What the Single Dad Wants... Page 9

  “How about it? Are you game to go for a walk on the beach now?” he asked.

  Rather than answer him, Isabelle put her hand on his arm to help her maintain her balance as she slipped off her shoes. The hem of her white slacks was a hair’s breadth from touching the gazebo’s wooden floor.

  Holding her shoes by their straps as proof, she declared, “Game!”

  The quick grin that accompanied her declaration fluttered directly—and almost lethally—into Brandon’s stomach.

  He did his best to disregard the feeling and the very real, very strong sexual pull he experienced. This wasn’t the time or the place.

  “Okay, it’s this way,” he needlessly told her, pointing to a path that ran past another, far more image-conscious restaurant. The path was narrow and winding, and had once been painstakingly paved with colored bits of concrete, but any intended patterns that had been pressed into its surface were long gone, worn away by years of foot traffic and the sun.

  The path’s incline was also steep enough to make her feel as if she could easily pitch forward if she wasn’t careful or moved too quickly. She deliberately kept her gait measured and slow. To insure her stability, Isabelle slipped her arm through Brandon’s.

  The sand, when they finally reached it, was a pristine shade of almost white, the result of many vigilant patrons and neighbors who took pride in keeping it clean. The sand felt beguilingly warm against the soles of her bare feet the moment she took her first step. By then, Brandon had stopped to take off his own shoes—and socks—as well.

  As they began to walk along the uncrowded beach, she had no doubt that the sand had found its way into the cuffs she had carefully rolled up. The thought didn’t really trouble her. Being here was well worth the minor inconvenience.

  With so few people around, the beach seemed somehow larger to her. As if it truly did go on forever.

  Isabelle slanted a glance toward the man beside her, wondering if it made the same impression on him that it did on her.

  “Does this make you feel small?” she asked, curious. “Like a speck?”

  There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he shook his head. “No, it makes me feel special. Like someone seeing paradise for the first time.”

  She liked the way he thought. As she opened her mouth to say so, she stopped, convinced that she not only smelled rain, she felt it as well.

  Was it her imagination?

  Looking up at the sky, she saw no dark clouds hovering about ominously. The sky was still an exquisite shade of blue. It continued to retain its color as, out of nowhere, rain began to fall. Somewhere within the heavens, a leak had suddenly sprung.

  Grabbing her hand, Brandon made a mad dash back up to the winding path.

  It required more energy to go up than come down, especially at a pace that was three times as fast. As if determined to keep pace, the rain seemed to increase with every step they took until they finally made it up to the shelter of the gazebo.

  “I think I just burned off dessert,” Isabelle commented, doing her best to regulate her breathing once more.

  As they stood beneath the gazebo’s wooden roof, the sun shower turned noisy. Instead of raindrops, Isabelle thought she heard the roof being pelted. Really pelted. She looked at Brandon quizzically.

  “Is that hail?” she asked him.

  “Sounds like it,” he answered. “Looks like it, too,” he added, pointing to the ground behind them just outside the gazebo. A blanket of icy drops was swiftly forming, covering the grass between the gazebo and the sidewalk.

  Isabelle brushed her wet bangs away from her eyes. She had to look a mess, she suddenly realized. Dropping her shoes to the floor, she stepped into them, then ran her hands up and down her arms, brushing away some of the raindrops.

  “God, I think I’m soaked to the bone,” she observed.

  Rather than stare at her very wet body and the way her cotton blouse clung to her upper torso as if she was a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, Brandon made himself look at her face.

  He dug into his back pocket and took out his neatly folded handkerchief and, to the obvious surprise registered in her eyes, carefully wiped the moisture from her face.

  Brandon held out the handkerchief to her, and she graciously took it.

  She dabbed at her throat and the damp swell just above her breasts. At that point, the handkerchief was too wet to do any more good.

  She flashed a smile at Brandon as she offered the handkerchief back to him. “Thanks. I feel totally dry now.”

  He laughed, slipping the wet handkerchief into his wetter jeans. Even as he did so, they could see that the hailstorm had all but abated.

  In the next few minutes, the sun shower retreated, as well.

  Less than fifteen minutes after the rain had started, it dispersed. Except for the few remaining patches of hail clumped together here and there on the ground, it was as if they’d both just shared a mutual hallucination. “What was that?” she asked Brandon, peering up uncertainly at the blue sky.

  He could recall experiencing maybe three hail storms in his lifetime, none of them while the sky was a crystal clear blue.

  “I’m not too sure,” he admitted. “But as long as a torrent of frogs doesn’t start falling from the sky, I’d venture to say that things are still pretty good and that God’s not mad at us.”

  “Nice to know,” she murmured.

  It was only now, in retrospect, that she realized that Brandon had grabbed her hand to make sure she kept up as he’d run back for shelter. Taking her hand rather than silently declaring, solely by his actions, that it was every man—and woman—for him-or-herself.

  The man was chivalrous under fire, as well as heart-throb handsome.

  Perfect in every way, Isabelle couldn’t help thinking. So far, she hadn’t found any flaws in the man. He was good to his mother, clearly loved his child, had a sense of humor and was witty and intelligent. The perfect package.

