What the Single Dad Wants... (16 page)

She vividly remembered hearing her mother cry when her mother had confronted her father. It was the only time she could recall her mother displaying any sort of emotion. Except for that one time, her mother had always seemed distant, frozen inside and utterly inaccessible.

There was something to be said for that, Isabelle thought as she closed the door to the guest room where she'd lived these past six weeks, closed it for the last time.

If you're inaccessible, if you have an impenetrable shield wrapped all around you, nothing could possibly hurt you. There were a lot of worse things than that, she mused as she slowly took her clothes off their hangers and folded them one by one, then placed them into her suitcase.

Maybe, if she kept busy enough, if she moved fast enough, Isabelle told herself, she could outrun the pain that hovered over her like a bullet seeking its target.

Waiting to destroy her.

Blinking back tears, she stepped up her pace, doing her best to give her theory a good run for its money. It was all she had.

 

Brandon was flying.

For once, that sensation didn't involve the needle on his speedometer straining toward numbers that were frowned upon by police departments in all fifty states.

That was because he was flying emotionally.

The meeting with the producer had gone not just well but extremely well. And now it looked as if he would see the characters he'd “given birth to” take on three-dimensional form across the big screen. Saying words that he had put into their mouths.

Hell, he would have paid them for the honor. Instead, they were paying
him.
Not only that, but the amount of money bandied about between the producer and his barracuda of an agent was almost sinful. The last time he'd heard amounts like that was when he was a kid, playing Monopoly with one of the many nannies his mother had hired for him.

He felt almost guilty accepting the money.

Almost.

Even adjusting for inflation, it was way more than enough to send Victoria to the world's most expensive college three times over when the time came. Send her to college and buy her a small country of her own as well, he thought with a grin.

But that wasn't even the best part of it all. He'd finally,
finally,
gotten started working on his next book. It had been rocky at first, but he was going like a house afire now. So much so that he'd felt as if he had to tear himself away just to attend this meeting today.

His renewed fire was all thanks to his new muse.

All thanks to Isabelle.

Talking to her the other night had made everything fall into place, made it all come into focus.

By nature he was ordinarily an upbeat sort of person, but having her around had wound up making his very soul sing.

That, my boy, is because you've finally given yourself permission to be in love.

There was no getting around that, he thought—not that he really wanted to. He'd forced himself to admit it. He was in love. And being so made all the difference in the world.

He was anxious to make it official as soon as possible. He wanted to tell Isabelle how he felt about her. Wanted to declare his feelings out loud so that he could go forward and start making plans. Important plans. Plans not just for the two of them but for all three of them because Isabelle and Victoria had a bond, as well.

The very thought of that made him incredibly happy. He suspected that Victoria felt exactly the same way about Isabelle as he did.

Well, maybe not
exactly
the same way, he amended with a wicked grin, but close.

Brandon pressed down on the accelerator, in a rush to get back home. Finally, he could go forward with his life. He no longer believed that the best was behind him, he thought as he pulled up before his house. The best was yet to be.

As he got out of his car, Brandon was vaguely aware that Isabelle's car wasn't parked at the curb or in the driveway either.

What a time for her to pick to run an errand, he thought, just the slightest bit crestfallen.

He was going to have to hang on to his enthusiasm for a little while longer, he told himself. Until she got back.

He hoped he could hold out.

“W
ell, you're looking pretty pleased with yourself,” Anastasia commented to her son when he walked into her room.

Or rather, to his reflection in her mirror, which was what she was looking at as she finished carefully arranging her hair. Done, she turned around to face him and crossed to her bed which was currently buried under mounds of her clothing.

“You're just in time to help me decide. Which color is more flattering? The turquoise?” She held up a dress that was clearly not meant for daywear. “Or the hunter green?” She switched to another garment, one that was shot through with silver threads, and held it up against her torso.

“The turquoise,” he told her. Unable to hold the news in any longer, he shared it with her. “And I've just
sealed a deal to have
The Thrill of the Hunt
made into a movie.”

About to remove the last articles of clothing from her closet, Anastasia stopped in midstep and whirled around to look at Brandon. There was genuine pleasure in her eyes. “Oh, how wonderful, Brandon!” Ever the competitive actress, she automatically asked, “Do you think there's a part in it for me?”

“Depends,” he said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Can you play a tough as nails L.A.P.D. detective in her early thirties?”

“She's that old?” Anastasia lamented, then waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “Maybe I'll just let someone else get it.”

He saw her glancing in the mirror, examining her profile. Some things never changed, he thought fondly. “That's very thoughtful of you.” Belatedly, the chaos on her bed—and the opened suitcases—registered. “What are you doing?”

“Packing, darling.” She laughed indulgently. “You'd think after all these years of watching me do it, you'd recognize it when you saw it.”

And here it was, the weather forecast for his parade. Was it merely going to rain, or was there a flash flood in the offing? “But you weren't going to leave until your physical therapy program was over.”

