first time should be something special, with someone special.”
Her eyes held his. “What makes you think it wasn’t?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. How to share the warm feeling her words had just created within him. So he changed the subject. Sort of.
Looking around, he observed, “I guess we never made it to the bedroom.”
Relieved that he’d dropped the matter of her virginity, she smiled. “Guess not. Next time,” she said. The next moment, her own words replayed themselves in her head and she tried to backtrack. “I mean…”
He saw the slight embarrassment, saw the splash of color coming into her cheeks. Why did that make her look so appealingly adorable? He didn’t even like the color pink.
“Next time,” he echoed, coming to her rescue.
He was rewarded with a grateful smile and knew he’d instinctively said the right thing.
Pressing a kiss to her forehead, more tender than heated, he said, “Give me a few minutes to catch my breath and we can see about making this time the ‘next time.’”
Amazed, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him. Everything she’d ever heard pointed to most men only being interested in one thing, and when it was over, they went on their way—or fell asleep.
“Really?”
He could only smile in response as the words “delightful” and “adorable” echoed in his head again.
“Really,” he said, not a hundred percent sure what he’d just confirmed, knowing only that it seemed to make her happy, and he’d discovered that he enjoyed doing that. Enjoyed it a great deal.
It had been a long time since he’d felt this free, this content. It came as a double surprise because he’d been convinced that his distrust of his own reactions would always mar the experience for him. He had Jean to thank for that.
And now, for however long this lasted, he had Isabelle to thank for bringing him back from that numb, dark place.
“You were very late getting in last night,” Anastasia commented to Isabelle during the following morning’s physical therapy session. Because she was fairly certain that she looked a little unnerved at the observation, she wasn’t surprised to hear the actress explain, “I was having one of my sleepless nights and for once, the book I was reading did not put me to sleep. I had my bedroom door partially opened and I heard the two of you when you came in.”
Isabelle instinctively braced herself for a volley of questions. It was an ingrained response. When she’d lived at home, her father would always grill her, bombarding her with questions whenever she came home after a date. At first she’d told herself it was just because he cared and was being overly protective. Eventually she realized it was because he was jealous that she was paying attention to another male. Though he never displayed any affection toward her, he wanted to be the focus of her world. He never seemed to understand that in order to get so much, he needed to give at least a little.
Braced, she was more than a little relieved when all Anastasia asked was, “Did you have a good time?”
The woman seemed apparently satisfied with the answer she gave when she said, “Yes.”
Resuming the new task she’d been assigned involving a large, colorful scarf that was tied around her upper thighs and keeping it there as she moved across the room, Anastasia smiled and nodded quickly.
“Good. About time my son saw the value of the company of a decent young woman.” She rolled her eyes as she confided, “You should have seen who he’s taken out in the past. They all looked like special deliveries directly from some upscale cathouse. And not a single one of them would drown in a flash flood even if they wanted to, if you know what I mean.” She gave Isabelle a penetrating look.
She knew exactly what Anastasia meant. That the women Brandon Slade went out with were all well-endowed—or at least well-enhanced.
In that kind of inflated company, she was definitely someone who could be overlooked or lost in the shuffle when it came to large cup sizes, Isabelle thought.
“Not one of them has the IQ of an intelligent shoelace,” Anastasia lamented. She shook her head. “I have no idea what he sees in them—beyond the obvious, of course.” She shook her head as she continued to attempt to walk without allowing the scarf to drop. “He has better standards than that.”
Maybe he didn’t, Isabelle couldn’t help thinking. “I don’t think your son’s end goal is to really be mentally stimulated,” Isabelle pointed out. But heaven knew that the word “stimulated” was dead on in this case. Forcing her mind back on Anastasia, she frowned. “And you’ve stopped moving,” she told the actress in as stern a voice as she could manage. She glanced at her wristwatch. “C’mon, you’ve only got ten more minutes to go.”
Anastasia scowled. She looked down at the scarf, which had slipped several inches and was in danger of pooling down to the floor altogether. Keeping it up was a combined effort of the muscles in her thighs and sheer determination. The exercise, one that Isabelle had created herself, had her moving from one end of the gym to the other, waddling in effect, while keeping the multicolored scarf in place.
So far, the actress was having only moderate success. Each time the scarf sank past her knees, the event was accompanied by more than a few choice words hurled at the world of physical therapy in general.
As before, several steps later, the scarf had sunk down, this time encircling Anastasia’s ankles and threatening to make her trip.
The woman lost her legendary temper. “What is the godforsaken point of all this ridiculous nonsense?” she thundered in a voice that she usually used to project to the very last seat in a large theater—without the aid of a microphone.
Isabelle bent down and retrieved the scarf, once again slipping it back into place for the actress.
“In an odd sort of way, the point is the same as learning to walk with a book balanced on your head. One is to perfect your posture and keep your back erect and strong, the other is to strengthen your thighs, especially the one on the leg that’s been operated on. Both boil down to a matter of extreme complete control.”
Anastasia looked unconvinced. “You’re just trying to change the subject,” she sniffed.
No, she didn’t want to discuss the subject, Isabelle thought. What had happened was between Brandon and her. Last night had been special, and she had tucked it away, out of the light of day, where it would remain.
Right now, what she wanted to do was to concentrate on the reason she’d been hired in the first place. To rehabilitate Anastasia in time to join the tour before it left Los Angeles.
She pinned Anastasia with a look that was meant to convey to the woman that she meant business. It was a look she’d seen her mother give her father often enough when she was growing up. Back then, there’d been frost attached to it.
“As far as I’m concerned, Anastasia,
