What the Single Dad Wants...

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Bedford,” he repeated, letting the city’s name sink in. He took as deep a breath as he was able, under the circumstances, and released it. It was a lucky thing he wasn’t claustrophobic. “Okay. That’s not far.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with her or actually saying that in an attempt to comfort himself.

  “Not far at all,” she promised, stepping on the gas a little more aggressively.

  The needle on the speedometer jumped to reflect the increase.

  Brandon slapped both hands on the dashboard, bracing himself as the speed kept increasing. Glancing at the numbers on the gauge above the steering wheel, he saw that she had passed the speed limit and was now on her way to liftoff.

  “You don’t have to break the sound barrier to get us there,” he told her. “I can play the part of a pretzel a little while longer if it means you won’t get a ticket from some revenue hungry motorcycle cop.”

  Because it seemed to make him just a tad nervous, Isabelle eased her foot off the pedal, but only marginally. “Don’t worry, I always watch for them in my rearview mirror.”

  He wouldn’t have pegged her for a speed demon. “Get into many accidents?”

  One eye on the road, the other on her rearview mirror, Isabelle shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Impressive,” was the only word he could summon for the situation.

  Within a short amount of time, Isabelle was taking the freeway off-ramp and making her way to the garden apartment complex she’d called home for the past couple of years. It wasn’t located very far from the main thoroughfare.

  The white daisies that had been so plentiful on both sides of the entrance less than a month ago were now bowing their heads listlessly, surrendering to the hot mid-July sun. Even the asphalt path within the recently painted development threatened to be sticky upon contact in today’s heat.

  As she drew closer to her ground floor apartment and the carport that stood directly opposite it, noise from the pool area some hundred yards away behind her own apartment grew progressively louder. It seemed as if anyone who was home at this time of day had opted to find some sort of relief from the heat in the complex’s large pool.

  It was predominantly a very young crowd that took up residence in the Sunflower Creek Apartments. Mostly they were students or recent graduates just starting out in the business world. At twenty-eight, there were days Isabelle felt like an old-timer here. She was definitely one of the older tenants, if not the oldest one in the complex.

  She felt rather out of sync with the other tenants because she rarely had time to mingle with her neighbors and had ignored the one or two flyers that had been jammed between her doorknob and the wall, inviting her to an “all-night party” at the pool.

  The parties were usually scheduled to begin the moment that the complex managers closed their office and went home. The rentals were handled by a retired couple who had nothing in common with the people they accepted as tenants. The duo usually left at the first sign of dusk, which the renters, as a whole, considered fortunate. It was a crowd that loved to party.

  Pulling up into her space, Isabelle began having second thoughts about the wisdom of what she was doing. Not about accepting the job—she both needed and wanted that—or even about moving into Brandon Slade’s cavernous home for the duration of his mother’s therapy sessions. She’d already decided that might even turn out to be fun. Lord knew living on the premises would be a great deal less stressful than hopping into her car every morning and bucking the commuter traffic as she worried about not getting to the session on time. There was nothing she hated more than being late.

  No, the wisdom she was doubting was in bringing Brandon here, to what had to seem like a doll-size apartment. He’d probably think she was some kind of pauper. She didn’t see herself that way, of course. She was frugal, and she knew how to live within her means. But to Brandon Slade, she had to seem like someone who was about two steps removed from a homeless shelter.

  She did not want to be the object of the man’s pity. But how could she not be? After all, look at where he lived. The house could easily have a railroad running through it, and it would go largely unnoticed.

  Getting out of her car, Isabelle waited for Brandon to pull himself out of the passenger side. She did what she always did when she anticipated something uncomfortable coming her way. She tried to head it off at the pass.

  Leading the way to her door, she unlocked it, and, as she allowed him to walk into her apartment first, she made light of its size.

  “It’s a wee bit cramped in here, too, so be careful not to hit your shins on anything. I know what you’re thinking,” she told him, shutting the door behind them. “This whole place could probably fit into one of your closets.”

  Instead of agreeing with her assessment, or being polite about it not being so bad, Brandon took his time answering. From where he stood by the door, he could see the kitchen, the living room and the entrance to her bedroom in one small, less-than-panoramic scan.

  He surprised her by laughing as he turned to her. “You should have seen my first apartment. Two of them would have fit in here—with a couple of feet to spare.” He saw the disbelief in her eyes. “What, those interviews you read didn’t mention that I started out as a struggling artist? Living on a shoestring—sometimes nibbling on that shoestring—are the kind of dues you’re supposed to pay before you can make it as anything in the entertainment world. That includes writers.

  “Besides,” he went on, “I wanted to be on my own. Mother was on her fourth husband, or, more accurately, he was on her—some Russian poet she’d picked up while filming near St. Petersburg—and they needed their privacy. And I needed to hold down my breakfast. So I got this tiny hovel of an apartment and started paying my dues and suffering for my craft.”

