What the Single Dad Wants... (12 page)

Pivoting on his elbows, Brandon drew back, separating their physical union but not their souls. One hand around her, he moved Isabelle closer to him.

Slowly, his surroundings began to dawn on him. They were on the floor in her living room, clothes scattered on either side of them. The coffee table had gotten kicked to one side.

He had no memory of that. No memory of anything, really, except for the hunger that had taken bites out of the pit of his stomach because he'd wanted her so much.

“Isabelle?”

Here it came, she thought, tensing. The question. Had he been greatly disappointed or only just a little?

“Yes?” she murmured so quietly, he almost didn't hear her.

“Are you…” He had trouble forming the word, because with it came guilt. “A virgin?”

“Not anymore.” She deliberately avoided his eyes, looking off to the side.

“But you were.”

“We all were at one point or other.”

“Don't play games with me.”

She couldn't remember ever hearing him sound this stern before. “Yes,” she admitted. “I'm sorry.”

The words he was about to say froze as he looked at her, utterly confused. “Sorry?” he echoed. “Why are you sorry?”

“That I obviously disappointed you.”

He drew himself up a little more, staring down at her incredulously. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Then I didn't disappoint you?” she asked, surprised.

“No,” he said emphatically. “Of course not. But if you'd told me ahead of time, I would have gone slower, been more gentle….”

“Not possible,” she answered. “You were perfect. And if I'd have told you, you wouldn't have made love with me,” she pointed out. “Would you?”

She had him there. But not for the reason she thought. “No, I wouldn't have,” he admitted. “But only because a girl's first time should be something special, with someone special.”

Her eyes held his. “What makes you think it wasn't?”

He didn't know how to answer that. How to share the warm feeling her words had just created within him. So he changed the subject. Sort of.

Looking around, he observed, “I guess we never made it to the bedroom.”

Relieved that he'd dropped the matter of her virginity,
she smiled. “Guess not. Next time,” she said. The next moment, her own words replayed themselves in her head and she tried to backtrack. “I mean…”

He saw the slight embarrassment, saw the splash of color coming into her cheeks. Why did that make her look so appealingly adorable? He didn't even like the color pink.

“Next time,” he echoed, coming to her rescue.

He was rewarded with a grateful smile and knew he'd instinctively said the right thing.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, more tender than heated, he said, “Give me a few minutes to catch my breath and we can see about making this time the ‘next time.'”

Amazed, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him. Everything she'd ever heard pointed to most men only being interested in one thing, and when it was over, they went on their way—or fell asleep.

“Really?”

He could only smile in response as the words “delightful” and “adorable” echoed in his head again.

“Really,” he said, not a hundred percent sure what he'd just confirmed, knowing only that it seemed to make her happy, and he'd discovered that he enjoyed doing that. Enjoyed it a great deal.

It had been a long time since he'd felt this free, this content. It came as a double surprise because he'd been convinced that his distrust of his own reactions would always mar the experience for him. He had Jean to thank for that.

And now, for however long this lasted, he had Isabelle to thank for bringing him back from that numb, dark place.

“Y
ou were very late getting in last night,” Anastasia commented to Isabelle during the following morning's physical therapy session. Because she was fairly certain that she looked a little unnerved at the observation, she wasn't surprised to hear the actress explain, “I was having one of my sleepless nights and for once, the book I was reading did
not
put me to sleep. I had my bedroom door partially opened and I heard the two of you when you came in.”

Isabelle instinctively braced herself for a volley of questions. It was an ingrained response. When she'd lived at home, her father would always grill her, bombarding her with questions whenever she came home after a date. At first she'd told herself it was just because he cared and was being overly protective. Eventually she realized it was because he was jealous that she was paying attention to another male. Though he never displayed
any affection toward her, he wanted to be the focus of her world. He never seemed to understand that in order to get so much, he needed to give at least a little.

Braced, she was more than a little relieved when all Anastasia asked was, “Did you have a good time?”

The woman seemed apparently satisfied with the answer she gave when she said, “Yes.”

Resuming the new task she'd been assigned involving a large, colorful scarf that was tied around her upper thighs and keeping it there as she moved across the room, Anastasia smiled and nodded quickly.

“Good. About time my son saw the value of the company of a decent young woman.” She rolled her eyes as she confided, “You should have seen who he's taken out in the past. They all looked like special deliveries directly from some upscale cathouse. And not a single one of them would drown in a flash flood even if they wanted to, if you know what I mean.” She gave Isabelle a penetrating look.

She knew exactly what Anastasia meant. That the women Brandon Slade went out with were all well-endowed—or at least well-enhanced.

In that kind of inflated company, she was definitely someone who could be overlooked or lost in the shuffle when it came to large cup sizes, Isabelle thought.

