“You know no one would be able to put up with you on a round-the-clock basis but me,” Brandon pointed out, suppressing a grin. “Besides, who will you have around to help smooth out all those feathers you’re going to ruffle?” His mother was far from the easiest person to deal with when she wasn’t feeling at the top of her game, and this circumstance promised to keep her from that height for at least a month under the best of conditions. Undoubtedly more. “No argument, Mother. It’s a done deal.”
“I’ll disrupt your well-ordered life,” Anastasia protested for form’s sake. It was easy for Brandon to see that he’d already won the argument. But his mother being what she was, she had to go through the motions so she had something to point to later, should he have a complaint about her staying at his home. “People will be coming and going. Loud people,” she emphasized.
“I’ll make the adjustment,” he promised. “Now, the surgeon said we needed to make arrangements for you to begin physical therapy sessions as soon as possible.”
Anastasia balked at the image that suggested to her. “That’s for old people,” she protested, this time in earnest.
“No,” Victoria told her in her quiet, wise voice. “That’s for people who take one too many steps backward off a stage.”
Also in the room while this verbal three-way tennis match was going on was Cecilia Parnell. Initially just providing a cleaning service, she’d transformed into something more: Anastasia’s occasional confidante and friend.
“You know,” Cecilia began, “I know the name of an excellent physical therapist. She’s very dedicated and comes with a long string of recommendations,” she threw in for good measure.
This was his only mother, and as blasé as he could sometimes sound, Brandon wasn’t about to take a chance when it came to the woman’s well-being.
“I’d like to see those recommendations,” Brandon told Cecilia.
“Oh, Brandon, don’t be so uptight,” Anastasia chided. “If Celia says she’s good, she’s good. You want to be useful, make the arrangements,” she dictated. Her violet eyes shifted to the woman who cleaned her house to a spotlessness beyond reproach. “They promised me I could go home in two days. See if this miracle lady can be at the house by Wednesday morning. I need to be on my feet—and able to dance—in six weeks. There’s a bonus in it for her if she can get me there in less time.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Mother,” Brandon said patiently, exchanging looks with Celia.
“I am filthy rich, Brandon. It works any way that I tell it to work,” Anastasia countered with complete confidence.
Cecilia smiled as if to convey how a little miracle was about to be set in motion.
At ten o’clock Wednesday morning, when Brandon opened the door to admit the physical therapist that Cecilia Parnell had recommended, he wasn’t exactly certain what to expect. Subconsciously, he had just assumed that Isabelle Sinclair would be a woman of the sturdier variety, big-boned and strong enough to be able to catch an average-size patient. He knew it would probably be viewed as stereotyping, but, like most people, he associated strength with size.
The woman he stared at could probably catch a falling chipmunk. A small one.
He definitely was not expecting a petite, delicate young blonde who looked as if she would blow over in the first high wind that blew through the Newport Beach community. So he could be forgiven if he came to the conclusion that this willowy woman on his doorstep was here for some other reason than to begin his mother’s physical therapy regimen.
Maybe this was a nurse sent by the physical therapy agency to assess his mother’s needs and condition before the actual therapist could be dispatched to begin her work, he thought.
At first, Isabelle didn’t recognize him. Oh, she was aware that she was looking up at a tall, dark-haired, charmingly handsome man with a definite boyish streak going for him—and that he was giving her a very deep, thorough once-over almost down to her bones—but she didn’t actually recognize his face for at least a good thirty seconds.
And then it suddenly clicked into place.
Of course.
He was Brandon Slade. The Brandon Slade, author of—at last count—ten bestselling thrillers. And that was in addition to being the son of the movie icon she’d been sent to work with. She didn’t know who she was more bowled over by—her client or her client’s son.
In awe of Brandon Slade’s talent—she’d read every single one of his books at least once if not more—and definitely not unaffected by his looks, Isabelle Sinclair felt as if she’d just won some kind of fortuitous celestial lottery.
