What the Single Dad Wants...

by Marie Ferrarella

  But nothing, Isabelle thought, turning around slowly to view herself from as many different angles as humanly possible, said she couldn’t look good while acting as Anastasia’s keeper.

  The reflection looking back at her was damn good.

  Rather than the utilitarian style she wore most days, with her hair pulled back away from her face, Isabelle kept her hair down. And, except for one small ornamental comb strategically positioned over her right ear, her hair was free to swing about.

  “This is as good as it gets,” she declared under her breath. No amount of extra fussing would improve on what she saw.

  Not that there was a need for improvement.

  Stepping into black sling-back sandals that added four inches to her height, Isabelle picked up her small black purse and slipped the thin strap over her shoulder. She would have preferred a clutch purse, but there was no way one of those would accommodate the absolute minimum of things she considered vital for functioning.

  The next size up barely did that, but, with some strategic packing and squeezing in the right places, the purse accommodated what she needed and still allowed her to snap the clasp shut.

  Isabelle paused for a second just shy of the doorway, took a deep breath to center herself and then let it go.

  Okay, here I come, ready or not, she silently declared.

  Stepping out into the hallway, she heard Brandon, already downstairs from the sound of it, calling for everyone to come together.

  Clapping his hands, he called up the stairs. “Let’s go, let’s go, ladies. I don’t want to be late for my own signing.”

  “Why not?” Anastasia asked. She took the stairs down seemingly without effort, which pleased Isabelle no end. Going up and down the stairs was actually a good form of exercise for the woman—as long as she was careful not to move too fast. “This way, you can make an entrance. An entrance with a beautiful woman on each arm,” she added with a flourish as she came to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Dramatic entrances are for you, Mother,” Brandon answered with patient affection. “I’m just happy nobody’s throwing any rotten fruit or vegetables at me.”

  “They never did that,” Victoria spoke up loyally, then paused, curious since her father had brought it up. “Did they?”

  “No.” He laughed, about to ruffle her hair, then remembered that it had been painstakingly arranged by Olga, his mother’s hairstylist these past ten years and the only one she would even allow to touch her hair. Ever tactful, Brandon dropped his hand to his side. “Okay, I count two. Where’s Isabelle?” he asked, glancing at his watch again.

  “Right here,” Isabelle answered, addressing him from the top of the stairs. It was no easy feat considering that her heart was in her throat, as well.

  “Good,” he declared, “because we have to get…going.”

  The last word came out in slow motion because he’d just looked up, following the sound of her voice, and had completely lost the thread of his thoughts. And lost his breath as well, at least temporarily, as his eyes traveled up and down the length of her. The slinky black garment stopped several good inches short of her knees, caressing her thighs with each step she took down. Making him long to do the same.

  She smiled, pleased at the expression on his face. “You’re staring,” she pointed out.

  “That’s because I’ve never seen your legs before. I mean, without pants on.” That didn’t sound right. “Your pants.” That sounded even worse. “I mean—”

  Anastasia shook her head. “Listen to the world-famous writer, tripping over his own tongue.”

  Isabelle saw the mesmerized look in Brandon’s eyes, and it triggered an excitement within her she hadn’t been prepared for. “I don’t mind,” she said, her voice low as her eyes met his.

  “Were your legs always that long?” he asked, still very much captivated by the image she projected.

  “Always,” she assured him.

  Brandon took in a long breath, then let it out again. Slowly. His pulse beat erratically, but mercifully, began to settle down. “Funny, I would have thought I would have noticed that,” he commented.

  Anastasia was the one to finally break the spell. She let out a deep stage sigh. “Of course her legs are the same length as always. Really, Brandon,” the older woman chided, shaking her head. “Now, if you’re finished fantasizing, you have a signing to get to. The one you didn’t want to be late for, remember?” his mother reminded him with just a touch of sarcasm.

  The venerable actress gave no indication that she was pleased at his reaction to the young woman she had already given her seal of approval to. Anastasia knew her son well enough to realize that if she appeared to be pushing Isabelle toward him or him toward her, Brandon would find a reason to suddenly take off, leaving the house and the vicinity for long, long stretches of time.

  He refused to be manipulated, and in that, he was very much his mother’s son, she thought with pride. Fortunately, she was better at manipulation than he suspected.

  So, for now, it would appear to be business as usual for her. That meant focusing on herself and the world as it revolved around her.

  Not too much of a stretch, Anastasia silently granted. But Lord, she really did feel impatient. More than anything else, she wanted the blinders to be lifted from her son’s eyes so he could see for himself how very perfect this young woman was for him.

  After all, he wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to make certain that both he and Victoria had someone in their lives who was looking after them while she was away.

  She couldn’t be expected to put her own life on hold indefinitely, Anastasia thought. The public would grow weary of waiting and find someone else to adore. And she absolutely refused to be replaced so easily.

  So she pretended to glance at Isabelle and gave her only a short, distracted nod of approval. “You look very nice, dear. As do we all.” She smiled at Victoria to make her point.

