No, like a glutton for punishment, he kept coming back for more. And more. Until he got what he was after. A publishing company that gave him a one book contract and a chance to prove himself.
That, of course, had led to other books, other contracts. After that humble beginning, he never looked back.
Why would he approach marriage any differently? He had picked the wrong person the first time, that was all. Looking back, that had been over thirteen years ago. He’d been an untried kid of twenty at the time. He was far more sophisticated now, more discerning, more versed in analyzing characters and the motivation that went into them.
Moreover, he knew what he was looking for in a life partner, and he was well aware of the danger of just jumping in with both feet without assessing the situation first.
He was assessing it now, and he liked what he saw. Liked the thought of facing each day knowing that Isabelle would be somewhere around within that day—and within all the days to come.
That didn’t automatically mean that the thought of marriage didn’t make him nervous. And it didn’t mean that the prospect of getting married again, of trusting someone else with the care and keeping of his heart, was not scary as hell, because it was.
SCARY in big, bold capital letters.
But, risk nothing, gain nothing—wasn’t that what he’d told Victoria more than once? If it was an edict he felt was good enough for his precious daughter, it sure as hell was good enough for him.
All he had to do, he thought, looking at the woman tucked into the crook of his arm, was get up the courage to ask Isabelle.
But he had a little time before he had to work on getting up his nerve. Right now, Isabelle was still very much in his life and would continue to be as long as his mother needed her.
He found himself torn. He certainly wanted his mother to bounce back to her incredible old self, but her reaching that plateau would do away with the need for Isabelle’s presence.
Brandon smiled to himself. Who would have thought that he’d wind up being a very strong advocate for slow-and-steady winning out in the long run, like the tortoise in the fable?
An uneasiness began to undulate through Isabelle. Brandon had been quiet for a while now. Longer than usual. As a matter of fact, this was the longest he’d ever been quiet without the excuse of dozing off.
Asleep, there was a reason for the silence. But he wasn’t asleep. And he wasn’t talking.
What was he thinking?
Her uneasiness grew, slipping through her veins, putting out the fire that had just been there a few short seconds ago. She went from hot to freezing cold in one heartbeat.
Something was wrong. She could feel it.
Isabelle vacillated between coming right out and asking Brandon what was wrong and ignoring the entire thing.
But that was no way to move ahead. Ignorance was not bliss and anyone who believed that was an idiot. Not knowing was the basis for constant uneasiness and the onset of paranoia.
Still, a little voice inside her voted for ignorance. It whispered that ignorance was better than being forced to face a harsh truth that could shatter everything good at this moment.
So, rather than lie there, speculating, having thoughts bouncing about in her head as if she was the ball being lobbed back and forth in a continuous game of tennis, Isabelle turned into him, bringing her nude body up closer against him and sealing her lips to his. With instant results.
The way she saw it, she was buying herself a little time, reveling a little longer in the fairy tale world that they had spun for themselves.
The sudden maneuver caught Brandon completely off guard.
But not for long.
As ever, he prided himself on being able to rise to the occasion. This time was no different.
“You’re going to wear me out, you know that, don’t you?” he asked with affection echoing in his voice.
She responded with a laugh and drew him even further into their fiery new world.
He went willingly.
“You know, when you first came, I had my doubts about you,” Anastasia told Isabelle frankly.
She had just completed an exercise she had found too grueling and next to impossible a few short weeks ago. This time, much to her satisfaction, it had all gone perfectly. She’d begun at one end of the exercise room and made it all the way over to the other end, not just in record time, but without losing the tension in the band that Isabelle had placed around her lower thighs.
Of necessity, she’d waddled like a duck, but a very graceful duck, she liked to think. And that, to Anastasia, meant that she had passed the “course” set before her. From here on in, any exercises she faced would be the regular kind, meant to keep her body flexible and limber, something she liked to think kept her youthful as well.
“Oh?” Isabelle asked, her curiosity aroused. “What kind of doubts?”
Anastasia shrugged in that vague, dismissive way of hers. “I knew you had to know your stuff. After all, you did get a degree in physical therapy. But I didn’t think you were woman enough to ride herd over me—” She saw the surprised expression on Isabelle’s face and watched it melt into bemusement. “Yes, I know I can be, let’s just say ‘difficult’ by some standards—”
“You, Anastasia Del Vecchio, are difficult by anyone’s standards,” Isabelle interjected with genuine affection. The woman was an experience like no other, and she would always be grateful for the opportunity to be with her. “But it’s also what makes you uniquely you,” Isabelle concluded with complete conviction.
Anastasia appeared exceedingly pleased with the assessment.
