room where she’d lived these past six weeks, closed it for the last time.
If you’re inaccessible, if you have an impenetrable shield wrapped all around you, nothing could possibly hurt you. There were a lot of worse things than that, she mused as she slowly took her clothes off their hangers and folded them one by one, then placed them into her suitcase.
Maybe, if she kept busy enough, if she moved fast enough, Isabelle told herself, she could outrun the pain that hovered over her like a bullet seeking its target.
Waiting to destroy her.
Blinking back tears, she stepped up her pace, doing her best to give her theory a good run for its money. It was all she had.
Brandon was flying.
For once, that sensation didn’t involve the needle on his speedometer straining toward numbers that were frowned upon by police departments in all fifty states.
That was because he was flying emotionally.
The meeting with the producer had gone not just well but extremely well. And now it looked as if he would see the characters he’d “given birth to” take on three-dimensional form across the big screen. Saying words that he had put into their mouths.
Hell, he would have paid them for the honor. Instead, they were paying him. Not only that, but the amount of money bandied about between the producer and his barracuda of an agent was almost sinful. The last time he’d heard amounts like that was when he was a kid, playing Monopoly with one of the many nannies his mother had hired for him.
He felt almost guilty accepting the money.
Almost.
Even adjusting for inflation, it was way more than enough to send Victoria to the world’s most expensive college three times over when the time came. Send her to college and buy her a small country of her own as well, he thought with a grin.
But that wasn’t even the best part of it all. He’d finally, finally, gotten started working on his next book. It had been rocky at first, but he was going like a house afire now. So much so that he’d felt as if he had to tear himself away just to attend this meeting today.
His renewed fire was all thanks to his new muse.
All thanks to Isabelle.
Talking to her the other night had made everything fall into place, made it all come into focus.
By nature he was ordinarily an upbeat sort of person, but having her around had wound up making his very soul sing.
That, my boy, is because you’ve finally given yourself permission to be in love.
There was no getting around that, he thought—not that he really wanted to. He’d forced himself to admit it. He was in love. And being so made all the difference in the world.
He was anxious to make it official as soon as possible. He wanted to tell Isabelle how he felt about her. Wanted to declare his feelings out loud so that he could go forward and start making plans. Important plans. Plans not just for the two of them but for all three of them because Isabelle and Victoria had a bond, as well.
The very thought of that made him incredibly happy. He suspected that Victoria felt exactly the same way about Isabelle as he did.
Well, maybe not exactly the same way, he amended with a wicked grin, but close.
Brandon pressed down on the accelerator, in a rush to get back home. Finally, he could go forward with his life. He no longer believed that the best was behind him, he thought as he pulled up before his house. The best was yet to be.
As he got out of his car, Brandon was vaguely aware that Isabelle’s car wasn’t parked at the curb or in the driveway either.
What a time for her to pick to run an errand, he thought, just the slightest bit crestfallen.
He was going to have to hang on to his enthusiasm for a little while longer, he told himself. Until she got back.
He hoped he could hold out.
“Well, you’re looking pretty pleased with yourself,” Anastasia commented to her son when he walked into her room.
Or rather, to his reflection in her mirror, which was what she was looking at as she finished carefully arranging her hair. Done, she turned around to face him and crossed to her bed which was currently buried under mounds of her clothing.
“You’re just in time to help me decide. Which color is more flattering? The turquoise?” She held up a dress that was clearly not meant for daywear. “Or the hunter green?” She switched to another garment, one that was shot through with silver threads, and held it up against her torso.
“The turquoise,” he told her. Unable to hold the news in any longer, he shared it with her. “And I’ve just sealed a deal to have The Thrill of the Hunt made into a movie.”
About to remove the last articles of clothing from her closet, Anastasia stopped in midstep and whirled around to look at Brandon. There was genuine pleasure in her eyes. “Oh, how wonderful, Brandon!” Ever the competitive actress, she automatically asked, “Do you think there’s a part in it for me?”
“Depends,” he said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Can you play a tough as nails L.A.P.D. detective in her early thirties?”
“She’s that old?” Anastasia lamented, then waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “Maybe I’ll just let someone else get it.”
He saw her glancing in the mirror, examining her profile. Some things never changed, he thought fondly. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Belatedly, the chaos on her bed—and the opened suitcases—registered. “What are you doing?”
“Packing, darling.” She laughed indulgently. “You’d think after all these years of watching me do it, you’d recognize it when you saw it.”
And here it was, the weather forecast for his parade. Was it merely going to rain, or was there a flash flood in the offing? “But you weren’t going to leave until your physical therapy program was over.”
“Exactly.” Anastasia stopped packing her clothes and went through the motions of taking a curtain call bow. “It’s over. I am officially ‘as good as new.’” She allowed a contented sigh to escape. “Isabelle said there was nothing else she could do for me.”
Why was there this uneasy, queasy feeling burrowing into the pit of his stomach?
He was jumping to needless conclusions, Brandon told himself. “Speaking of Isabelle, do you know when she’ll be back?”
Anastasia looked at him blankly, waiting. When he didn’t continue, she asked, “No, when?”
“I’m asking you,” Brandon stressed, struggling to keep this strange, swiftly-growing agitation he was experiencing from getting out of hand.
Ah,