  Her granddaughter looked so grown up, Anastasia thought. Where had that adorable, pigtailed little girl gone? And who was this mature-looking young lady who’d come in her place? Time went by too quickly.

  “Now, can we get going before the people waiting on you decide that they like someone else, someone more punctual,” Anastasia emphasized, “someone better?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Brandon murmured, amused since, for the most part, he and Victoria spent a great deal of time waiting on her.

  With a gallant little bow, Brandon offered her the crook of his arm for support.

  Anastasia sniffed and waved him away.

  “I am perfectly capable of walking out the door on my own,” she informed him haughtily. “Besides, if I do need someone’s assistance, I have Victoria.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “If you really want to play the role of a gentleman and a scholar, offer your arm to Isabelle there.” The actress waved him toward the other woman. “She’s the one wearing impossibly high heels.” Even as she made the observation, the older woman critically narrowed her eyes as she looked down at the strappy footwear her physical therapist sported.

  “You heard her,” Brandon said to Isabelle, moving to the side in order to offer his arm to her.

  “If you’re waiting for a pratfall, I’m afraid you have a long wait,” Isabelle informed him as she slipped her own arm through the crook of his. “I’ve gotten pretty good at moving rather quickly in high heels.”

  He was grinning at her before he realized it. “I’ll challenge you to a foot race after the reception,” he offered.

  Amusement rose in her eyes. “All right, Brandon, I’ll just take that challenge.”

  Anastasia hung back by several steps, observing what she considered to be her handiwork, even if it began by accident because she had complained to the right person. She had to remember to send more business Cecilia’s way, Anastasia told herself, making a mental note.

  “They make a nice couple,” Victoria whispered to her.

  The actress glanced at her gra
nddaughter. There were times she forgot that the girl was actually as young as she was. But that was only chronologically. Anastasia was certain that, at birth, Victoria had been granted an old soul.

  It was, she supposed, a consolation prize of sorts, to make up for the fact that the woman who had given birth to Victoria chose to turn her back on the small miracle she’d brought into the world.

  The little witch has no idea what she’s missing out on, Anastasia thought, not for the first time. And she, for one, was glad that Jean was gone. Both Brandon and Victoria deserved better.

  She smiled at her granddaughter. “Yes,” Anastasia whispered back. “They do.”

  Isabelle had no idea that a bookstore this size—and it was by no means tiny—could actually pack in this many people. It seemed as if every possibly available space in the store had been taken up by adoring Brandon Slade fans.

  For the most part, Isabelle observed, the crowd was comprised of women. And not just women of a certain age, but of all ages. Young ones, old ones, tall ones, short ones, fashionably dressed or looking as if they’d just jumped out of bed or had come running over from their local gyms, sweaty and eager—they were all here. Here and clutching Brandon’s newest hardcover to their chests as they stood in what appeared to be an extremely long, winding and seemingly endless line. They were all patiently—or not so patiently—waiting for their ten seconds of one-on-one time with Brandon Slade. At this point they would get a personalized autograph jotted down within the front pages of this newest tome, which they would treasure and sigh over in the days to come.

  Several times Isabelle found that if she hadn’t staunchly held her ground where she was—near Brandon—she would have been either elbowed or pushed outright to the side by some overeager fan. Apparently they all wanted to get close to, if not their favorite author, at least the best-looking one they’d seen up close and personal.

  Anastasia gestured for her to stand beside her and Victoria, directly behind Brandon’s table. Bypassing another handful of fans, Isabelle managed to get over to where the actress and her granddaughter were standing.

  “The madness is all taking place in front of Brandon, not back here,” Anastasia assured her confidently. “This isn’t my first signing,” she added.

  Isabelle noticed the way Brandon’s agent, Maura Reynolds, hovered close to his side, a position she’d been in for the past ninety minutes. The other woman had assumed that place immediately following the reading he’d given from the first chapter of his new book. Isabelle couldn’t help wondering if Maura, who was clearly older than her prize client, had a crush on Brandon the way so many of his fans appeared to.

  Needing a diversion, Isabelle turned toward Brandon’s mother. “Is it always this crazy?” she asked.

  Anastasia waved a well-manicured hand indulgently about the crowd. “It’s been worse, trust me,” the actress told her, adding after a beat, “it’s also been much worse.” When Isabelle raised her eyebrows quizzically, the woman elaborated. “Those were the signings when no one came. It took his first book a while to catch on.” Anastasia leaned in so that she didn’t have to raise her voice—or have Brandon overhear her. “Personally, I think his looks had a lot to do with those initial sales,” she confided.

  “And he got better,” Victoria interjected loyally, referring to her father’s second book. It was all speculation on her part since she had been far too young at the time to know any of the actual details.

  “Yes, he did,” Anastasia agreed—whether because she meant it or was humoring her beloved granddaughter was hard to say, Isabelle thought. But the enthusiasm in the older woman’s voice would have been the same either way and that was all that counted. It was apparent that in her own, very dramatic way, Anastasia Del Vecchio loved her son very much, even though she found ways to bedevil the ego she feared he’d develop.

