What the Single Dad Wants... (3 page)

Anastasia looked down at her legs as well, as if she expected the subject under discussion to suddenly materialize. “You mean those hideous white, cottony things they gave me in the hospital?”

“Yes, those hideous white, cottony things they gave you at the hospital,” Isabelle repeated patiently. “Where are they?”

The actress gestured carelessly toward the back of the house and the general vicinity of the room she was presently sleeping in. “In the wastebasket in my bathroom. I threw them away,” she added needlessly.

Isabelle had suspected as much. She looked at her client pointedly. “You need to
un
-throw them away,” she informed the woman firmly in her soft, gentle breeze of a voice.

“Why?” Anastasia asked. “They make my legs look chunky and so—so old lady-ish,” she complained disdain fully.

Okay, more patience,
Isabelle silently coached herself. “The stockings aren't meant to be worn as some kind of a fashion statement, Ms. Del Vecchio—”

“Anastasia,” the actress insisted.

Isabelle deliberately ignored the slight thrill that had just zipped through her—she was on a first name basis with the great Anastasia Del Vecchio!—and focused on the fact that she had a very stubborn, very willful client on her hands.

“The stockings are meant to help you bounce back faster. And to make sure you don't develop any blood clots.”

The magnificent violet eyes narrowed. Anastasia needed convincing. “Really?”

Rather than launch into a long and tedious explanation, Isabelle merely repeated the single word the actress had just said, uttering it with conviction. “Really.”

Another huge, resigned sigh escaped the near perfect lips. Anastasia Del Vecchio was no one's fool, and she knew when to retreat. It was how she went on to fight another day.

“Oh, very well.” She shifted in her seat to get a better view of her granddaughter. “Victoria?”

Victoria was on her feet. “On it, Gemma,” the girl responded. As she turned on her heel and passed Isabelle, the girl said in a low, congratulatory voice, “Score one for your side.”

Isabelle couldn't have explained why the approving words pleased her so much—after all, they were coming from a child—but they did.

Several minutes later, the girl returned with the crumpled white cotton stockings. Isabelle took them from her and proceeded to carefully slip them, one at a time, on her patient.

Once they were back on, Anastasia eyed the knee-high stockings with more than a little contempt. “You're sure about this?” she asked Isabelle.

“Very sure,” Isabelle answered firmly as she anchored the second stocking in place with what could have once passed as a garter belt. Unlike the ones that were advertised on the pages of catalogs highlighting a thousand and one ways to seduce the man in your life, this particular item was
not
the last word in sexy.

Finished, Isabelle stood back and smiled. “You did very well for a first time.”

Anastasia looked at her as if there could be no other outcome. “Of course I did.”

The woman gave new meaning to the word
confidence,
Isabelle thought. Uncertain how to respond, Isabelle decided the safest reaction was to smile and then go on to a different subject.

“Well, if I'm going to be staying here for a while, I'd better go home and throw a few things together.” She picked up her purse and began to leave the room, heading for the front door.

“You are coming back.”

Even though the sentence was more of a statement
than a question, just for a split second Isabelle thought she heard a sliver of uncertainty in the woman's voice. She supposed that Anastasia had her share of people who, unable to take her larger-than-life personality, had abruptly fled her employ.

Not gonna happen here,
Isabelle thought.

“Nothing could stop me,” she assured the actress—and was rewarded by the return of the woman's confident, brilliant smile.

“Tell Brandon I said to help you,” she called after Isabelle.

Right, as if she was about to do that. Out loud Isabelle said, “I'm sure he's busy, Ms. Del Vec—Anastasia. Besides, there's not much to pack. I shouldn't be too long.”

She thought she saw the actress smile again in response. With just a little luck, this would work out well, Isabelle told herself.

As she left the room and turned toward the foyer and the front door, she came within a quarter of an inch of slamming right into the very man the actress had told her to summon for help.

The close call abruptly launched her heart into double time.

C
aught off guard, Isabelle swallowed a scream as she stumbled backward. Her heel caught on the corner of a scatter rug that had been thrown down on the travertine floor without, apparently, regard for exact placement. It moved beneath her heel, ripping away the last shred of her stability.

As she tried to regain her balance, there was every indication that she would completely embarrass herself by falling. At the last moment, she was saved from her projected fate, not to mention from sustaining some very colorful bruises in hidden places, by two very strong hands that grabbed her, one clamping down on each of her slender arms.

The air whooshed out of Isabelle's lungs, not because of the sudden, jerking movement forward but because of the close proximity that had unexpectedly materialized after the save. She found herself approximately
four, perhaps five, inches away from the novelist's very handsome face, classic cheekbones and all.

Brandon smelled faintly of some kind of musky cologne or shampoo, and she would have said “sex” if it didn't sound so utterly insane. Her heart slammed into her ribcage, then did a little back and forth ricocheting before finally just settling into an unnervingly fast tempo.

She would have liked to have blamed this erratic rhythm on the sudden jolt to her torso, but she knew better than that. She was athletic and agile and could sprint long distances without really getting winded or breaking much of a sweat.