“Exactly.” Anastasia stopped packing her clothes and went through the motions of taking a curtain call bow. “It's over. I am officially ‘as good as new.'” She allowed a contented sigh to escape. “Isabelle said there was nothing else she could do for me.”

Why was there this uneasy, queasy feeling burrowing into the pit of his stomach?

He was jumping to needless conclusions, Brandon
told himself. “Speaking of Isabelle, do you know when she'll be back?”

Anastasia looked at him blankly, waiting. When he didn't continue, she asked, “No, when?”

“I'm asking you,” Brandon stressed, struggling to keep this strange, swiftly-growing agitation he was experiencing from getting out of hand.

Ah, the mighty confirmed bachelor has fallen,
Anastasia thought, well satisfied. She'd seen that look before, on the faces of the men who told her they were in love with her. “How should I know? Her work here is done.”

That was exactly the answer he didn't want to hear. “Then she's not coming back?”

As far as Anastasia was concerned, she was playing her part beautifully, seeing as how she was improvising her dialogue as she went along.

In true motherly fashion, she put her hand to his cheek. “Darling, is there something wrong with your attention span? I just said I was ‘good as new.' Isabelle's accomplished what she came here to do. I'm sure she'll be moving on to another assignment. She might even be starting right now,” Anastasia speculated.

He was having a very hard time wrapping his head around this. “And she left here—for good—without saying goodbye?”

“Well, she said it to me,” Anastasia informed him, as if she was the primary one who counted in this scheme of things. “But I suspect that was only because our paths crossed at the front door. I think she just wanted to slip quietly away without making a fuss.” She smiled. “You know how unassuming Isabelle can be when it comes to herself.”

He knew. He also saw her leaving like that as some
thing different than not wanting to “make a fuss.” He saw it as running out on him.

Just as his ex-wife had.

Except that back then, he knew why Jean had run out on him. She'd told him in no uncertain terms. She wasn't cut out to be a mother and didn't want to be tied down by either a baby
or
a husband.

It was different with Isabelle. She was everything he wanted in a woman, in a life partner—or at least he
thought
she was everything he wanted.

Now he didn't know.

What he
didn't
want was someone who couldn't be counted on. Someone who literally turned around and ran after all but pledging her heart to him.

Or had he misread that, too?

“What's the matter, dear?” Anastasia asked, playing the concerned mother for all she was worth. “You look as if you've just lost your best friend.” Deliberately pretending that she was misinterpreting the reason for the look on his face, she crossed to him and took his chin in her hand. “Don't worry, darling, I'll be back to visit you and Victoria regularly. I promise.”

He forced a smile to his lips, removed her hand and turned it so it was palm side down. In the fashion of gallantry of centuries gone by, he pressed a kiss to her hand.

“I know you will, Mother.” He let her hand go and stepped back. “I'll get out of your way so you can finish packing. Let me know when you want me to take the suitcase to the front door for you.”

“Won't be for a while yet, dear.”

His mother's voice followed him out into the hallway, but he hardly heard her.

She was gone, he thought, numbly placing one foot in front of the other.

Isabelle was gone.

Gone, just like that.

Without a word, without so much as a nod. Gone as if those nights they'd spent together hadn't meant anything to her. As if their days together, the drives, that moment in the rain on the beach, hadn't meant anything to her.

Without his knowing exactly when, exactly how, Isabelle, with her lighter-than-air laugh and her quiet determination, had become embedded in his life, in his family. And then, just like that, like some Band-Aid being ripped off, she'd torn herself away and was gone.

His mind spinning every which way at once, he thought of going out and finding her. Of shaking her and shouting at her for doing this to him.

For lying like this to him without saying a single word.

Damn it, he upbraided himself, clenching his fists at his side, how could he have been so hopelessly stupid to let himself get ensnared like this? How could he have been so—

He had a book to work on, he told himself sternly. He had no time for any grieving, dramatic or otherwise. It was time to submerge himself in his work, the way he'd always been able to do before, and forget about everything else.

Forget about lips the flavor of strawberries and eyes that seemed to shine whenever she looked at him. Forget about skin the texture of cream and a body—

This wasn't helping, Brandon berated himself. At this rate, he would talk himself into a state mental institution by evening.

“Write, Slade. It's what you do,” he ordered sternly as he marched into his office. “At least she didn't
take
that away from you.”

Brandon closed the door behind him and willed his mind to focus.

 

Isabelle tried, she really, really
tried
to summon up her former enthusiasm. She needed it in order to do her work. She needed it so that she could find just the right way to motivate her clients.

But try as she might, she just couldn't seem to find it. It was as if every last drop of enthusiasm had evaporated on her. Along with her sense of humor, her energy and forget about her mind. That seemed to be long gone.

