last year,” he recalled, nodding. “That was written just as And Death Do Us Part came out,” he recalled. “Victoria was eleven when it was written, and as she likes pointing out, she’s ‘matured’ since then.”
And was in oh such a hurry to grow up, he thought as a sadness tugged on his heart. He knew he couldn’t keep Victoria a little girl forever, but he’d secretly been hoping that he was going to find a way to slow time down. No such luck.
He smiled at the very thought of his daughter. He’d fallen in love with her the first moment he saw her—and could never understand how Jean, his ex, could have walked out on her. But that was Jean’s loss, he thought. Right from the beginning, he’d made sure that Victoria would never feel as if she’d been abandoned—the way he had been. His ex-wife’s cavalier behavior had left a scar on his heart, but from that first moment, he was determined that it would do no such thing to their daughter. He liked to believe he had succeeded.
“She keeps me on my toes,” he confided. “And her grandmother on hers. I’d say that of the three of us, Victoria’s easily the oldest one.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know if that speaks well of us or not, but it makes my mother happy. She has no use for numbers unless they apply to box office takes or residuals from previous airings. Definitely not when they apply to something as ‘mundane’—her word—as age.”
As Isabelle listened to him talk, she had to struggle not to get lost in the sound of his resonant voice.
Emerging from her semi-euphoric fog, she suddenly realized that, if he accompanied her, the writer would, perforce, wind up seeing her apartment. That instantly sobered her.
The idea of having someone like Brandon Slade over to her small, crammed flat when he lived in a house that could easily accommodate half a dozen of her apartments didn’t exactly thrill her. She didn’t consider herself vain, but neither did she like to appear poor or become some kind of an object worthy of his pity.
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, thinking. Maybe she could talk him into staying in the car while she threw a few things into a suitcase.
He’s a man, not a pet to leave in the car while you run an errand. Besides, it’s hot today, unseasonably hot. You want him to get sunstroke?
You’re not supposed to be vain, remember? Especially when you have nothing to be vain about.
Having convinced herself, she lifted her head again, summoning a bright, breezy smile to her lips as she looked into his eyes and said with all the cheerfulness she was able to muster, “I’d love for you to come and help me pack, Mr. Slade.”
“Brandon,” he corrected automatically. “And you lie very smoothly,” he told her in a tone he could have used to compliment her choice in shoes.
Brandon took her arm as if they’d been friends forever and guided her toward the door. The grin he gave her was equal parts sexy, mischief and sunshine.
The latter felt as if it was just bursting through her, giving light to all the dark corners she possessed.
Her stomach bunched up again just as Brandon made a prophesy based on his last assessment of her ability to bend a lie to sound like the truth, something he did on the pages of his books time and again.
“Know what, Isabelle Sinclair? I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to get along just great.”
With all her heart, Isabelle fervently hoped so.
Instead of following her in his own car, the way she had assumed that he would, Brandon walked with her to her car and gave every indication that he was planning on accompanying her to her apartment in her vehicle.
Isabelle took an immense amount of pride in her little car because—apart from it being economical and reliable, as well as, in her opinion, “cute”—it was also the very first new car she’d ever owned. Every other one she’d driven had been secondhand, time bombs, for the most part, waiting to go off.
Those details not withstanding, she didn’t see why Brandon would choose to ride shotgun in her car. Since he was somewhere between six-two and six-four, and the vehicle had obviously been manufactured with passengers no taller than five-nine in mind, seating promised to be severely cramped for the author. Even when he pushed the passenger seat back as far as he could before attempting to get in.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him uncertainly.
“I’m game,” he told her as he began to fold himself up and angle his way into the limited space. It took a bit of doing, but he finally managed to get his entire torso inside the vehicle. As he contorted his arm to get the seat belt’s metal tongue into the slot, he cracked, “By the way, when’s the rest of the car coming?” This was not a good idea, Isabelle thought. “I’m sorry. When I bought it, I wasn’t expecting having someone your height getting into it. I hope you’re not too uncomfortable.” Even as she said it, she knew he was. He made her think of an early Christian martyr, doing penance.
Brandon began to wave away her concern and discovered that he really couldn’t—at least, not literally. There wasn’t enough space available for him to execute the movement.
“Don’t worry about it. This is roomy compared to some of the seats on the rides I’ve gone on with Victoria. There was one once at Jamboree-land where I thought I was going to have to fold my legs up around my shoulders, if not over my head.”
She’d begun driving the second he’d managed to close the passenger side door. “You don’t live very far away, do you?”
“You don’t consider Oxnard far away, do you?” The unguarded look of dread that slipped over his face had her hastily negating her response. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she assured him with feeling. “I’m just up the road in Bedford.”
“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,