“Not one of them has the IQ of an intelligent shoelace,” Anastasia lamented. She shook her head. “I have no idea what he sees in them—beyond the obvious, of course.” She shook her head as she continued to attempt to walk without allowing the scarf to drop. “He has better standards than that.”

Maybe he didn't, Isabelle couldn't help thinking. “I don't think your son's end goal is to really be
mentally
stimulated,” Isabelle pointed out. But heaven knew that
the word “stimulated” was dead on in this case. Forcing her mind back on Anastasia, she frowned. “And you've stopped moving,” she told the actress in as stern a voice as she could manage. She glanced at her wristwatch. “C'mon, you've only got ten more minutes to go.”

Anastasia scowled. She looked down at the scarf, which had slipped several inches and was in danger of pooling down to the floor altogether. Keeping it up was a combined effort of the muscles in her thighs and sheer determination. The exercise, one that Isabelle had created herself, had her moving from one end of the gym to the other, waddling in effect, while keeping the multicolored scarf in place.

So far, the actress was having only moderate success. Each time the scarf sank past her knees, the event was accompanied by more than a few choice words hurled at the world of physical therapy in general.

As before, several steps later, the scarf had sunk down, this time encircling Anastasia's ankles and threatening to make her trip.

The woman lost her legendary temper. “What is the godforsaken
point
of all this ridiculous nonsense?” she thundered in a voice that she usually used to project to the very last seat in a large theater—without the aid of a microphone.

Isabelle bent down and retrieved the scarf, once again slipping it back into place for the actress.

“In an odd sort of way, the point is the same as learning to walk with a book balanced on your head. One is to perfect your posture and keep your back erect and strong, the other is to strengthen your thighs, especially the one on the leg that's been operated on. Both boil down to a matter of extreme complete control.”

Anastasia looked unconvinced. “You're just trying to change the subject,” she sniffed.

No, she didn't want to discuss the subject, Isabelle thought. What had happened was between Brandon and her. Last night had been special, and she had tucked it away, out of the light of day, where it would remain.

Right now, what she wanted to do was to concentrate on the reason she'd been hired in the first place. To rehabilitate Anastasia in time to join the tour before it left Los Angeles.

She pinned Anastasia with a look that was meant to convey to the woman that she meant business. It was a look she'd seen her mother give her father often enough when she was growing up. Back then, there'd been frost attached to it.

“As far as I'm concerned, Anastasia, you
are
the subject.”

It was obvious that, although it was usually second nature to the woman, this time the actress didn't want to focus on herself. At least, not yet. “Be that as it may, I want to know if you two
really
enjoyed yourselves.”

She knew. For a self-absorbed woman, Anastasia certainly did pick up on things in her surroundings, Isabella thought.

“I can't speak for your son, but yes, I had a very nice time at the reception,” she said evasively.

“And afterward?” Anastasia asked shrewdly.

“Afterward was nice, too,” Isabelle allowed, trying not to smile too much. This much she could tell the woman, she thought.

Anything more was either admitting too much or taking something for granted. That part was up to him to admit or deny. She didn't want to get ahead of herself—or get carried away. With her father as a glaring
example, she was well aware that acute disappointments lay in that direction. She would far rather just go along the way she was than get her hopes up, only to see them come crashing down around her in shattered, painful fragments.

Besides, if things went sour with Brandon while she was still here working with Anastasia, at the very least it would make working conditions awkward for her. At the worst, it would make them intolerable. She was not about to do anything to set those kinds of waves in motion.

Better to have nothing than to have something blow up on you.

To her surprise, Brandon's mother didn't press any more. The woman gave her a completely inscrutable smile, murmured, “I see,” and then terminated any line of further questioning.

Isabelle didn't know whether to be highly relieved—or very suspicious. From everything she'd ever read about the dynamic actress, Anastasia Del Vecchio was not the type who subscribed to the “let sleeping dogs lie” philosophy. On the contrary, she was the kind of person who insisted on always being in the know and in the thick of things.

What was she up to?

Again, Isabelle forced herself to focus on the exercise at hand. She tapped her watch. “You still have nine more minutes to go, you know.”

“No, I don't,” Anastasia protested. She swept her hand majestically toward the south wall and pointed to the clock. “Eight minutes have gone by since you said I had ten to go.”

“Ten
working
minutes,” Isabelle emphasized. “Not talking minutes.”

Anastasia pouted. “Anyone named ‘Legree' in your family tree?” she asked. “As in Simon Leree? He was the evil plantation—”

“I know where the reference comes from, Anastasia,” Isabelle replied patiently. Humoring the woman, she answered, “And no, there's no one with that surname in my family tree. Not to mention the fact that he was fictional.”

Anastasia smiled despite her impatience to get the exercise over with. The fact that Isabelle was familiar with a book written in the mid 1800s was, to her, a testament to the young woman being well-read and well-rounded. That made her all the more perfect for Brandon. There had to be some subtle way to make him see that.

