What the Single Dad Wants... (5 page)

“You don't need any help reaching for items on the top shelf in the closet?” he asked, stretching out his arm to exhibit exactly how far he could reach.

“Got it covered. I keep a step stool in the walk-in closet,” she told him as she strode down the three-foot hallway to her bedroom.

Brandon grinned as he watched the way her trim hips moved in an almost seductive rhythm when she walked away. “Bet you were a Girl Scout when you were little,” he called after her.

She had been, but there was no reason to confirm his suspicions. It made her seem typical and boringly predictable.

Not that she had a prayer of coming off like some mysterious femme fatale, Isabelle thought, mocking herself. She was far too wholesome for that, and hoping for anything to the contrary was just deluding herself. He was probably bored to tears already and regretting coming along. He—

Oh, God.

Too late, it hit her that she'd told him to sit down on the sofa. Which was opposite her entertainment unit. Which not only held the flat-panel TV and a number of treasured, repeatedly watched DVDs but her somewhat limited book collection.

Amid which were all of his books.

Maybe he wouldn't notice.

Mentally crossing her fingers, Isabelle quickly darted back to the living room to see what he was doing, hoping for the very thing that she'd worried about only seconds
ago—that boredom had overtaken him and Brandon had fallen asleep.

Slipping silently into the living room revealed, to her disappointment, that he wasn't asleep. He wasn't even sitting. Brandon was on his feet, standing in front of the entertainment center, exploring the collection of books neatly arranged on the shelf.

Specifically, her collection of
his
books.

Rooted to the spot, she watched him for a moment, wishing for a mini-earthquake, one where the ground opened up only beneath her feet and swallowed her whole before Brandon had a chance to look up.

The ground remained frustratingly solid. So much for an earthquake.

She debated going back to the bedroom before he did look up.

And then it was too late for even that.

As if sensing her presence, Brandon glanced up from the book he was thumbing through—a well-worn copy of his third bestseller,
Speak Softly and Die
—and flashed that beguiling grin of his at her.

“You didn't tell me you were a fan. You are a fan, right?” he asked, closing the book and giving her his full attention. His expression had turned semi-serious. “I mean, you do have all my books and unless you're planning on using them to toss into the fireplace as fuel next winter—” Each of his books was easily over five hundred pages—he liked saying that he wanted to give the readers their money's worth. “—that would mean that you are, in fact, a fan.”

Feeling embarrassed—although there was no reason to because, after all, it wasn't as if she was stalking the man, his mother
had
called their agency, asking
for a physical therapist and according to Zoe, she just happened to be up next—Isabelle nodded her head.

“Yes, I'm a fan,” she answered in a small voice which sounded as if it should be coming out of someone barely two feet tall.

In contrast, the smile on Brandon's lips would have overwhelmed a person of such small stature. It belonged, more fittingly, on the face of someone at least three times as tall.

The smile belonged, she thought, her pulse accelerating again, exactly where it was. On his, handsome, chiseled face.

“I'm flattered,” he told her.

The funny thing was, despite the fact that he had veritable legions of fans, she actually believed him.

T
icking off a list of necessary items in her head, Isabelle did her best to pack quickly. She focused on what she needed to take with her—the various pieces of equipment she used in her physical therapy sessions that aided her helping her clients, in this case Anastasia—and keeping them motivated.

What she was trying very hard
not
to focus on was the kneecap-melting, rapid pulse-inducing man presently wandering about her postage stamp-size living room.

She couldn't exactly put it into words as to why, but having Brandon here, in her apartment, felt almost
intimate.
She didn't need to deal with that on top of everything else. Still, she didn't want to just rush out of the apartment, conspicuously forgetting half the things she'd come back for in the first place.

Since when had she turned into this scatterbrained
creature, Isabelle silently demanded, irritated. She was the one who always prided herself on being so stable and levelheaded, so unflappable. Prided herself on always being able to know exactly what to do, at least within the parameters of her career. Zoe was forever lamenting that she was being too serious, too focused, too work-oriented.

If that was true, then where was all this fluttering pulse stuff coming from?

She was too young for a second adolescence—although she hadn't had all that much time to enjoy her first one. She could remember being this determined, this serious when she was very, very young.

It was, she supposed, all done in an effort to win her father's approval. Her father had been a neurosurgeon, well-known in his circles, and her mother had been high up on the board of Swan Laboratories. Both had expected great things from their daughters. As far as each of them was concerned, “physical therapist” did not come under the heading of “great things.”

Because Zoe ran the company, her parents saw some merit in her career, but as for Isabelle, well, she was “little better than a glorified masseuse.” At least, that was the way her father had put it. There'd been a disdainful expression on his patrician face at the time.

That had been shortly before her entire world had fallen apart. Before she'd discovered that her father was cheating on her mother. And before learning that this was only the latest “indiscretion” in a very long list of indiscretions.

Finding out that the man who'd always demanded nothing but the best from her apparently didn't believe he needed to measure up to the same standards himself had taken a huge toll on her. She'd never thought her
parents had a loving relationship, but she'd thought it was built on mutual respect and trust. Discovering she was wrong had nearly crushed her. It had made her look to her career for satisfaction rather than to any kind of a relationship.

The breakup of her parents' marriage had accomplished one more thing. Never close to her mother and now estranged from her father, Isabelle had found herself free to make whatever she wanted of her life. She chose to follow the path she'd originally set out for herself.

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 threaten
ing 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?