What the Single Dad Wants... Read online

  That path, she now silently emphasized as she quickly tucked a few essentials into the overnight case lying opened on her queen-size bed, did not include being some starry-eyed fanatical “groupie” who lost the ability to think beyond three-word sentences just because a handsome specimen of manhood like Brandon Slade was sitting in her living room.

  Waiting for her.

  Waiting for his mother’s physical therapist, Isabelle tersely corrected herself. It wasn’t as if he actually saw her as a woman. She was just a genderless being whose assignment was to get his mother up, walking and then, hopefully, dancing within a finite amount of time.

  She’d always liked challenges, Isabelle reminded herself, and this certainly promised to be one.

  Stuffing her most frequently used reference manual on top of the rest of her things, she pushed down hard and struggled with the case’s zipper, slowly managing to drag it up and around the three sides of her navy blue suitcase. Swinging the suitcase off the bed, she proceeded out into the living room, listing ever so slightly to one side. The suitcase proved to be heavier than she’d anticipated.

  Brandon looked up the moment she entered the room, putting the book he’d been paging through back into its place on the shelf.

  “Here, let me,” he offered, quickly cutting the distance between them and slipping his hand over hers in order to take possession of the suitcase handle.

  Isabelle swallowed in an attempt to moisten a mouth that had gone powder dry. She could have sworn an intense zap of electricity shot between them. At least, it crackled on her end and jolted her right down to her suddenly curled toes.

  “That’s okay,” she demurred, still holding on to the handle. “It’s not heavy.”

  The hell it wasn’t, he thought. Brandon continued to keep his hand on top of hers, waiting for her to give up the pretense and surrender the suitcase.

  When she didn’t, he asked, “Am I going to have to wrestle you for it?” Amusement curved the corners of his mouth as his eyes captured hers.

  Breathe, damn it. Breathe! Isabelle ordered herself. What is the matter with you? He’s just a man. Magnificent, maybe, but still just a man. You know all the body parts. You had to name them on one of your final exams, remember? Get a grip, for heaven’s sake, will you? She hoped against hope that she wasn’t turning a bright shade of pink before Brandon’s magnificent blue eyes. Her skin certainly felt hot enough.

  Until this very moment, she’d thought that blushing in such circumstances was just a myth, experienced by socially repressed women of the early last century, not by an educated, capable and independent woman of the twenty-first century.

  And yet, here she was, feeling heat creeping up the sides of her neck, slipping over her cheeks and threatening to turn the color of her skin into the same shade as cotton candy.

  That’ll impress him.

  “No,” she heard herself saying as she slipped her hand out from beneath his and gave up her claim to possession of the handle. “No need to wrestle me.” Not that the idea didn’t have very real, appealing possibilities, she added silently.

  The next moment, she tamped down her wayward thoughts and focused strictly on getting back to her patient. It wasn’t easy when the man seemed to fill up every corner of the apartment with his presence.

  And his smile.

  Leading the way, Isabelle opened the door, then paused to look over her shoulder for a moment.

  Standing beside her, Brandon followed her line of vision. And saw nothing amiss. “Forget something?” he asked.

  “Just going over a mental checklist to make sure I didn’t,” she confessed.

  She’d taught herself to do the mental checklist every time she left the apartment after once accidentally leaving the air-conditioning on high instead of turning it off. It had run almost continuously for thirteen hours, much to the joy of the electric company and the sadness of her checking account when it had come time to pay that month’s bill.

  Turning back toward the door, she saw the smile that entered his eyes. “What?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as organized as you before—myself included,” he told her. After growing up with his mother and the eccentric people who populated both Anastasia’s world and his own, someone like Isabelle was a breath of fresh air.

  His voice gave her no clue if he was complimenting her—or mocking her. Everything he said always sounded so upbeat and cheerful.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she heard herself asking.

  “A good thing. Definitely a good thing,” he assured her as they walked to her car. The moment they reached it, a look of dread mingled with resignation came into his eyes. “I’d almost forgotten about this,” he murmured, sounding far from happy.

  Was it his imagination, or had the space gotten even smaller?

  Isabelle unlocked the car’s trunk, and he deposited her overnight bag into it. Though it was a small case, the trunk seemed even smaller and the suitcase took up most of the available space.

  She did her best to sound encouraging. “Well, on the positive side, it’s not that long a trip,” she reminded him.

  But it was.

  Traffic, rarely free-flowing no matter what time of day or night travel occurred, became utterly snarled as several lanes were closed down due to an unfortunate collision between a truck associated with a nationally known supermarket chain and a silver SUV so new it didn’t even have its official DMV license plates in place yet. The latter vehicle had gone flying on impact and was currently on its back like some battered, disabled turtle.

  Miraculously, the three passengers in the SUV had not only survived the accident, but once the fire department had managed to cut them out of the inverted vehicle, they had emerged with only a minimum of cuts and scratches.

  The traffic, however, did not fare nearly as well, threatening to keep everyone in both directions glued in their positions with the hope of only succeeding to travel a couple of inches forward every few minutes—if even that much.

