth of July.
Isabel was nine when she stopped sharing invitations, ten when she’d told her mother she didn’t want any more birthday parties. When her mother had asked why, Isabel had, naively, told her mother.
One of the girls said her father thinks Daddy is a criminal. Is he?
Her mother had slapped her. Evelyn Steele had immediately apologized and pulled her close to hug her. As the years passed and Isabel matured, she understood the emotion behind her mother’s violent response.
Fear.
Her mother had known exactly who her father was and she’d feared him.
While she’d not immediately understoodwhyher mother had slapped her, she had understood on an instinctual level. After extricating herself from her mother’s arms, with her cheek still burning, she’d reiterated what she’d said,I don’t want any more birthday parties, Mom. I won’t go to any when I’m invited. And you shouldn’t throw any more for the twins.
Isabel hadn’t even understoodwhyshe’d felt that way, but on a level deep inside, she’d understood the need to protect herself, and her sisters. The only way she could do so from such a young age had been to keep them isolated from those who might hurt them.
She’d let her guard down only once. It had destroyed her, breaking her heart into such tiny pieces that she’d never been able to find them all.
The man who had been hassling her to join him for a drink, Miles Hawkins, was, oddly enough, the closest thing she had to a friend these days. He had long since told her about the part he’d played in Travis’s abandonment of her. At the time, she’d wanted to attack him, beat on him, screaming like a banshee, but the fury had passed, washed out to a tired, gray apathy.
It was over.
It was done.
Travis was no longer part of her life while Miles was her lifeline.
The FBI agent, alone, knew the worst things about her, what had happened to her, what her father had done—what he hadallowed.
He hadn’t looked at her with pity or disgust when she’d told him.
There had been guilt aplenty, along with other emotions she hadn’t understood, but never had he looked at her with pity or disgust.
He’d told her he could put her father away so he couldn’t hurt anybody else, if only she would trust him, and she had.
Miles had kept his word.
It had been the answer to Isabel’s silent prayers.
The death of her relationship with Travis, followed by the sudden death of her mother and the slow destruction of any other dreams she’d had over the coming weeks had been the final casualties of Wilson T. Steele’s brutal reign.
It was over.
Every time her father pushed for yet another retrial—only two successful attempts had even made it to court—the man’s canny mind finding nearly invisible flaws in the trial that had sentenced him to life behind bars for the human trafficking and sexual exploitation of women, immigrants and minors, Miles had been there.
No matter what, he was there, taking several days away from his job so Isabel wouldn’t be alone. He had security watching the house so she didn’t worry her sisters would be in danger while she was gone.
Because he was a friend, and because he asked for very little, she’d dragged herself out of bed and pulled on a sweater and jeans, dragging a brush through her hair. The lobby bar wasn’t a sweater and jeans joint, but she didn’t have the energy for a dress and heels, or even makeup.
Catching sight of him sitting next to a broad-shouldered man with hair cut with near military precision, she told herself she could handle one drink. Just one.