It wasn't the jolt but the man causing it that was responsible for the uneven, wild beat that had taken possession of her body.

Amused, Brandon grinned at her. “I didn't think that I was that scary.”

Completely lost in the jungle of her thoughts, Isabelle blinked. Replaying his words failed to bring any sort of enlightenment or clarity. “Excuse me?”

“You screamed,” he reminded her. “I didn't think that I was that scary to look at.”

Now it made sense—sort of. The man had to have looked in the mirror in the past decade. After all, he did shave.

“Oh, no, no, you're not. You're very good-looking. I mean—” This was becoming one of those nightmares she used to have where she discovered that her clothes were disappearing, piece by piece, from her body. She could usually make herself wake up before she was entirely naked. But this time she couldn't wake up because she wasn't asleep. She was just making a fool of herself.

Taking a breath, doing her best not to stare at the way his mouth curved invitingly as he smiled, Isabelle tried again. She cautioned herself not to sound like one of those vapid airheads who fawned over celebrities and resembled zombies as they followed them from place to place.

“I'm sure you've looked into a mirror lately,” she managed to say more calmly. “You know what you look like.”

Her body temperature rose a full ten degrees as his smile deepened and traveled straight to her gut, swirling about like a corkscrew.

“Oddly enough, I find I really don't have the time to spend staring into mirrors.” He held up his hand just in case she was about to contradict him. “And before you bring up the obvious subject of shaving, my mirror is usually pretty cloudy from the steam when I shave in the morning. Most of the time I do it in the shower,” he clarified. “I've got a little mirror attached to a shower rack.”

The thought of Brandon, standing naked and dripping in the shower as he shaved, succeeded in transforming her already wobbly knees into something that would have made Jell-O appear rock solid by comparison.

Heat swept around her, threatening to burn her into a crisp.

Get a grip, Isabelle. You're good at what you do, you're a sensitive, caring, busy physical therapist, not a mindless groupie with no life. Stop acting like one.

That was only half-true, she realized ruefully. Granted, she was a topflight physical therapist—she was always taking classes to keep up on any new, ground-breaking techniques rising up in her field, not to mention absorbing any new theories coming down the pike—and
she wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a mindless groupie, but she also had no actual life outside of her work.

How else could she agree to just pick up and deposit herself here, in her client's home, without so much as a minor hassle, other than what clothes to pack and what to leave behind?

After this assignment, Isabelle promised herself she would take some time off and
do
something.
Go
somewhere. Anywhere. Just so that she could say she had gone.

Pulling together her thoughts, Isabelle forced herself to focus on the conversation and not on the fact that she could, at this very close proximity, actually
feel
the heat coming from Brandon's body.

Or, at least she thought she did, which, in this case, was just as bad.

“You just startled me, that's all,” she said, addressing the explanation to his shoes. It was easier than looking into his brilliant blue eyes. “I didn't expect to find anyone in the hallway.”

He continued to look amused with her. “You always scream when you're startled?”

“Actually,” she replied truthfully, “I don't scream. This was my first time.”

He would have laughed at her expression if it wouldn't have hurt her feelings. “Well, then, maybe we should go somewhere to discuss this,” he proposed with as straight a face as he could manage. “First times are special. Or so I've been told.”

Why was it that every single one of Brandon's deep, modulated words felt as if they were cascading slowly down the length of her skin, like the gentle fingers of a questing lover?

Not that she would know firsthand what that was like, she thought ruefully. But she did have a very vivid imagination and could
think
herself into that sort of a situation.

Oh, no, you don't.

Isabelle took another deep breath. Something else she was going to do on that vacation she would take after this. Find out what it felt like to have a lover. Even if it was only for one wild, hot, mind-boggling weekend.

She was tired of wondering what that felt like—to have a man caress her, cherish her, make love with her. If things didn't change in her life and soon, it was only a matter of time before someone snatched her up, stuck her on a plate and put a glass dome over her, displaying her as the last living twenty-eight-year-old virgin in captivity.

She forced a smile to her lips, hoping she didn't look like some kind of a grinning idiot to him. How long before she became immune to the fact that he was Brandon Slade, famous writer?

Probably a lot faster than she would become immune to the fact that, no matter from what angle she looked at him, Brandon Slade was nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous.

It would be one thing if the man was handsome in a sterile way. This was Southern California, and there were gaggles of pretty boys everywhere, looking to make a name, or a career, for themselves. If you looked at one of them, they might be momentarily breathtaking, but there was nothing behind the eyes. They had no more depth to them than a thimbleful of water.

But Brandon, Brandon was another story entirely. Brandon was warm-handsome. Friendly-handsome.
There was something incredibly boyish and appealing about him. Some special x-factor in addition to the man's chiseled chin, high cheekbones and bone-melting sky blue eyes that undermined her entire foundation and reduced her to a pile of sand.

