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.”
He glanced at the sofa and decided he’d had enough of digging himself out of trouble for the time being. Especially since there was still the prospect of the trip back to endure.
“You don’t need any help reaching for items on the top shelf in the closet?” he asked, stretching out his arm to exhibit exactly how far he could reach.
“Got it covered. I keep a step stool in the walk-in closet,” she told him as she strode down the three-foot hallway to her bedroom.
Brandon grinned as he watched the way her trim hips moved in an almost seductive rhythm when she walked away. “Bet you were a Girl Scout when you were little,” he called after her.
She had been, but there was no reason to confirm his suspicions. It made her seem typical and boringly predictable.
Not that she had a prayer of coming off like some mysterious femme fatale, Isabelle thought, mocking herself. She was far too wholesome for that, and hoping for anything to the contrary was just deluding herself. He was probably bored to tears already and regretting coming along. He—
Oh, God.
Too late, it hit her that she’d told him to sit down on the sofa. Which was opposite her entertainment unit. Which not only held the flat-panel TV and a number of treasured, repeatedly watched DVDs but her somewhat limited book collection.
Amid which were all of his books.
Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
Mentally crossing her fingers, Isabelle quickly darted back to the living room to see what he was doing, hoping for the very thing that she’d worried about only seconds ago—that boredom had overtaken him and Brandon had fallen asleep.
Slipping silently into the living room revealed, to her disappointment, that he wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even sitting. Brandon was on his feet, standing in front of the entertainment center, exploring the collection of books neatly arranged on the shelf.
Specifically, her collection of his books.
Rooted to the spot, she watched him for a moment, wishing for a mini-earthquake, one where the ground opened up only beneath her feet and swallowed her whole before Brandon had a chance to look up.
The ground remained frustratingly solid. So much for an earthquake.
She debated going back to the bedroom before he did look up.
And then it was too late for even that.
As if sensing her presence, Brandon glanced up from the book he was thumbing through—a well-worn copy of his third bestseller, Speak Softly and Die—and flashed that beguiling grin of his at her.
“You didn’t tell me you were a fan. You are a fan, right?” he asked, closing the book and giving her his full attention. His expression had turned semi-serious. “I mean, you do have all my books and unless you’re planning on using them to toss into the fireplace as fuel next winter—” Each of his books was easily over five hundred pages—he liked saying that he wanted to give the readers their money’s worth. “—that would mean that you are, in fact, a fan.”
Feeling embarrassed—although there was no reason to because, after all, it wasn’t as if she was stalking the man, his mother had called their agency, asking for a physical therapist and according to Zoe, she just happened to be up next—Isabelle nodded her head.
“Yes, I’m a fan,” she answered in a small voice which sounded as if it should be coming out of someone barely two feet tall.
In contrast, the smile on Brandon’s lips would have overwhelmed a person of such small stature. It belonged, more fittingly, on the face of someone at least three times as tall.
The smile belonged, she thought, her pulse accelerating again, exactly where it was. On his, handsome, chiseled face.
“I’m flattered,” he told her.
The funny thing was, despite the fact that he had veritable legions of fans, she actually believed him.
Ticking off a list of necessary items in her head, Isabelle did her best to pack quickly. She focused on what she needed to take with her—the various pieces of equipment she used in her physical therapy sessions that aided her helping her clients, in this case Anastasia—and keeping them motivated.