So this is what you meant by saying “Happy Birthday” when you handed me this assignment, Zoe.
At the time, she’d just thought it was her sister’s very strange sense of humor kicking in. Now she understood. She was being sent to the home of a writer she admired to work with his mother, an actress who had been her personal heroine when she’d been a child laid up in a hospital bed for an intolerable number of months, thanks to a car accident that had left everyone else with scratches and had all but broken every one of the bones in her body—or at least it had felt as if all her bones had been broken.
Watching Anastasia Del Vecchio take command of every situation she was in had provided her a vicarious thrill—and had ultimately given her a role model to attempt to emulate.
Since the woman in the doorway wasn’t saying anything, Brandon asked, “May I help you?”
Oh, God, yes. In so many ways. But, for the sake of decorum, she kept that response to herself, and instead, Isabelle smiled and said, “Actually, I’m here to help your mother, Mr. Slade.” Extending her hand to him, she introduced herself. “I’m Isabelle Sinclair. Helping Hands sent me. I’m the physical therapist.”
The response came out before he could stop it. “You’re kidding.”
She looked at him a little uneasily, puzzled by his reaction. “No, I’m not. Why would I kid about something like that?”
This had foot-in-mouth written all over it, but he felt he had to at least try to talk his way out of it. “Shouldn’t you be, you know…bigger?” He used his hands to emphasize his point.
She smiled, and he immediately noticed that it was one of those impossibly sunny smiles that seemed to light up a room. The kind of smile that came with its own wattage. Brandon caught himself smiling back.
“Trust me,” Isabelle told him, “I’m as big as I need to be, Mr. Slade.”
He really had his doubts about that, but if she had any trouble, he intended to be around to lend a hand, so he supposed it was all right.
“If you say so,” he murmured. “C’mon, I’ll take you to her. She’s waiting for you.”
Isabelle could feel the butterflies in her stomach multiplying as she followed him. It was a first for her. She’d never felt nervous about meeting a client before.
Brandon led the way to the place his mother was currently presiding over: the living room. Ushering the physical therapist in, he withdrew to give his mother the center stage he knew she both needed and loved.
“I’ll be right down the hall if you need me,” he told Isabelle in a soft murmur.
The sound of his lowered voice caused a chaotic ripple effect that involved every part of her body. The man was just too handsome for her own good, Isabelle thought.
The next moment, thoughts of the writer’s chiseled profile were forgotten as she found herself looking into Anastasia Del Vecchio’s violet eyes.
Wow. The single word undulated through her.
“Tell me about yourself, dear,” Anastasia instructed with a regal wave of her hand that would have made Queen Victoria proud.
Anastasia was lying on an oversize sofa in the living room, where she had taken up court, choosing to be “in the thick of things” rather than “cooped up” in the guest room, a room that had been sumptuously decorated according to her dictates for those times that she needed to stay overnight rather than return to her own home. The actress lived in
a mini-mansion approximately ten minutes away by car—if that car happened to be speeding all the way. And when she drove, it usually was.
As Isabelle appeared to do her best to meet her scrutinizing gaze, Anastasia did a succinct evaluation. Not of a therapist, but of a young woman for whom she had plans.
She had a nice smile, Anastasia thought, and lovely skin and hair, but she definitely needed a little work and patient guidance as far as making the most of her appearance. She supposed that was a good thing. It meant that the girl was dedicated to her work, which was, after all, why she was predisposed to hiring her.
I hope you’re right, Cecilia, Anastasia silently cautioned.
This was Anastasia Del Vecchio, Isabelle thought, trying her best not to act like a starstruck groupie. The Anastasia Del Vecchio.
She could hardly believe it.
Granted, this was Southern California, and movie and TV stars did cross paths with mortals on a somewhat regular basis, but that didn’t make this moment any less awe-inspiring for Isabelle. As a native to the area, she’d encountered more than a couple celebrities herself, but no one of this magnitude and definitely not someone who had captured her heart at a very young age, when fantasy and escape had been so important to her.