She needed to get over that, Isabelle reminded herself. Or he would think she was some kind of an airhead and ask for her to be pulled from his mother's case. Not that she would have blamed him. After all, she wouldn't have wanted an airhead in charge of her mother's therapy right after her hip surgery either—if she
had
a mother, which she didn't. Not for a very long time, she recalled with the same heavy heart she felt every time she thought of that hole that her mother's death had left behind.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a rain check on that celebration,” she deadpanned, playing along with what he'd just said. “I need to get to my apartment and pack a few things if I'm going to stay here awhile.” Isabelle glanced at her watch to see what time it was. “I'm sure your mother is already expecting me back.”

He laughed softly. “You show promise, Isabelle Sinclair. Only here a couple of hours and already you've gotten to know Anastasia well.” He found himself liking this down-to-earth girl-next-door that the physical therapy agency had sent. It was rare to find someone good who was also sensible—and could get along with his mother. “My mother has many attributes, but patience was never listed among them,” he admitted.

She liked the way Brandon said her name. Hell, with a voice like that, she would have liked the way he read the supermarket bill, she thought ruefully.

She was doing it again, she chided herself silently.
She was making noises like some love-struck groupie, and that
had
to stop.

Just as soon as the man stopped being so perfect.

No one's perfect. He's got flaws—somewhere,
she told herself.

This wasn't like her. She had to snap out of it and start moving, her inner voice argued.

Words found their way to her lips. Finally. “So then I should get going,” she told him.

She'd taken exactly two steps toward the front door when she heard him say, “Why don't I come with you?” Surprised, she turned around to look at him. He was already walking toward her. “In case there's any heavy lifting involved.”

He probably didn't understand that not all women had the inclination—or the money—to go on shopping sprees.

“I don't own enough clothes to create any heavy kind of lifting,” she told him. “I just thought I'd get a few changes of clothing and a few books to read at night.”

She saw no reason for the last part of her statement to bring such an amused grin to his lips. “You're an optimist I take it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Thinking that you'll have the time and the energy to read at night,” he explained. “Mother will take up most of your time. She has a habit of monopolizing people,” he told her. It wasn't a criticism or a complaint. It was just the way things were. It certainly didn't detract from any of the affection he bore the woman who had given him life. “She loves having audiences and you will be brand-new, virgin territory for her.”

In response to his words, Brandon saw the deep
pink blush creeping up the woman's neck and face at a breathtaking rate.

Was that his fault? “I'm sorry, did I say something to—”

“No, no,” she said, cutting him off before he could begin guessing at the reason she wasn't able to hear the word “virgin” without feeling some sort of personal failure on her part. She told herself that she really didn't care that she wasn't part of a duo, that she'd never really been with a man in that very special way that counted.

That sort of thing bothered Zoe, but not her, Isabelle stubbornly maintained. But it
did
bother her to be regarded as some kind of oddity in this very progressive, outgoing society where couples met on an elevator, and by the time they reached the ground floor, they were hermetically sealed to one another in a passionate, fiery embrace that only promised to be more so once they had some privacy.

“It's just warm in here, that's all.” To add weight to her argument, Isabelle pretended to fan herself with her hand.

“I guess you're more hot-blooded than me,” he told her.

She looked at him for a long moment, trying to ascertain if he believed her or was just having fun at her expense. She couldn't tell and gave up, hoping it was the former.

“Anyway,” he continued, “things go twice as fast with an extra set of hands helping and you'd be doing me a favor.”

How could helping her pack be doing
him
a favor? “Oh? How?”

“Well, if I'm helping you get your things together, I've
got an excuse for not sitting at my computer, working,” he confided. “Or, in this case, suffering,” he added.

She stared at him, completely confused. She'd read his interviews. The man
loved
what he did. So, how could he refer to it as suffering? Was that just for show?

“Don't you like writing?” she asked him.

“No. Well, that didn't exactly come out right,” he said, reexamining his one-word response. “I like coming up with the idea, love jotting things down in the middle of the night as they come to me like storm troopers parachuting out of the sky. These are all things that I'm
going
to write,” he emphasized. “I also like having written something—you'll note the past tense,” he pointed out. “Love rereading the finished product. Tweaking here, fixing there, making it all sound better, ring truer. That part I
absolutely
love,” he said with feeling.

“But the actual writing process—the sitting there, staring at the empty screen and desperately searching for the right words or semi-right words to finally fill up that awful, empty screen?” It was a rhetorical question. “No, can't say I like that part of it. Nope, not at all,” he declared with a shake of his head. “That's the agony part of this whole gig I'm in. It's pretty much like—well, like sitting down at the computer, opening up a vein and just bleeding.”

When he put it that way, it seemed positively awful. “Doesn't sound like something anyone would want to do willingly,” Isabelle observed.

He nodded his agreement. “Glad you see my side of it. So, can I come along?” he asked.

He was actually asking her to “tag” along. Boyishly and charmingly asking her. As if he thought there was a chance in hell that she would possibly consider telling him no.

Was he kidding?

What woman in her right mind would say no to him? Especially when he looked so damn appealing asking the question.