  He flashed her another lethal grin—she began to realize that she would never accumulate any sort of immunity to them—and she could feel the charged energy that ran through his veins. “Why aren’t you complaining about the clichés?” he asked. After all, he’d thrown several at her.

  It never occurred to her to point out something as mundane as that. He belonged on a higher plane than having his gift for words assessed by his mother’s physical therapist.

  “I didn’t think you wanted me to be critiquing your conversation,” she admitted honestly.

  “Talented and compassionate.” He nodded, looking impressed. “Nice combination.”

  The compassionate part was easy. It was out there for the world to see, and she took pride in that, in being kind when she didn’t have to be. When there was nothing in it for her but a good feeling.

  But that other part—that made her have doubts about how sincere this man really was. “How do you know I’m talented?” she asked.

  Was he hitting on her? Because of course he shouldn’t be, since he was her client’s son.

  But, oh, he was Brandon Slade, author of ten bestselling thrillers, and gorgeous to boot. That definitely placed him in the irresistible column. And if he was hitting on her…

  Life would be difficult for the next few weeks, no matter which path she wound up taking. She reminded herself that both Brandon and his mother belonged to the creative world of make-believe, and nothing they said or did could be taken seriously or to heart.

  No matter how much she wanted to or how exquisitely wonderful it sounded.

  “I know you’re talented at what you do because I heard Mother howling in pain but she wasn’t throwing you out. That means she thought you were doing her some good. Believe me, if she thought you weren’t, you’d be out on your—ear,” he said, changing the word he was about to use at the last moment, “in a heartbeat.

  “That also,” he continued, moving closer to her as if his eyesight had suddenly dimmed and he needed to be able to assess her more clearly, “puts you in a very exclusive class. Mother likes a lot of men, but there aren’t too many women she likes, apart from Victoria and her own mother—and only one
of them is still alive.”

  Brandon paused to look around her apartment for a second time. “Actually, this is kind of charming,” he pronounced.

  “It’s kind of cluttered,” Isabelle countered, underscoring her words with a quick, dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Do you always do that?”

  She wasn’t sure what he was referring to. As far as she knew, she hadn’t “done” anything, at least, not in the past couple of minutes. “Do what?”

  “Deflect compliments when you get them. It’s okay to accept them, you know. Doesn’t make you sound vain or whatever it is that you’re afraid of.”

  He was surprised to see, just for less than a split second, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. And it was gone so quickly, it was as if it had never even happened. But her words, uttered in no uncertain terms, testified that there had indeed been annoyance for a moment. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “And that makes you a very rare woman indeed. The brave little physical therapist,” he said half to himself, as if he was considering the idea for a short story. But then he shook his head. “Gotta be a better title than that,” he decided.

  “Title?” she questioned.

  “For a story.”

  Seriously? A story about a physical therapist? No, he had to be pulling her leg, she decided. She couldn’t think of anything less exciting to write about, and he was known exclusively for his thrillers. Well, that and his wit. Maybe a wry sense of humor went along with that. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Rather than confirm or deny that he was, Brandon looked at her for a long moment. There was amusement in his eyes—and something more, something she couldn’t begin to place.

  “Didn’t anyone warn you about writers?” he asked her.

  “Warn me?” She didn’t understand what he meant. “What about writers?”

  “That we cannibalize everything and everyone we come in contact with, saving the best parts for the next story, keeping everything to be used in one fashion or another. Kind of like the Cheyenne did with the buffalo.” He saw the blank look on Isabelle’s face, so he explained his analogy. “They used absolutely every part of the buffalo they hunted, including the skin, the intestines and their—for the sake of delicacy shall we say their waste by-products? The Cheyenne used it to burn in their campfires.”

  Isabelle wrinkled her nose involuntarily. “Must have smelled just wonderful.”

  “I don’t think trying to capture the scent of pleasing incense was really on their minds at the time. They were just focused on survival and feeding and clothing their families. More succinctly put, they were just trying to make it through the day.”

  She’d had days like that. Days when she didn’t think she could make it from one end of the day to the other—and all she wanted to do was survive. And somehow, she did.

  Damn it, she thought, she was letting her mind drift. Or rather, letting him make her mind drift.

  Isabelle forced herself to focus on getting her things and getting out—as quickly as possible.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested, nodding toward the faux suede sofa that molded to the posterior of anyone who sat on it. “I shouldn’t take too long.”

  He glanced at the sofa and decided he’d had enough of digging himself out of trouble for the time being. Especially since there was still the prospect of the trip back to endure.

  “You don’t need any help reaching for items on the top shelf in the closet?” he asked, stretching out his arm to exhibit exactly how far he could reach.

  “Got it covered. I keep a step stool in the walk-in closet,” she told him as she strode down the three-foot hallway to her bedroom.

  Brandon grinned as he watched the way her trim hips moved in an almost seductive rhythm when she walked away. “Bet you were a Girl Scout when you were little,” he called after her.