  But, she knew, remembering her father and the aura that he had shattered, no man was perfect.

  What was Brandon Slade’s flaw? she couldn’t help wondering.

  So far, she hadn’t seen evidence of any shortcoming, and that just wasn’t possible. Men as seemingly perfect as Brandon Slade existed in fairy tales and all answered to the same name: Prince Charming. In other words, they were fictional characters who weren’t even awarded a moniker because why waste a perfectly good name on a character who hadn’t a prayer of existing in the real world?

  Brandon’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. “Maybe we’d better make our getaway while the getting’s good,” he suggested. “In case the rain comes back. Unless you want to stay here for a while longer,” he tacked on. He watched her, waiting.

  Much as she would have liked to remain here with him, she knew she had to be getting back. By the time they would reach his house, it would be time for his mother’s next exercise session. As tempting as the thought of spending more time with him right here was, she had to keep in mind why she was remotely a temporary part of Brandon Slade’s world in the first place.

  It was not to dash along the beach, trying to outrun the rain.

  But she had to be honest. “I’d love to,” she told him. “But your mother should have another PT session at three. All things considered—” which was a very polite way of glossing over the actress’s bombastic personality and her way of taking charge of any given situation no matter what “—your mother’s doing rather well. I’d hate to interrupt her progress because I like feeling sand between my toes.” She flashed a grin at him. “Or running from a sun shower.”

  Brandon inclined his head. He couldn’t help wondering, though, if Isabelle had a clue how infectious her grin was. “Home it is.”

  Home.

  For a tiny moment, the word embraced her, as if it was not just his home but hers, too. The idea warmed her and brought a smile to her inner core.

  You’ve got a perfectly nice home of your own, remember? The small voice i
n her head—her common sense she liked to think—sounded almost exasperated with her.

  She had to be careful, Isabelle warned herself. She had a tendency to get carried away. A tendency to let her imagination get the better of her. Brandon had made her feel welcome and was continuing to do so, but that was just his way. She was the hired help. A trained, highly professional physical therapist, but still the hired help.

  She had to remember that. Letting herself believe anything else was just asking for trouble. Although that had never happened before with work, she had an uneasy feeling things were different now.

  Because the circumstances were different and Brandon had entered her world.

  He hasn’t entered your world, idiot. You’ve entered his. The second his mother’s more flexible, you’re history, just someone that he knows.

  There were times when she just hated being right.

  “You’ve gotten very quiet,” Brandon observed as they got into the car. He’d handed her the oversize beach towel he’d found in his trunk and she’d wrapped it around herself. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, I’m just thinking about your mother’s exercise program,” she lied. It was a handy excuse to fall back on, also pretty transparent, she thought, but she really wasn’t versed in lying. She’d never had a reason to lie before.

  Putting the key into the ignition, Brandon paused for a moment, scrutinizing her.

  And looking right through her, Isabelle thought.

  “Lucky for you, Pinocchio is just a fairy tale,” he told her, turning the key. The SUV’s engine rumbled to life.

  She squared her shoulders defensively, even as she knew there was no point. He was apparently on to her. “Are you saying you think I’m lying?”

  “Just making an observation,” Brandon answered innocently. And then, more seriously, he said, “And being a little worried.”

  “Worried?” she repeated. What was he worried about? His mother? He had no reason to be worried in that department. “Don’t be,” she told him, then went on to add, “I already told you, your mother’s doing fine—”

  He cut her short before she could begin to elaborate. “Yes, I know.”

  Okay, she was confused, not to mention lost. “Then why…?”

  Pulling out of the parking space, he waited until he had straightened the wheel and driven to the corner before continuing. “I was referring to you.”

  “Me?” Now she was really confused. “You’re worried about me? Why?”

  This was unfamiliar ground for him. But then, he didn’t usually venture into this kind of territory. “I was worried that maybe, because of what happened earlier, you’d want to quit.”

  “What happened earlier?” she repeated, thinking he was referring to getting soaked in the shower. “No offense intended, Brandon. You’re a very famous man and all, but I don’t think you have what it takes to be responsible for a sudden drastic shift in the weather.”

  “Earlier than that,” was all he said as he began to drive back up Pacific Coast Highway. Quaint little shops whizzed by in reverse as he made his way back to MacArthur Boulevard and Newport Beach.

  That only left one thing. Her eyes widened in amazement. “You think I’d quit because you kissed me? Or because you stopped?” she added, a whimsical smile playing on her lips.

  When she mentioned the latter, he knew he was on safer ground. A note of relief slipped into his countenance. Granted, he could always find another physical therapist for his mother—it wasn’t as if Isabelle was the only one available on the North American continent—but his mother liked the woman, and that in itself was a rarity. Besides, he liked her, as well, and it wasn’t exactly a hardship having her around for a while longer.

  “Then we’re okay?” he asked for form’s sake.

  “We’re fine,” she answered. “Trust me, if you’d done something I didn’t like, I wouldn’t have meekly let it happen—or held my tongue. I might look like one, but I’m not a shy wallflower.”