  Slanting a glance toward Brandon, Isabelle asked, “How are you doing?”

  More than forty-five minutes had passed, and they had managed to go less than half a mile. At this rate, they’d be back at his house by evening—and he would have to be retaught how to walk.

  “Well,” Brandon confessed, “if we wind up stuck like this much longer, by the time we do get home, I’m going to need the jaws of life to cut me out of here.” He looked down at the crammed space and the way his legs were tucked in. His knees were flat up against what passed for a glove compartment. “I think my legs are going numb. I know I don’t feel my toes anymore.”

  It was all her fault. She should have never let him fold himself up into her little car like this. She was fine with it the way it was, but, without her high heels on, she was a whole foot shorter than he was.

  “I feel just awful,” she told him.

  Brandon tried to shrug away her assessment and discovered that he didn’t have enough room to complete the movement. His right shoulder hit the inside of the passenger door.

  “Not your fault,” he told her, absolving her of any blame.

  Isabelle didn’t see it that way. Had she not agreed to his coming along—secretly thrilled at the very idea of spending time alone with him in any setting—he wouldn’t be currently playing the part of an oversize fish stuffed into a sardine can.

  By nature, even if she hadn’t become a physical therapist, Isabelle had a calling to be a caregiver. Someone who felt it was her assigned mission in life to fix each and every problem to the very best of her ability. Given that, and her guilt, she had a very strong need to do something to remedy Brandon’s unacceptable situation.

  Working her lower lip between her teeth, she cast about for a way to ease Brandon’s discomfort. The only way that was remotely possible was to get the man out of her tiny car.

  But he couldn’t very well walk home from here—

  Searching the area, she suddenly saw it
, saw the way things were set up. Although cars were now restricted to a single lane going in either direction, there was the remnant of a shoulder available to her on the right side. It wasn’t anything an SUV could travel, but her vehicle was the size of a Smart Car with a gland condition.

  In two short moments, she made up her mind. Bracing herself, she suddenly darted into the space on the right. Once there, she immediately began maneuvering her way down toward the junction up ahead where, according to the information on her GPS, the traffic let up, the speed picked up to that of regular freeway travel and the entire way from there to his house was, for the most part, unobstructed.

  Surprised at the sudden shift onto the sidewalk and the fact that she was now driving in the defensive manner of an Indianapolis 500 racer, Brandon eyed her uncertainly. She’d just broken the law—or bent it in several places at the very least.

  They were picking up more speed, passing the other cars with absolutely no trouble. He could swear envious looks were being shot in their direction.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She would have thought that would have been rather obvious. “Getting you home before you lose the ability to walk,” she answered simply.

  He didn’t want her getting into trouble on his account.

  “If a policeman sees you, you’re liable to get one hell of a large fine,” he warned. Not that he would allow Isabelle to pay it, he added silently. She could hardly afford it, while he, on the other hand, would hardly notice it.

  She’d been very alert, searching for any sign of a police vehicle. She hadn’t seen any of Newport Beach’s finest in the vicinity.

  “I’ll play the odds,” she told him.

  So far, her vigilance had worked, and the odds had remained in her favor. She’d never gotten a ticket, and although she was far from being a speed demon, she wasn’t exactly a timid saint on the road, either.

  Despite his growing physical discomfort, Brandon took a scrutinizing second look at this young woman who was traveling up the shoulder of the road as if it was the most natural thing to do.

  “You know, until just now, I thought you were a sweet girl-next-door type. But there’s a lot more to you than first meets the eye, isn’t there? You, Isabelle Sinclair, are a very complicated woman,” he concluded.

  She spared just the most fleeting of glances in his direction. The smile she saw on his face went directly to her gut. It made risking a ticket utterly worthwhile. The addition of a compliment just put the whole thing over the top.

  She got him home far faster than he thought possible. At the end of the trip, he came to the conclusion that his mother’s little physical therapist drove like a pro. A racing pro. He wondered if it came naturally by way of genes, or was it just something she did by rising to the occasion?

  The next moment, as he opened the door on his side and tried to get out, all other thoughts vacated his head. There was nothing to focus on except getting out of the car.

  Or not getting out of the car, as the case was turning out.

  “How are they?” Isabelle asked, concerned.

  The second she’d pulled up into the driveway and set the parking brake, she’d leaped out of the vehicle and quickly rounded the nonexistent hood to come to his side. He’d already opened the passenger door. Isabelle opened it wider.

  And then she remained standing there, looking at Brandon’s lower half as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to unfold himself and get out. It became painfully obvious that he was having difficulties after his second attempt failed.

  “Numb,” he answered honestly. “But I think there’s hope.”

  Brandon had always subscribed to the glass half-full school of thought. Nothing could be gained by anticipating the worst. If it was meant to happen, it would happen. No sense in ushering it in prematurely and giving it a seat at the table.

  Bracing one hand on the inside of the passenger door, the other against the headrest, Brandon finally managed to attain his freedom from the imprisoning sports car. Once out, he did his best to push himself up into a standing position. It was far from easy. His legs really had gone numb, and now there was that incredibly annoying feeling of a myriad of ants sashaying back and forth along the backs of his thighs and calves.