“Glad you could see that. Anyway,” she said getting back to original point, “I didn’t think you could make me do these silly little exercises, but you could and you did and I’m obviously the better for it.” That was said a bit grudgingly. “Thank you,” she declared, then surprised Isabelle even more by pulling her into her arms and awarding each cheek with a kiss. “You have done me—and my public—a tremendous service.”
“I’m glad I could be of help,” Isabelle replied, doing her best to look serious.
Inside she suddenly struggled with a tidal wave of bittersweet feeling that threatened to completely overwhelm her.
Somehow, she managed to keep a smile on her face and an upbeat note in her voice, but it was definitely not easy.
This is the end, a voice in her head whispered. It’s over. The fairy tale you’ve been gliding on is about to break apart. Time to get back to the real world, Cinderella.
Isabelle took a breath. She might as well know it now. “When do you go on tour, Anastasia?”
“They leave the day after tomorrow.” She tossed the words in her direction as if they were of no consequence. As if they didn’t have the power to blow up a carefully crafted world, spun entirely out of sugar. “Thank God, I got in a little rehearsal time before my accident—not that I don’t know the play cold,” she added with her customary, undaunted confidence. “You’ll come to the show when we bring it back to L.A.?” the actress asked her suddenly.
Isabelle drew in a breath, as if that could somehow protect her heart, put a shield around it and forced a smile to her lips. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she promised.
The woman graced her with a satisfied, beatific smile. “Good, then I’ll be sure to leave a ticket at the box office for you.”
A ticket.
A single, lonely sliver of paper to denote her status in life, Isabelle thought. Single. Forever.
Funny, she had resigned herself to that before she came here, making peace with it. Knowing it was better than living in a constant heightened state of dread, subconsciously waiting to be betrayed, the way her father had betrayed her mother.
But being here, being a part of this family, a family she had come to care about a great deal, had changed everything for her, at least temporarily. Living here had made her dream and yearn for something more. Something richer.
She’d even begu
n to think that it was possible…
That, idiot, was your big mistake. How could it have been possible? He’s Brandon Slade, for God sakes, and you’re…just you.
Stop it, she ordered herself sternly. You knew it would be like this when you signed on. This is a world-famous writer. What do you have to offer the man he can’t get somewhere else? Nothing.
Her old life was calling and she had to go. It was good enough for her once, it would be good enough again. And very soon, all this would just seem like a dream, a wonderful, euphoric dream.
“Oh, my,” Anastasia said, moving about her room. “There’s a thousand things I have to see to before I leave. And I have to call Tyler,” she announced suddenly. “Tyler Channing is the director.” She tossed the name carelessly toward Isabelle. “He’s been pulling out what little hair he has left, worrying whether or not I’ll be ready to join the tour in time. He has this little contract player on standby,” she confided, then snorted at the very thought of someone else taking her place. “Well, she can just keep on standing by because, thanks to you—” the actress beamed at her “—I’m ready. Ready to bring down the house,” she declared with relish.
In the world of Anastasia Del Vecchio, there was no such thing as half measures.
“God, I don’t know where to start,” Anastasia said to herself, turning about in a complete circle as she surveyed every inch of her room, obviously trying to decide where to begin.
Isabelle slipped out of the room as the actress continued making plans, obviously happy to reclaim the life that had once been hers.
Too bad we can’t all feel that way, Isabelle thought.
She sincerely doubted that the actress even noticed that she’d left.
Now what? Isabelle wondered as she walked down the hallway.
The house was empty.
Brandon was in Hollywood for a good part of the day. He and his powerhouse of an agent, Maura, were meeting with a producer who had expressed no small interest in bringing one of Brandon’s earlier books to the movie screen.
For the first time since she’d arrived here, the large house felt hauntingly empty to her. It was an omen, Isabelle decided. Time for her to pack up her things and leave.
The thought of saying goodbye brought a lump to her throat. With her luck, the words would probably get stuck there if she tried to say them. She wasn’t very good at taking her leave. She lacked the gift of knowing what to say and how to say it. Slipping off into the darkness was more her style.
It was just better this way. She certainly didn’t want Brandon to feel awkward in her presence. Didn’t want him to feel he had to say something to her about the time they’d spent together. And she certainly didn’t want him to feel that he had an obligation to stay in touch with her.
That was something she would have wanted to have happen because he wanted to, not because he felt he had to.
And even so, even if he told her that he wanted to stay in touch, who was to say that she would actually welcome that? Wasn’t she the one with an underlying fear of commitment? A fear of commitment because she was afraid of the disappointment that seemed to go with it?
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.
Chapter Sixteen
“Well, 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.
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