  He thought of the way she’d driven like a speed demon to get back to his house so he could start getting feeling back in his legs. “No,” he agreed, “you’re not. And for the record—”

  He stopped abruptly as he began to maneuver his vehicle around a moving truck that hogged the entire road.

  Impatient, Isabelle forced herself to wait until he cleared the truck, then pressed, “Yes?”

  “For the record,” he repeated, “you don’t look like any wallflower I ever encountered.” Slanting a glance in her direction, he glimpsed her grin. “Why would you even say that?” he asked. “Who told you that you look like a wallflower?”

  “Zoe. My sister,” she added in case he’d forgotten her sister’s name.

  “I know who Zoe is,” he told her. He had a great memory when it came to names, people and places. “What you didn’t mention, however, was that she was blind.”

  Her smile blossomed into a full, wide, pleased grin. “She just worries about me,” she said by way of excusing her sister. “She wants me to make ‘the best’ of my ‘assets’ so that I don’t wind up growing old alone.”

  “I think you’re alone because you want to be,” Brandon told her, making a judgment call. “Not because you have to be.”

  That was all very sweet, but he was missing a very salient point. She knew it wasn’t exactly prudent to make the admission, but she’d never been one to play games. “I’m not exactly beating off men with a stick here.”

  Having temporarily put himself in her place, something he did whenever he was trying to understand someone’s motivation, Brandon had an explanation.

  “That’s because you’ve been burying yourself in your work.” He spared her another glance. “By choice, I’m guessing.”

  Was that a lucky guess, or was he just being polite? Either way, the man had managed to hit awfully close to the actual truth. She thought of denying it, but she had a feeling it would do no good. He was right, and she sensed that he knew it. But, she was willing to bet, he didn’t know why she wasn’t in the market for a relationship—and she intended to keep that to herself.

  “When did I tell you that I wanted my fortune told?” she asked wryly.

  “Consider it a bonus for working with my mother. Or,” he went on, giving her another way to view this, “you could consider this as the result of being around a writer who likes to stay on his toes by dissecting situations and people.”

  No, she thought, “bonus” was the way she viewed the outing they’d just had—and most of all, it was the word she applied to the kiss they’d shared. Both, in their own way, were precious to her.

  And, more than likely, a one-time-only kind thing. She didn’t foresee circumstances arranging themselves so that she found herself on the receiving end of affection any time in the near future.

  Or ever.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured.

  It occurred to Brandon that he had never heard that particular sentence sound so very pregnant with possibilities before.

  Or promise.

  But then, he reminded himself, he’d only known Isabelle for a very short amount of time.

  Chapter Nine

  After that initial foray into Brandon’s creative process, much to her surprise and delight, Isabelle found herself being drawn further and further into the man’s literary world.

  To her the whole process was exciting beyond words. But, at the same time, she didn’t want him to think of her as some sort of a wide-eyed groupie. To that end, she’d already made up her mind to turn down his next invitation.

  Except that the next one was to attend a reception scheduled to be held directly after his book signing at one of the local branches of a large national bookstore chain. When he asked her if she wanted to attend, the word “no” hovered on her lips. However, it never actually emerged. She’d swallowed it the moment Brandon began to describe the event to her. Within moments she knew that she couldn’t pass up something like this. There would never be an
other opportunity to attend a reception like this as a guest of the author.

  Besides, she discovered that refusing him was next to impossible for her.

  Especially since he began by saying he’d take her attendance as a personal favor because she would be keeping an eye on his daughter and his mother, both of whom were coming to the signing and the reception.

  She couldn’t say no after that.

  And that was why the following afternoon, during a break between Anastasia’s morning and afternoon therapy sessions, found her in the nearby shopping mall. Since the reception was taking place after five, she was in the market for a simple black dress that promised to be anything but simple.

  There was nothing simple about the price tag attached to the dress. But, since this was a once-in-a-lifetime situation, Isabelle closed her eyes and thrust her credit card toward the sales clerk. The slinky little number, which fit her as if it had been created with her in mind, easily cost almost as much as the rest of the clothes hanging in her closet put together.

  But as Isabelle surveyed herself in the mirror the evening of the big event, she felt it was worth the price.

  It was difficult for her not to allow her imagination to take flight, creating fanciful scenarios that had built on that afternoon they had spent at Laguna Beach.

  She had to keep reminding herself that she was going to the signing and the reception afterward not as Brandon’s friend, not even as a fan of his work, but in the capacity of his mother’s physical therapist. She was going for a very legitimate reason: to help Victoria keep an eye on her grandmother because Anastasia Del Vecchio had a tendency to overdo things and none of them wanted the actress to jeopardize the progress she’d made so far.

  It was a given that the world-famous cinema icon did nothing by half measures. Since she hadn’t fully bounced back from her surgery yet, getting overly tired was definitely not advisable. Which meant that she, Isabelle Sinclair, would have to watch the woman like a hawk. She knew that definitely would not endear her to the actress. Anastasia balked at restrictions, even those implemented for her own good. It was obvious that she still thought of herself as a woman in her early thirties, able to do whatever it was she set her mind to do.