Kate Hardy - Six More Hot Single Dads!

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.”