  Isabelle smiled at the exchange between grandmother and granddaughter.

  The next moment, her smile faded as a woman in the line before Brandon’s table caught her attention.

  A rather statuesque woman, whose long, straight hair was just possibly the palest shade of blond she had ever seen, leaned forward over Brandon’s table.

  “I’d like an autograph, please,” she murmured in a deliberately melodic voice that sounded as if it had been dipped in honey.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Brandon answered, his pen poised. “Who shall I make it out to?” As he asked the question, he reached for the book she was holding that he assumed she’d just purchased.

  But the woman shook her head. Placing the book on the table, she put her hands on top of it and leaned even farther forward. Her blue silk blouse, already unbuttoned farther than Isabelle felt was decently acceptable, strained against the weight of two very ripe breasts that were ready to make a break for it at any moment.

  “No, not the book,” she said in what could only be termed a Marilyn Monroe whisper. “I want you to sign here,” she instructed with a wicked, come-hither smile. “Make it out to ‘Annaliese, with love and appreciation, Brandon Slade.’” She ended her instructions with a frothy giggle.

  As Isabelle watched, waiting to see what he was going to do, Brandon remained completely unflappable. He returned “Annaliese’s” smile, but he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m afraid that my pen only writes on paper,” he apologized.

  Apparently prepared and very much undaunted, the would-be Marilyn Monroe produced a laundry marker from her purse.

  “How about this?” she suggested. “It’s supposed to write on anything,” she breathed.

  For a moment, it looked to Isabelle as if Brandon would give in and sign his autograph on the young woman’s very ample chest. But then, to her relief and surprise, he said, “How about I put it someplace where it isn’t going to be washed off when you take your next shower?”

  By his satisfied expression he knew he had the young woman. She would either say she didn’t intend to ever shower again, which was off-putting by anyone’s standards, or she’d have to indicate that she didn’t care if the autograph lasted or not, which was ultimately an insult to the man she was trying to flatter.

  With a sigh, the woman called Annaliese straightened and allowed the fabric of her blouse to fall back into place, covering at least part of her cleavage. With a pout, she held up the book she’d had to purchase in order to take her place in line to begin with.

  “Okay.”

  Brandon took extra time and made sure that the message he wrote down was more than just the standard “To my friend So-and-So—”

  The young woman’s disappointment faded away as she retreated from the line, reading his message and smiling to herself.

  “Nicely done,” Isabelle murmured. She’d made the observation under her breath, and it was intended strictly for herself.

  Despite that, Brandon had apparently heard her above the din and looked at her over his shoulder.

  He flashed a grin at her and said, “Thanks,” before turning back to autograph his book for the next person in line.

  So why did that simple one word acknowledgement make her feel as if someone had just lit a fire inside of her? A fire that was warming up every single part of her at once.

  She had no answer for that.

  Yet.

  Chapter Ten

  The reception gave no indication that it was about to wind down any time soon. Instead, it appeared to have comfortably settled into a rhythm and gave every indication of going on for hours, conversation and wine flowing effortlessly.

  Hired to cater the event, Theresa Manetti made sure that the serving platters on the buffet table were never empty and that all the glasses that were in play were continually being refilled. She had a reputation to maintain.

  But aside from that, being here also allowed her the opportunity to covertly observe the young woman she had “unofficially” made her newest project. Isabelle Sinclair had certainly come a long way from the woman she’d glimpse
d just a short while ago. The other one had been pretty in a shy, retiring way. This woman was vivacious. A “knockout” as her father used to say, Theresa thought with a fond smile.

  Seeing Isabelle interacting with Brandon Slade gave Theresa every hope that this particular pairing she had undertaken would turn out to be as successful as the handful of others she, Maizie and Cecilia had gotten involved with. So far, their record was five out of five. This, she thought with a smile, just might be lucky number six.

  Approximately ninety minutes into the reception, Anastasia, with Victoria in tow, made her way over to her son. As always, he was surrounded by a number of women of various ages. This time, he was telling his adoring fans the story of how he’d received the news of his first book making it to the New York Times bestseller list.

  “At first I thought it was one of my friends, making a crank call and pulling my leg. So I hung up. After the person called back a second time, I placed my own call to my agent—and got the same person who very coldly informed me that my agent was in a meeting and she couldn’t be disturbed, but she’d asked him—turns out he was her assistant—to call me with the good news. He sounded very put out. I spent the next fifteen minutes apologizing to him—and then the next forty-eight hours celebrating,” he concluded with a grin.

  It was clear that his audience was eager for another anecdote. But the moment he saw his mother approaching with Victoria, Brandon politely extricated himself from the tight circle of women, promising to return with another story “later.”

  Crossing to his mother, who was clearly going somewhere, he asked, “What’s up?” He looked from his mother to his daughter, waiting for an answer.

  “Brandon, it’s getting late. It might not be a school night, but Victoria and I are going home,” his mother announced.