But not too subtle, Anastasia silently emphasized. For the most part, too much subtlety was lost on men, her son included.

She decided to work a little on Isabelle. Surely the young woman wouldn't object to a few honest questions. “But you do find my son attractive?”

The question ended on a note that implied she was waiting for nothing short of a positive answer. Isabelle debated whether it was worth the effort to tell the woman that this was not exactly the sort of subject that should be discussed, seeing as how Brandon was her son. It probably wasn't worth the effort, she decided, and gave the only answer possible, since she had twenty-twenty vision.

“Yes, I find him attractive.” What woman in her right mind wouldn't? His face was the stuff of dreams. Erotic dreams, she amended. “I would have to be blind not to.”

Anastasia bestowed an almost beatific smile on her. “He needs a good woman, you know.”

No, she didn't know. And neither did Brandon, she was willing to bet. From the articles she'd read about him before she'd met him, Brandon seemed very happy with having a different woman on his arm for each occasion. Yesterday, it had been her. Tomorrow, it would be someone else.

Why that made her stomach into a knot she wouldn't even explore. She'd known all this before she'd gone to bed with him. Before she even accepted the job. It was just the way that things were.

Out loud she said, “He seems very happy with his present lifestyle. Don't turn your right leg out that far,” she coached. “You want to keep your gait equal to give your left leg enough time to catch up properly.”

“He isn't, you know. Happy with his present lifestyle,” Anastasia explained when Isabelle looked at her quizzically. “Brandon's the marrying kind. Unlike me, for him marriage was supposed to last forever. Part of him is still in shock dating back to when Victoria's mother, Jean, walked out on him. Brandon had to beg her to have Victoria, you know,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper in case her granddaughter picked this moment to walk in. “Jean wanted to terminate her pregnancy the minute she knew for certain that she was expecting.”

No, she didn't know that. It wasn't any of her business to know, Isabelle thought. But even so, the knowledge of that one not-so-small fact, that Brandon had wanted his daughter from the moment she came into existence, made her heart open up a little more toward the man.

No longer even pretending to work her exercise, an immobile Anastasia shook her head. “Poor guy thought that when Jean held the baby in her arms, she'd come around. Well, she didn't and I say he's the luckier for it
because she took her self-centered behind and ran off when Victoria was less than a month old.

“She did try to come back,” Anastasia told her, lowering her voice in case it carried. “Right after Brandon hit the
New York Times
bestseller list for the first time. He almost, almost forgave her, too,” the actress lamented. And then she smiled. “Until he realized that she didn't think she'd done anything wrong. That and the private investigator's report made up his mind for him and he turned her away.”

“Private investigator's report?” Isabelle echoed, waiting for more details.

Anastasia nodded, looking very smug and pleased with herself. “I hired one to look into what my ex-daughter-in-law had been up to since she'd last darkened Brandon's door. Quite the promiscuous little party girl, Jean was. Still is, probably.”

“Mother, you have to have more recent stories than that to entertain your physical therapist with.”

Both women nearly jumped, startled. Brandon stood in the gym's doorway, having entered silently behind them.

With a dramatic intake of breath, Anastasia splayed a very heavily jeweled hand across her ample chest. “You shouldn't sneak up on me like that, Brandon. You could have given me a heart attack,” she declared. Then her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “How long have you been standing there?

“You know you don't get heart attacks, Mother. You give them,” he told her with a knowing smile. “And as for how long I've been standing here listening, I'll just leave that up to your fertile imagination.”

Indignant, Anastasia chided her son. “Brandon, you shouldn't eavesdrop.”

“I wasn't eavesdropping,” he countered. “I came by to ask Isabelle if she had plans for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, wait, I think I hear Victoria calling me,” Anastasia announced. She looked from Isabelle to him before continuing. “I'd better go and see what she wants.”

“Victoria must have a more powerful voice than I thought. She's down the street, at Marisol's house,” Brandon said, doing his best to suppress a smile. He only partially succeeded. “That's her best friend,” he said for Isabelle's benefit.

“I know. She told me,” Isabelle replied.

Somewhat shy at first, Brandon's daughter had taken to her rather quickly, a fact that pleased her a great deal. She found the young girl refreshingly devoid of all the stereotypical angst and hang-ups associated with most girls her age. The twelve-year-old was really more of a young adult than an adolescent. In a way, Victoria reminded her a lot of herself.

Anastasia refused to be caught in a lie, even if everyone already knew that it was. This was no exception. “Still, I'd better go and check. I'm absolutely certain I just heard her.” Placing a hand on her son's arm for balance, she shimmied the scarf off her thighs and gracefully stepped out of the bright, colorful circle. Finally regaining her mobility, the actress nodded at the scarf on the floor. “Be a dear and pick that up for Isabelle, will you, Brandon?”

With that, the woman swept out of the room, as regal as any queen.