wild merry-go-round ride. It was a ring she knew she was going to have to give back eventually. But not, apparently, just yet.
“Maybe I’ll just put your theory to the test,” Brandon suggested.
The hand that had been, only a moment ago, pressed to the small of her back now cupped her chin, tilting her face up a little more so that he didn’t have so far to lean down for his lips to touch hers. Cover hers. Draw life from hers.
And just like that, her head began spinning. He stole her breath away, leaving her completely, deliciously disoriented. She felt her body hum.
She could easily get addicted to this, Isabelle thought happily.
If she wasn’t already.
When she realized that her eyelids had slipped shut, Isabelle forced them opened again.
“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded. “Dancing with you like this makes me want to do things that have no business being done on a dance floor.” Her eyes were almost dancing as she said it.
“At least a crowded dance floor,” he amended, feeling the heat from her body reaching out to his.
Why hadn’t she noticed how wicked Brandon’s grin could get? And how wildly her pulse could beat in response?
Pulling her even closer to him, eliminating the last hint of a space between them, he asked her if she was “Ready to go home?”
“Ready,” she breathed, even though she had no idea if he wanted to continue what he’d started just now on the dance floor, or if he was merely making a suggestion that it was time to leave.
All she knew was that she was ready. Ready, with every fiber of her being, to follow this wild, exciting sensation within her to its logical conclusion. When they’d made love last night, Brandon had unlocked something inside of her. Something that had been suppressed all these years. Something that thrilled to the mere hint of his touch, his fingers strumming along her skin as if she was a precious string instrument and he was dedicated to unlocking her secrets.
Leaving the dance floor, they paused by their table just long enough for her to gather her things together. Brandon left a large bill on the table guaranteed to pay for the two drinks they’d ordered plus a heavy tip.
Once outside, Brandon gave his ticket to the valet who in turn promptly ran off to fetch his vehicle. The teen was back within moments. Hopping out, he held the door open for Brandon, then hurried over to help Isabelle into her side of the car.
Brandon left the valet grinning like a Cheshire cat over the tip he’d just been given.
Progressively aware of the pins and needles that she was doing a balancing act on, Isabelle didn’t really remember the trip home. It was a blur wrapped up in gauzy hopeful anticipation.
Conversation was erratic.
“Do you think your mother’s asleep yet?” she asked, trying not to sound as eagerly hopeful as she was.
Brandon glanced at the backlit clock in the dashboard. It was approaching ten.
“Hard to say. I can remember a time when she used to get up at ten to attend some party in her honor back when she was the toast of Broadway.”
“When she did Love Me Sweet and The Lucky Rainbow,” Isabelle put in, nodding her head.
Brandon spared her a glance. Several weeks into this and she was still impressing him. “You really are a fan,” he marveled.
Why did he seem so surprised? “I said I was. Your mother’s part of a dying breed.” He probably took that for granted, seeing as how he’d grown up anchored inside of his mother’s reality. “There aren’t many stars of her caliber left.”
Brandon laughed, shaking his head. “I can see why she gets along so well with you. Just don’t let her get carried away or, before you know it, she’ll have you dragging out her scrapbooks and albums for her own private performance of show-and-tell.”
At least here she was one up on him. “Too late, she already has,” Isabelle told him. “As a matter of fact, it was a couple of weeks ago.”
“And still you’re here,” he pretended to marvel.
She’d been thrilled to death to see the scrapbooks that Anastasia had saved over the years.
“Actually, I considered it an honor. She told me that she doesn’t share those pictures with everyone.”
“No,” he agreed. “Most people can usually outrun her when she’s lugging those scrapbooks out.”
“You’re being irreverent,” Isabelle pointed out, “but I’ve got the feeling that you’re really very proud of your mother.”
That had been a given for a long time. “Well, yeah, I am,” he admitted. “She’s come a long way and managed to get to where she was against a lot of impossible odds. And even though most of my life was spent being raised by strange women with heavy accents, Mother did make it a point to try to be there at bedtime to tuck me in whenever she wasn’t filming half a continent away.” An affectionate, understanding smile curved his mouth. “Anastasia Del Vecchio was the best mother she could be, under the circumstances.” And then he laughed softly to himself.
Isabelle wanted to share his moment, his memory, if only for a little while. “What?” she prodded.
“Mother often brought her characters home. I was never sure if the woman tucking me in would have a southern accent, or talk to me about a new ‘case’ she was bringing to trial—” He saw the slightly confused furrow on Isabelle’s brow and explained. “One season my mother played Katharine Hepburn’s role in a revival of Adam’s Rib.” He grinned. “I guess I’m lucky she never played Joan Crawford in that bio movie based on her life. You know the one.” He paused, trying to remember the title.
Isabelle remembered for him. “Mommy Dearest.” She smiled as she shook her head. There was staying in character and then there was going way too far. She was fairly confident that, despite her tendency toward the dramatic, Anastasia knew where to draw the line.
“I doubt if she would have taken a wire coat hanger to you, no matter how deeply into the part she submerged herself,” Isabelle told him with conviction.
He liked the fact that Isabelle admired his mother. Half the women he’d dated didn’t even know who his mother was. Their sphere of knowledge was very small, limited to the current disposable faces on commercial television, otherwise known as tomorrow’s has-beens, he thought. Isabelle was different. But he already appreciated that.
Turning, Brandon pulled into the driveway. He cut off the engine and pulled up the handbrake.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he was stopping when she looked around and answered her own question.
Somehow, they had managed to arrive. The trip hadn’t seemed nearly long enough.
She decided that the kiss on the dance floor had some pretty lasting lethal effects. Why else would she have lost track of time like this?
Peering through the windshield, she looked up at the house. There