At various times of the day and evening, she'd find herself suddenly “stuck.” Lost in a motion or a thought that went no further. She looked like an adult playing the old children's game of “statue” where players would “freeze” in a position when the word was suddenly called out.

Except that no one was calling out anything. It was just her. She seemed utterly unable to function properly. Not without her heart. And that was gone.

It had been a week like this. A whole terrible, debilitating week.

She
had
to snap out of it.

Zoe had already said that one of the clients had complained about her. Well, not exactly complained, but they'd wanted to know if there was something “funny” about her because she was acting so very strangely, getting lost midsentence. Staring off into space.

Of course, her present client, Bobby Johnson, a major league baseball player who was on the team's disabled list because of a pulled hamstring, didn't seem to mind
her slipping into a trancelike state for a minute or so at a time. That was probably because he thought it had to do with him.

Currently, Bobby was in one of the firm's therapy rooms, expounding on how hard it was to live a normal life, surrounded by women who insisted on following him everywhere he went, even to the men's room at the gym he frequented.

“But I guess that all just goes with the territory,” he concluded with as phony a sigh as she'd ever heard. “That really feels good,” he commented, then suddenly he swiveled around on the padded table he'd been lying on. He pulled his towel around himself as he sat up, leaving it deliberately loose in order to serve as an unspoken invitation for her benefit, Isabelle's couldn't help thinking. “Hey, you doing anything after this?” Bobby asked. He didn't wait for her to answer, but just assumed it would be what he wanted to hear. “Because if you're not—”

“She is.”

Both she and the technically disabled infielder turned to look at the man walking into the room.

Isabelle's heart leaped into her throat, all but singing. “Brandon.”

The baseball player was scowling as darkly as Isabelle was smiling. “Hey, this is my time with Izzy,” he declared indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Brandon Slade, the writer.” He added the last part when the seminaked man on the table stared at him as if he was beneath him.

Bobby frowned, clearly at a disadvantage. “You write books?” Apparently replaying Brandon's name through his head, he shook it. “Never heard of you.”

Brandon's less than genuine smile never faded. “Well,
that makes us even, because I've never heard of you, either.”

While he followed football and basketball fairly regularly, he'd never cared for the game deemed to be the great American pastime. In his opinion it moved much too slowly.

Unable to take it a second longer, Isabelle interrupted the exchange. “Brandon, I'm working,” she pointed out unnecessarily. “What are you doing here?”

He would have thought that was self-explanatory. This “invasion” was uncharacteristic of him, but then, so was what he was feeling.

He'd given up pretending he didn't care where Isabelle was or that she'd left without saying a word. Rather than just call where she worked, he'd come down to see her in person. He'd found Zoe in the front office, which had saved him the trouble of trying to charm information out of the receptionist. Isabelle, she'd told him, was here, in the back, working with a client.

She'd then proceeded to surprise him by asking, “Do you need to see her right now?”

He hadn't even had to think about his answer. “More than you could ever know.”

The woman had nodded, seeming to understand what he was going through. “Tell Isabelle I'm sending in another therapist. Go do what you have to do.” Her eyes had been shining as she'd added, “Good luck.”

He could have hugged her. Digging into his pocket, he'd left a hundred-dollar bill on the desk. “In case the guy complains about the interruption.”

And then he'd gone in search of the room.

When his heart had accelerated at the sound of her voice, he'd known he hadn't made a mistake coming here. They belonged together.

“What do you think I'm doing here?” he said in response to her question. Taking her hand, Brandon firmly pulled her toward the door. What he had to tell her had to be said without an audience. Opening the door, he looked at the ballplayer over his shoulder. “Game over, baseball boy. You're cured,” he announced.

For once Bobby Johnson was utterly speechless. They left him that way.

She might not have had a word for Bobby, but she had plenty for Brandon. “Brandon! You can't just interrupt a session like that.”

“I'm not interrupting it,” he informed her, crossing the threshold with her in tow. “I'm ending it. Don't worry, I paid for his session, so he can't complain. Zoe's getting another therapist to come in and take your place.” Looking back at the fuming baseball player, he called out, “Don't worry. If you feel shortchanged, there's another therapist on her way.” Facing Isabelle again, he said, “Let's go.”

Not wanting to cause a scene, she waited until she was outside the office—her sister was conveniently gone, and the receptionist looked at her wistfully as they passed by the front desk.

Once the door had closed and they were out in the hall, she abruptly stopped walking and yanked back her hand.

When he turned around to look at her, Brandon saw that she was furious.

“You had no right to embarrass me like that,” Isabelle fumed.

He'd never seen her angry before, and for a moment, he just took it in. And then, as in a poker game, he matched her. And raised her one.

“If I embarrassed you, I'm sorry. But
you
had no right
to just walk out on me, on
us
like that,” he amended, thinking of what Victoria would say once she returned from camp and heard what had happened. “Without so much as a damn word! Like I was just someone you'd passed on the street.”