  He still didn’t feel his feet.

  Standing, although a bit unsteadily, he made eye contact with Isabelle. “But the prognosis is good,” he said just before he took a step forward.

  The next moment, his right knee buckled, and he found himself sinking. He would have gone down all the way had Isabelle not instinctively sprang into action. She instantly placed her body in the way, angling her shoulder so that it was solidly beneath his. She caught the full brunt of his weight.

  For a second, Isabelle sank down a little, her knees temporarily weakened because of the added weight. But then, with one arm wrapped firmly around his midsection, and relying on sheer determination—and the exercises she did religiously whenever she found the time—she managed to hold Brandon in place.

  Brandon was clearly surprised. She weighed far less than he did. How, then, did she manage to support his weight and not buckle under? She really was rather an amazing woman, he thought as admiration flooded through him.

  “You weren’t kidding, were you? You really are strong, especially for such a little thing,” he couldn’t help commenting.

  Had her shoulders been free, she would have shrugged off the compliment. “It’s all in the technique,” she told him. Concerned about the condition of his legs, she added, “We’ll just stand here for a while until you feel up to walking inside.”

  “Until then I guess we could practice singing some old beer drinking songs,” he deadpanned, leaning into her.

  She stared, confused. He looked so serious, she couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. “What?”

  “Just a joke,” he assured her. “With my arm draped like that over your shoulders, it reminded me of my slightly beer-hazy days in college where the reward for getting through a week of studies was to go to the local pub, swap stories and drink. The drinks got progressively taller, the stories got progressively shorter and then, in the end, we’d all stumble back to the dorms, the less plastered holding up the more plastered.”

  At the time, it had seemed like the fun thing to do. Now, looking back, he wondered why he’d wasted the time and the money. He hoped to God that Victoria would prove to be more mature than he had been when it was her turn to go to college.

  Hell, he thought, she was more mature now than he had been then.

  “Sounds like a lovely time,” Isabelle commented dryly.

  “It was then. In hindsight, though, maybe not so much.” He looked at her. He’d done more than his share of talking. It was time to find out something about her. “What was your college experience like?”

  “Lots of studying. No stories. No beer.”

  She felt almost envious of Brandon’s experiences because she’d had none to speak of, no fond memories to look back on. There had been just goals to reach and parents to impress. Succeeding in the former didn’t really make up for failing in the latter.

  “Sounds like something I’m hoping Victoria experiences,” he told her honestly. And then, the next moment, he interrupted himself as his face lit up. “Wait, I think I feel something,” he announced. Looking down at his feet, he proclaimed with a grin. “Yes, definitely something. I feel my feet.”

  Very slowly, like a man testing the waters, Brandon removed his arm from her shoulders.

  His weight gone, Isabelle instantly straightened up. She did her damnedest not to look as if she even noticed the contact between them was terminated. Or that she missed it.

  Chapter Six

  “Can’t you do anything to speed this up?” Anastasia asked impatiently.

  It was several days later. Isabelle and her less-than-patient patient were in the room that Brandon had equipped to serve as his private indoor gym. Open and airy, with a massage table on one side and mirrors
running along the length of two of the walls, reflecting a number of different exercise machines, it was the perfect location for Anastasia’s therapy, Isabelle thought. The mirrored walls would allow the actress to see for herself what she was doing wrong—and improve upon what she was doing right.

  At the moment, the movie icon felt it was a great deal of the former and not nearly enough of the latter.

  “You’re doing very well,” Isabelle assured her in the calm, upbeat voice that was her stock-in-trade when she worked with restless clients.

  “Are you sure this is how this therapy stuff is supposed to go?” the woman questioned with more than a touch of frustration in her voice. “I thought I’d be lying on a table, having you knead the muscles around the affected area to get them back into shape.”

  “That’s not therapy, that’s a massage,” Isabelle pointed out, her smile never leaving her lips. “Speaking of which, let’s get you up on the table,” she directed.

  “For a massage?” Anastasia asked, brightening.

  “No, to rotate the leg that was operated on, see if we can’t stretch those muscles of yours a little,” Isabelle told her.

  Because she didn’t want the actress pulling anything, Isabelle discreetly moved a single-step step stool into place, getting Anastasia to use that in order to help her get on the table.

  With effort, Anastasia lowered herself onto the table, then looked at her.

  “Okay, now what?”

  “Now, you lie down,” Isabelle said, gently taking hold of the woman’s leg and lifting it upward, “and we do this.”

  Anastasia’s eyes widened, unprepared for the salvo of pain that shot through her. The anguished cry escaped the woman’s lips before she could think to stop it—not that she would have. “Aren’t you supposed to make a wish first before snapping the bone?”

  “That’s only with a wishbone and there’ll be no bone snapping today,” Isabelle promised. “Just a couple more times,” she coaxed, rotating the leg even more slowly. “You’re doing fine.”

  “That is a matter of opinion,” Anastasia grumbled.