“You can speak now,” Anastasia told her.
Honesty had always been Isabelle’s best strategy. So rather than say she was busy mentally reviewing the woman’s case—something she had already done before coming here—she admitted the reason her tongue had remained so unnaturally—for her—dormant.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Del Vecchio, I’m a huge fan of yours—”
Anastasia sat up a little straighter, pleased. Preening. Her eyes smiled first. It was a magnificent sight and she knew it. “Nothing to be sorry about, dear.”
“It’s just that it’s going to take me a few minutes to get used to be being in the same room with you,” Isabelle confessed. She did her best not to take any noticeable deep breaths.
Anastasia’s pleased smile deepened, going clear down to the bone. “I understand, dear,” she sympathized, then tried to lean closer but found that her hip prevented any fluid movements on her part. Silently cursing the impediment, she asked, “Tell me, which of my movies have you seen?”
“All of them.”
“Really.” Anastasia stretched the word out as she absorbed the young woman’s meaning. A slightly canny look came over Anastasia’s still amazingly youthful features. After all, Isabelle Sinclair might just be paying lip service, saying what she assumed someone of her stature wanted to hear. “And exactly how many was that?”
Again, there was no reason for Isabelle to even pause to think. She had the answer at the tip of her tongue. She rarely forgot facts she’d learned. “Fifty-three movies, three TV series and two miniseries on PBS,” she recited.
Anastasia raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Fifty-two movies,” she corrected generously.
“You had an unbilled walk-on in It Takes Two,” Isabelle reminded her, unfazed.
Highly impressed, Anastasia declared warmly, “You’re hired, Isabelle. So when can you move in?”
Isabelle blinked. Had she missed something? “Excuse me?”
“I’m going to need round-the-clock work,” Anastasia explained, not accustomed to having to explain herself. “None of this ‘an hour here and I’ll see you Tuesday’ nonsense. I have a play I’m going to be in, Isabelle,” she told her with deadly earnest. “I’ve a key role in the revival of A Little Night Music. I sing ‘Send in the Clowns,’” she said with a proud toss of her head, adding, “I have put in a great deal of work on this play and I’m not about to have them give my part away to that understudy Channing brought in because of a silly little fall.” Her famous eyes became narrow slits as she confided, “She reminds me of Anne Baxter’s character in All About Eve.”
Isabelle hesitated for a moment. This was an opportunity of a lifetime, and every fiber in her body wanted to shout “Yes!” to the suggestion about moving in for the duration—my God, living with Anastasia Del Vecchio!—but it wasn’t a decision she could arbitrarily make on her own without at least informing Zoe about it. Otherwise, her sister was going to set her up with other clients as well, and Anastasia apparently intended to monopolize her.
“I’m going to have to check in with my sister, Miss Del Vecchio. Zoe runs the business,” she added when the woman looked at her incredulously.
Obstacles were meant to be plowed through, not circumvented. Anastasia had been doing it all her life. “I’m sure it’ll be fine with ‘Zoe.’ I’ll pay twice the going rate,” she added, confident that would seal the bargain. She took her cell phone out of the pocket of her bed jacket. “Giving me the agency’s number, please,” she instructed.
It was at that point that Brandon walked back in. Something had told him that perhaps he should come to the physical therapist’s aid—his mother could be utterly overwhelming, and the petite therapist brought out the protector in him.
“So, what’s the verdict?” The question was directed toward the physical therapist, but it was his mother who answered first.
“She’s delightful and she’s moving in.”
That was twice he was confronted with the unexpected, all in the space of less than an hour. “Run that by me again?”
It hadn’t occurred to Anastasia that there might be a problem on either side, especially not on what she considered her end.
