then added with a studied pout, “once she gets tired of torturing me.”
“That torture is going to be what helps get you supple so that you can dance around the stage,” Isabelle informed the older woman in a patient voice.
The actress’s goal was a lofty one. Most patients only wanted to be able to walk without a limp. But it was always good to have something to aspire to, Isabelle thought. The line from a poem by Robert Browning floated through her head: A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for? applied to both men and women.
Victoria, it seemed, had appeared just at the right moment. They would stop here. “All right, I think that’s enough for our evaluation session,” Isabelle told the woman.
Already back in a horizontal position on the sofa, Anastasia sighed dramatically and fanned herself with a magazine from the coffee table. One that, conveniently, had a flattering photo of her on the cover. The caption, Beloved Icon Down But Definitely Not Out, ran along the bottom of the cover.
“Thank God,” Anastasia declared. “I don’t think I could have gone on another moment.”
She not only could have, she would have, Isabelle thought. The woman wasn’t fooling her. She was a born trouper—even if there had to be a lot of noise and fanfare accompanying her every effort.
“By the way, Ms. Del Vecchio,” Isabelle began, her eyes sweeping over the woman’s long, still very attractive legs, legs that had once been the subject of an enamored famous stage actor’s poem. The man had gone on to become one of the actress’s many lovers, if she remembered correctly. “Where are your white cotton surgical stockings?”
Anastasia looked down at her legs as well, as if she expected the subject under discussion to suddenly materialize. “You mean those hideous white, cottony things they gave me in the hospital?”
“Yes, those hideous white, cottony things they gave you at the hospital,” Isabelle repeated patiently. “Where are they?”
The actress gestured carelessly toward the back of the house and the general vicinity of the room she was presently sleeping in. “In the wastebasket in my bathroom. I threw them away,” she added needlessly.
Isabelle had suspected as much. She looked at her client pointedly. “You need to un-throw them away,” she informed the woman firmly in her soft, gentle breeze of a voice.
“Why?” Anastasia asked. “They make my legs look chunky and so—so old lady-ish,” she complained disdain fully.
Okay, more patience, Isabelle silently coached herself. “The stockings aren’t meant to be worn as some kind of a fashion statement, Ms. Del Vecchio—”
“Anastasia,” the actress insisted.
Isabelle deliberately ignored the slight thrill that had just zipped through her—she was on a first name basis with the great Anastasia Del Vecchio!—and focused on the fact that she had a very stubborn, very willful client on her hands.
“The stockings are meant to help you bounce back faster. And to make sure you don’t develop any blood clots.”
The magnificent violet eyes narrowed. Anastasia needed convincing. “Really?”
Rather than launch into a long and tedious explanation, Isabelle merely repeated the single word the actress had just said, uttering it with conviction. “Really.”
Another huge, resigned sigh escaped the near perfect lips. Anastasia Del Vecchio was no one’s fool, and she knew when to retreat. It was how she went on to fight another day.
“Oh, very well.” She shifted in her seat to get a better view of her granddaughter. “Victoria?”
Victoria was on her feet. “On it, Gemma,” the girl responded. As she turned on her heel and passed Isabelle, the girl said in a low, congratulatory voice, “Score one for your side.”
Isabelle couldn’t have explained why the approving words pleased her so much—after all, they were coming from a child—but they did.
Several minutes later, the girl returned with the crumpled white cotton stockings. Isabelle took them from her and proceeded to carefully slip them, one at a time, on her patient.
Once they were back on, Anastasia eyed the knee-high stockings with more than a little contempt. “You’re sure about this?” she asked Isabelle.
“Very sure,” Isabelle answered firmly as she anchored the second stocking in place with what could have once passed as a garter belt. Unlike the ones that were advertised on the pages of catalogs highlighting a thousand and one ways to seduce the man in your life, this particular item was not the last word in sexy.
Finished, Isabelle stood back and smiled. “You did very well for a first time.”
Anastasia looked at her as if there could be no other outcome. “Of course I did.”
The woman gave new meaning to the word confidence, Isabelle thought. Uncertain how to respond, Isabelle decided the safest reaction was to smile and then go on to a different subject.
“Well, if I’m going to be staying here for a while, I’d better go home and throw a few things together.” She picked up her purse and began to leave the room, heading for the front door.
“You are coming back.”
Even though the sentence was more of a statement than a question, just for a split second Isabelle thought she heard a sliver of uncertainty in the woman’s voice. She supposed that Anastasia had her share of people who, unable to take her larger-than-life personality, had abruptly fled her employ.
Not gonna happen here, Isabelle thought.
“Nothing could stop me,” she assured the actress—and was rewarded by the return of the woman’s confident, brilliant smile.
“Tell Brandon I said to help you,” she called after Isabelle.
Right, as if she was about to do that. Out loud Isabelle said, “I’m sure he’s busy, Ms. Del Vec—Anastasia. Besides, there’s not much to pack. I shouldn’t be too long.”
She thought she saw the actress smile again in response. With just a little luck, this would work out well, Isabelle told herself.
As she left the room and turned toward the foyer and the front door, she came within a quarter of an inch of slamming right into the very man the actress had told her to summon for help.
The close call abruptly launched her heart into double time.
Caught off guard, Isabelle swallowed a scream as she stumbled backward. Her heel caught on the corner of a scatter rug that had been thrown down on the travertine floor without, apparently, regard for exact placement. It moved beneath her heel, ripping away the last shred of her stability.
As she tried to regain her balance, there was every indication that she would completely embarrass herself by falling. At the last moment,
