Kate Hardy - Six More Hot Single Dads!

“Are you sure this is how this therapy stuff is supposed to go?” the woman questioned with more than a touch of frustration in her voice. “I thought I’d be lying on a table, having you knead the muscles around the affected area to get them back into shape.”

“That’s not therapy, that’s a massage,” Isabelle pointed out, her smile never leaving her lips. “Speaking of which, let’s get you up on the table,” she directed.

“For a massage?” Anastasia asked, brightening.

“No, to rotate the leg that was operated on, see if we can’t stretch those muscles of yours a little,” Isabelle told her.

Because she didn’t want the actress pulling anything, Isabelle discreetly moved a single-step step stool into place, getting Anastasia to use that in order to help her get on the table.

With effort, Anastasia lowered herself onto the table, then looked at her.

“Okay, now what?”

“Now, you lie down,” Isabelle said, gently taking hold of the woman’s leg and lifting it upward, “and we do this.”

Anastasia’s eyes widened, unprepared for the salvo of pain that shot through her. The anguished cry escaped the woman’s lips before she could think to stop it—not that she would have. “Aren’t you supposed to make a wish first before snapping the bone?”

“That’s only with a wishbone and there’ll be no bone snapping today,” Isabelle promised. “Just a couple more times,” she coaxed, rotating the leg even more slowly. “You’re doing fine.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” Anastasia grumbled.

Unfazed, Isabelle continued smiling and slowly rotating the woman’s leg from side to side to encompass what she felt were its essential limits for now. “Don’t worry, this’ll seem like nothing to you soon.”

Anastasia wanted something more definite than that. “When?” she demanded.

“When your body gets a little stronger.” Stopping, Isabelle lowered the woman’s leg and leaned back. They both relaxed. “This is a slow process, Anastasia, and you’re already making more progress than most patients in your age bracket.”

Somewhat pleased, Anastasia still saw fit to challenge her. “Is that your polite way of saying that I’m old?”

“No, that’s my way of using the data that’s been compiled about the response rate of various different groups of people as a reference point. This way, as your physical therapist, I know more or less what to expect by way of normal progress—and what to shoot for.”

Anastasia looked unconvinced. She sniffed slightly. “That’s very diplomatic.”

Isabelle wasn’t about to be baited. Her father used to do that, trying to trap her into admissions she had no desire of making. He felt it was his way of showing off his superiority. She’d learned how to make the most of evasive maneuvers.

“It’s just the truth. Now, do you want to rest or continue a little longer?”

“I want to rest,” Anastasia declared. But even as she said so, the actress propped herself up on her elbows, braced for anything. “But I’ll continue a little longer.” And then she glanced toward the doorway and raised her voice. “Preferably without an audience.”

Now there was something she thought she’d never hear from the actress, Isabelle thought as she turned around to see who the woman was talking to.

Brandon.

Three days into her stay and the sight of the handsome author still caused her heart to flutter like a butterfly caught in an updraft.

How long was it going to take for her to get used to having him pop up like that? She had a feeling she knew the answer to that, and it was not one that worked in her favor.

“Don’t worry, I’m not staying,” Brandon told his mother as he popped into the room. He nodded a greeting coupled with a smile at Isabelle before shifting back to his mother. “Just wanted to tell you that I’ll be out for a while. Do you need anything before I go? Pillows fluffed, foot massaged, a cup of coffee…?” he teased, his voice trailing off.

“I’m sure Isabelle will indulge me if I find I want something. Where are you off to?” Anastasia suddenly narrowed her eyes as a possible answer occurred to her. “You’re not seeing that dreadful Wanda person again, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Brandon replied patiently. “And go easy on her. She was just a reporter, doing an interview. My last book is being reissued in paperback next week, remember? Publicity never hurts, no matter how big you think you are.”

Isabelle had read that interview by Wanda Miller. Brandon had come off very well, but then, he always did. It was to his credit that he gave himself no airs, did not think of himself as being too big to fail. He made it a point to always cooperate with the press, and they apparently loved him for it.

Anastasia seemed to stop listening halfway through her son’s reply. Instead, she shook her head, a look of incredulousness entering her famous eyes. “Just a reporter—ha! How is it you got to be thirty-two years old and still have no clue about women?”

For a fleeting moment, his eyes connected with Isabelle’s, and then he shifted to his mother. “I guess that some mysteries are just meant to remain that way.”

The actress’s sigh was deep and despairing. “You need a keeper,” Anastasia pronounced.

Brandon grinned good-naturedly. He took no offense. He was used to his mother’s broad strokes, whether with a brush on a canvas, or verbally. “I have you and Victoria—what more do I need?”

Anastasia gave a gentle snort, as if withdrawing from the field of battle for the moment. “You still haven’t said where you’re going,” his mother reminded him.

“No, I didn’t,” he agreed just before he began to walk out of the gym.

“Brandon.”

Only Anastasia Del Vecchio could have infused so many emotions and nuances into the two syllables of his name, Isabelle thought, utterly impressed. The single utterance spoke volumes without saying any more than just his name.

Brandon paused in the doorway. “I’m scouting out locations for my next book,” he told her.

By nature Brandon was a very visual person. He found that he needed to see something, to be part of it, before he could adequately describe it and hope to do it justice. Once it was there, in his memory banks, he could take off from that point and weave a location of his own. But he needed a starting point.

“I’ve always been partial to the area near Laguna Beach,” his mother told him. “It reminds me of this little hotel on the Riviera where your father and I honeymooned. Before I discovered he was a scoundrel.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. And then, as if she’d suddenly been struck with this most original thought, she suggested, “Why don’t you have Isabelle go with you? She can be your sounding board.”

“I don’t need a sounding board for a location, Mother,” he told her patiently, then reconsidered his words. “But I could use the company.” He turned toward Isa belle. “How about it? Are you up for a little aimless driving?”

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t just in search of a location. He was looking for a plot to go with that location and really hoped that the one—when he found something that moved him—would wind up triggering the other.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Just what was happening here? Confused, Isabelle looked at the older woman. “I thought you said you wanted to push on.”

Anastasia started to get down from the table, then hesitated, trying to decide which foot to put down first, the one that belonged to her brand-new hip, or the one where it was business as usual. After a beat, she held off on her decision.

“I changed my mind,” Anastasia announced with a touch of haughtiness. Softening, she addressed the puzzled look on Isabelle’s face. “It’s what I do.”