“I need her on call, Brandon. I can move back home if you want to play the hermit, dear,” she added, knowing that was the best way to get him to agree to her terms. “But my public is waiting and I have to be able to go on tour with the play. We’re to leave in six weeks, which means that I have to be able to gracefully and effortlessly walk across a stage in six weeks. Preferably dance across it, but I’ll settle for walk.” She turned her attention toward the young woman who had been sent to her. “Isabelle here is going to make sure that I am my flexible young self again.” She smiled beatifically at her. “Aren’t you, dear?”
Isabelle opened her mouth to say that flexibility all depended on how fast the icon’s body bounced back and how much and how hard she was willing to work, but she never got the opportunity. Playing all the parts came naturally to Anastasia, so she answered for her.
“Of course she is. Now, the question is, will she be moving in here, or into my humble abode—which does have a little more room,” Anastasia added in a stage whisper meant as an aside to Isabelle.
“Of course she can stay here with you,” Brandon countered. “I didn’t mean I was going to send you packing, Mother, but—”
They were deciding everything on their own, without her, Isabelle thought, acting as if she didn’t even get a vote in the matter. And she still needed to inform Zoe of this latest twist. She was fairly certain that there wouldn’t be any problem, but she knew that Zoe wanted to be kept apprised of any deviation from the norm when it came to working with a client.
She needed to get a word in edgewise before the conversation got too out of hand. So, taking in a deep breath, Isabelle cried, “Wait!” in the loudest voice she could summon, knowing that they wouldn’t take note of anything softer.
Surprised by the volume that had emerged from the diminutive woman, both sets of eyes turned toward Isabelle Sinclair. And, at least in Brandon’s case, they held a new measure of respect.
Chapter Two
Isabelle Sinclair knew that when people met her for the first time, it usually brought a host of pleasant terms to mind, such as unassuming, laid-back and unpretentious. Those labels, however, did not automatically mean that she was also a pushover or that she was anyone’s doormat. Because she wasn’t.
She was so soft-spoken that people were naturally surprised to discover she also possessed a backbone made of steel and the quiet determination of not only the “little engine that could,” but the never-swayed-from-his-path tortoise of The Tortoise and the Hare fame.
This latter character trait came in part
icularly handy whenever she worked with clients who were ready to give up and morosely give in to whatever malady had brought them to Healing Hands in the first place.
They might be willing to surrender, but Isabelle wasn’t. She wouldn’t allow her clients to stop until every single goal laid out was met. Only then, when the disabling condition was conquered, did she feel free to consider the case closed and move on to the next client.
This tenacity also applied to her life insomuch as she would not allow herself to be pushed aside or ignored when the matter directly involved or affected her. And this subject that was being bandied about between mother and son most definitely involved and affected her. More important, it involved Zoe. Nothing brought out her protective instincts more then when someone she cared about was at risk or in need. She considered it her personal mission to come to their aid.
So when Anastasia Del Vecchio and Brandon Slade just took her acquiescence for granted and went on to debate which house would be her temporary place of shelter for the next six weeks, she had to stop them. To that end, she had raised her own voice to far louder decibels than was her custom, effectively bringing Anastasia and Brandon’s escalating debate to a skidding halt.
They were both staring at her now as if they hadn’t really seen her before. And, from her standpoint, they most likely hadn’t. As a rule, on first sight, people tended to regard her as a quiet, reserved shrinking violet. But they soon learned otherwise. She could more than hold her own with the best of them, even if one of those “best” was the dynamic Anastasia Del Vecchio, a woman who could project her voice to the back row of any theater without the benefit of a microphone or any other electronic device.
Two sets of eyes were looking at her, waiting. “I already told you, Ms. Del Vecchio, that I need to check in with my sister and make sure that this arrangement—my living here with you—is acceptable to her. She might have me down for something else.”
Anastasia waved a dismissive hand at the words. “Of course it’ll be acceptable to her,” she insisted confidently. “I said I’d pay you twice the going rate. Three times if I have to,” she added. “And since you’re going to be here ’round the clock, I’ll be paying for your time for that, as well. What businesswoman doesn’t like seeing that kind of a profit coming in?” she added.
What the Single Dad Wants... Page 2