and sigh over in the days to come.
Several times Isabelle found that if she hadn’t staunchly held her ground where she was—near Brandon—she would have been either elbowed or pushed outright to the side by some overeager fan. Apparently they all wanted to get close to, if not their favorite author, at least the best-looking one they’d seen up close and personal.
Anastasia gestured for her to stand beside her and Victoria, directly behind Brandon’s table. Bypassing another handful of fans, Isabelle managed to get over to where the actress and her granddaughter were standing.
“The madness is all taking place in front of Brandon, not back here,” Anastasia assured her confidently. “This isn’t my first signing,” she added.
Isabelle noticed the way Brandon’s agent, Maura Reynolds, hovered close to his side, a position she’d been in for the past ninety minutes. The other woman had assumed that place immediately following the reading he’d given from the first chapter of his new book. Isabelle couldn’t help wondering if Maura, who was clearly older than her prize client, had a crush on Brandon the way so many of his fans appeared to.
Needing a diversion, Isabelle turned toward Brandon’s mother. “Is it always this crazy?” she asked.
Anastasia waved a well-manicured hand indulgently about the crowd. “It’s been worse, trust me,” the actress told her, adding after a beat, “it’s also been much worse.” When Isabelle raised her eyebrows quizzically, the woman elaborated. “Those were the signings when no one came. It took his first book a while to catch on.” Anastasia leaned in so that she didn’t have to raise her voice—or have Brandon overhear her. “Personally, I think his looks had a lot to do with those initial sales,” she confided.
“And he got better,” Victoria interjected loyally, referring to her father’s second book. It was all speculation on her part since she had been far too young at the time to know any of the actual details.
“Yes, he did,” Anastasia agreed—whether because she meant it or was humoring her beloved granddaughter was hard to say, Isabelle thought. But the enthusiasm in the older woman’s voice would have been the same either way and that was all that counted. It was apparent that in her own, very dramatic way, Anastasia Del Vecchio loved her son very much, even though she found ways to bedevil the ego she feared he’d develop.
Isabelle smiled at the exchange between grandmother and granddaughter.
The next moment, her smile faded as a woman in the line before Brandon’s table caught her attention.
A rather statuesque woman, whose long, straight hair was just possibly the palest shade of blond she had ever seen, leaned forward over Brandon’s table.
“I’d like an autograph, please,” she murmured in a deliberately melodic voice that sounded as if it had been dipped in honey.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Brandon answered, his pen poised. “Who shall I make it out to?” As he asked the question, he reached for the book she was holding that he assumed she’d just purchased.
But the woman shook her head. Placing the book on the table, she put her hands on top of it and leaned even farther forward. Her blue silk blouse, already unbuttoned farther than Isabelle felt was decently acceptable, strained against the weight of two very ripe breasts that were ready to make a break for it at any moment.
“No, not the book,” she said in what could only be termed a Marilyn Monroe whisper. “I want you to sign here,” she instructed with a wicked, come-hither smile. “Make it out to ‘Annaliese, with love and appreciation, Brandon Slade.’” She ended her instructions with a frothy giggle.
As Isabelle watched, waiting to see what he was going to do, Brandon remained completely unflappable. He returned “Annaliese’s” smile, but he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m afraid that my pen only writes on paper,” he apologized.
Apparently prepared and very much undaunted, the would-be Marilyn Monroe produced a laundry marker from her purse.
“How about this?” she suggested. “It’s supposed to write on anything,” she breathed.
For a moment, it looked to Isabelle as if Brandon would give in and sign his autograph on the young woman’s very ample chest. But then, to her relief and surprise, he said, “How about I put it someplace where it isn’t going to be washed off when you take your next shower?”
By his satisfied expression he knew he had the young woman. She would either say she didn’t intend to ever shower again, which was off-putting by anyone’s standards, or she’d have to indicate that she didn’t care if the autograph lasted or not, which was ultimately an insult to the man she was trying to flatter.
With a sigh, the woman called Annaliese straightened and allowed the fabric of her blouse to fall back into place, covering at least part of her cleavage. With a pout, she held up the book she’d had to purchase in order to take her place in line to begin with.
“Okay.”
Brandon took extra time and made sure that the message he wrote down was more than just the standard “To my friend So-and-So—”
The young woman’s disappointment faded away as she retreated from the line, reading his message and smiling to herself.
“Nicely done,” Isabelle murmured. She’d made the observation under her breath, and it was intended strictly for herself.
Despite that, Brandon had apparently heard her above the din and looked at her over his shoulder.
He flashed a grin at her and said, “Thanks,” before turning back to autograph his book for the next person in line.
So why did that simple one word acknowledgement make her feel as if someone had just lit a fire inside of her? A fire that was warming up every single part of her at once.
She had no answer for that.
Yet.
The reception gave no indication that it was about to wind down any time soon. Instead, it appeared to have comfortably settled into a rhythm and gave every indication of going on for hours, conversation and wine flowing effortlessly.
Hired to cater the event, Theresa Manetti made sure that the serving platters on the buffet table were never empty and that all the glasses that were in play were continually being refilled. She had a reputation to maintain.
But aside from that, being here also allowed her the opportunity to covertly observe the young woman she had “unofficially” made her newest project. Isabelle Sinclair had certainly come a long way from the woman she’d glimpsed just a short while ago. The other one had been pretty in a shy, retiring way. This woman was vivacious. A “knockout” as her father used to say, Theresa thought with a fond smile.
Seeing Isabelle interacting with Brandon Slade gave Theresa every hope that this particular pairing she had undertaken would turn out to be as successful as the handful of others she, Maizie and Cecilia had gotten involved with. So far, their record was five out of five. This,
