motivation, Brandon had an explanation.
“That’s because you’ve been burying yourself in your work.” He spared her another glance. “By choice, I’m guessing.”
Was that a lucky guess, or was he just being polite? Either way, the man had managed to hit awfully close to the actual truth. She thought of denying it, but she had a feeling it would do no good. He was right, and she sensed that he knew it. But, she was willing to bet, he didn’t know why she wasn’t in the market for a relationship—and she intended to keep that to herself.
“When did I tell you that I wanted my fortune told?” she asked wryly.
“Consider it a bonus for working with my mother. Or,” he went on, giving her another way to view this, “you could consider this as the result of being around a writer who likes to stay on his toes by dissecting situations and people.”
No, she thought, “bonus” was the way she viewed the outing they’d just had—and most of all, it was the word she applied to the kiss they’d shared. Both, in their own way, were precious to her.
And, more than likely, a one-time-only kind thing. She didn’t foresee circumstances arranging themselves so that she found herself on the receiving end of affection any time in the near future.
Or ever.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured.
It occurred to Brandon that he had never heard that particular sentence sound so very pregnant with possibilities before.
Or promise.
But then, he reminded himself, he’d only known Isabelle for a very short amount of time.
After that initial foray into Brandon’s creative process, much to her surprise and delight, Isabelle found herself being drawn further and further into the man’s literary world.
To her the whole process was exciting beyond words. But, at the same time, she didn’t want him to think of her as some sort of a wide-eyed groupie. To that end, she’d already made up her mind to turn down his next invitation.
Except that the next one was to attend a reception scheduled to be held directly after his book signing at one of the local branches of a large national bookstore chain. When he asked her if she wanted to attend, the word “no” hovered on her lips. However, it never actually emerged. She’d swallowed it the moment Brandon began to describe the event to her. Within moments she knew that she couldn’t pass up something like this. There would never be another opportunity to attend a reception like this as a guest of the author.
Besides, she discovered that refusing him was next to impossible for her.
Especially since he began by saying he’d take her attendance as a personal favor because she would be keeping an eye on his daughter and his mother, both of whom were coming to the signing and the reception.
She couldn’t say no after that.
And that was why the following afternoon, during a break between Anastasia’s morning and afternoon therapy sessions, found her in the nearby shopping mall. Since the reception was taking place after five, she was in the market for a simple black dress that promised to be anything but simple.
There was nothing simple about the price tag attached to the dress. But, since this was a once-in-a-lifetime situation, Isabelle closed her eyes and thrust her credit card toward the sales clerk. The slinky little number, which fit her as if it had been created with her in mind, easily cost almost as much as the rest of the clothes hanging in her closet put together.
But as Isabelle surveyed herself in the mirror the evening of the big event, she felt it was worth the price.
It was difficult for her not to allow her imagination to take flight, creating fanciful scenarios that had built on that afternoon they had spent at Laguna Beach.
She had to keep reminding herself that she was going to the signing and the reception afterward not as Brandon’s friend, not even as a fan of his work, but in the capacity of his mother’s physical therapist. She was going for a very legitimate reason: to help Victoria keep an eye on her grandmother because Anastasia Del Vecchio had a tendency to overdo things and none of them wanted the actress to jeopardize the progress she’d made so far.
It was a given that the world-famous cinema icon did nothing by half measures. Since she hadn’t fully bounced back from her surgery yet, getting overly tired was definitely not advisable. Which meant that she, Isabelle Sinclair, would have to watch the woman like a hawk. She knew that definitely would not endear her to the actress. Anastasia balked at restrictions, even those implemented for her own good. It was obvious that she still thought of herself as a woman in her early thirties, able to do whatever it was she set her mind to do.
But nothing, Isabelle thought, turning around slowly to view herself from as many different angles as humanly possible, said she couldn’t look good while acting as Anastasia’s keeper.
The reflection looking back at her was damn good.
Rather than the utilitarian style she wore most days, with her hair pulled back away from her face, Isabelle kept her hair down. And, except for one small ornamental comb strategically positioned over her right ear, her hair was free to swing about.
“This is as good as it gets,” she declared under her breath. No amount of extra fussing would improve on what she saw.
Not that there was a need for improvement.
Stepping into black sling-back sandals that added four inches to her height, Isabelle picked up her small black purse and slipped the thin strap over her shoulder. She would have preferred a clutch purse, but there was no way one of those would accommodate the absolute minimum of things she considered vital for functioning.
The next size up barely did that, but, with some strategic packing and squeezing in the right places, the purse accommodated what she needed and still allowed her to snap the clasp shut.
Isabelle paused for a second just shy of the doorway, took a deep breath to center herself and then let it go.
Okay, here I come, ready or not, she silently declared.
Stepping out into the hallway, she heard Brandon, already downstairs from the sound of it, calling for everyone to come together.
Clapping his hands, he called up the stairs. “Let’s go, let’s go, ladies. I don’t want to be late for my own signing.”
“Why not?” Anastasia asked. She took the stairs down seemingly without effort, which pleased Isabelle no end. Going up and down the stairs was actually a good form of exercise for the woman—as long as she was careful not to move too fast. “This way, you can make an entrance. An entrance with a beautiful woman on each arm,” she added with a flourish as she came to stand at the bottom of the stairs.
“Dramatic entrances are for you, Mother,” Brandon answered with patient affection. “I’m just happy nobody’s throwing any rotten fruit or vegetables at me.”
“They never did that,” Victoria spoke
