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,