  She had been, but there was no reason to confirm his suspicions. It made her seem typical and boringly predictable.

  Not that she had a prayer of coming off like some mysterious femme fatale, Isabelle thought, mocking herself. She was far too wholesome for that, and hoping for anything to the contrary was just deluding herself. He was probably bored to tears already and regretting coming along. He—

  Oh, God.

  Too late, it hit her that she’d told him to sit down on the sofa. Which was opposite her entertainment unit. Which not only held the flat-panel TV and a number of treasured, repeatedly watched DVDs but her somewhat limited book collection.

  Amid which were all of his books.

  Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

  Mentally crossing her fingers, Isabelle quickly darted back to the living room to see what he was doing, hoping for the very thing that she’d worried about only seconds ago—that boredom had overtaken him and Brandon had fallen asleep.

  Slipping silently into the living room revealed, to her disappointment, that he wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even sitting. Brandon was on his feet, standing in front of the entertainment center, exploring the collection of books neatly arranged on the shelf.

  Specifically, her collection of his books.

  Rooted to the spot, she watched him for a moment, wishing for a mini-earthquake, one where the ground opened up only beneath her feet and swallowed her whole before Brandon had a chance to look up.

  The ground remained frustratingly solid. So much for an earthquake.

  She debated going back to the bedroom before he did look up.

  And then it was too late for even that.

  As if sensing her presence, Brandon glanced up from the book he was thumbing through—a well-worn copy of his third bestseller, Speak Softly and Die—and flashed that beguiling grin of his at her.

  “You didn’t tell me you were a fan. You are a fan, right?” he asked, closing the book and giving her his full attention. His expression had turned semi-serious. “I mean, you do have all my books and unless you’re planning on using them to toss into the fireplace as fuel next winter—” Each of his books was easily over five hundred pages—he liked saying that he wanted to give the readers their money’s worth. “—that would mean that you are, in fact, a fan.”

  Feeling embarrassed—although there was no reason to because, after all, it wasn’t as if she was stalking the man, his mother had called their agency, asking for a physical therapist and according to Zoe, she just happened to be up next—Isabelle nodded her head.

  “Yes, I’m a fan,” she answered in a small voice which sounded as if it should be coming out of someone barely two feet tall.

  In contrast, the smile on Brandon’s lips would have overwhelmed a person of such small stature. It belonged, more fittingly, on the face of someone at least three times as tall.

  The smile belonged, she thought, her pulse accelerating again, exactly where it was. On his, handsome, chiseled face.

  “I’m flattered,” he told her.

  The funny thing was, despite the fact that he had veritable legions of fans, she actually believed him.

  Chapter Five

  Ticking off a list of necessary items in her head, Isabelle did her best to pack quickly. She focused on what she needed to take with her—the various pieces of equipment she used in her physical therapy sessions that aided her helping her clients, in this case Anastasia—and keeping them motivated.

  What she was trying very hard not to focus on was the kneecap-melting, rapid pulse-inducing man presently wandering about her postage stamp-size living room.

  She couldn’t exactly put it into words as to why, but having Brandon here, in her apartment, felt almost intimate. She didn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else. Still, she didn’t want to just rush out of the apartment, conspicuously forgetting half the things she’d come back for in the first place.

  Since when had she turned into this scatterbrained creature, Isabelle silently demanded, irritated. She was the one who always prided herself on being so stable and levelheaded, s
o unflappable. Prided herself on always being able to know exactly what to do, at least within the parameters of her career. Zoe was forever lamenting that she was being too serious, too focused, too work-oriented.

  If that was true, then where was all this fluttering pulse stuff coming from?

  She was too young for a second adolescence—although she hadn’t had all that much time to enjoy her first one. She could remember being this determined, this serious when she was very, very young.

  It was, she supposed, all done in an effort to win her father’s approval. Her father had been a neurosurgeon, well-known in his circles, and her mother had been high up on the board of Swan Laboratories. Both had expected great things from their daughters. As far as each of them was concerned, “physical therapist” did not come under the heading of “great things.”

  Because Zoe ran the company, her parents saw some merit in her career, but as for Isabelle, well, she was “little better than a glorified masseuse.” At least, that was the way her father had put it. There’d been a disdainful expression on his patrician face at the time.

  That had been shortly before her entire world had fallen apart. Before she’d discovered that her father was cheating on her mother. And before learning that this was only the latest “indiscretion” in a very long list of indiscretions.

  Finding out that the man who’d always demanded nothing but the best from her apparently didn’t believe he needed to measure up to the same standards himself had taken a huge toll on her. She’d never thought her parents had a loving relationship, but she’d thought it was built on mutual respect and trust. Discovering she was wrong had nearly crushed her. It had made her look to her career for satisfaction rather than to any kind of a relationship.

  The breakup of her parents’ marriage had accomplished one more thing. Never close to her mother and now estranged from her father, Isabelle had found herself free to make whatever she wanted of her life. She chose to follow the path she’d originally set out for herself.