What the Single Dad Wants... Read Free

Anastasia chided. “If Celia says she’s good, she’s good. You want to be useful, make the arrangements,” she dictated. Her violet eyes shifted to the woman who cleaned her house to a spotlessness beyond reproach. “They promised me I could go home in two days. See if this miracle lady can be at the house by Wednesday morning. I need to be on my feet—and able to dance—in six weeks. There’s a bonus in it for her if she can get me there in less time.”
    â€œIt doesn’t work like that, Mother,” Brandon said patiently, exchanging looks with Celia.
    â€œI am filthy rich, Brandon. It works any way that I tell it to work,” Anastasia countered with complete confidence.
    Cecilia smiled as if to convey how a little miracle was about to be set in motion.
    Â 
    At ten o’clock Wednesday morning, when Brandon opened the door to admit the physical therapist that Cecilia Parnell had recommended, he wasn’t exactly certain what to expect. Subconsciously, he had just assumed that Isabelle Sinclair would be a woman of the sturdier variety, big-boned and strong enough to be able to catch an average-size patient. He knew it would probably be viewed as stereotyping, but, like most people, he associated strength with size.
    The woman he stared at could probably catch a falling chipmunk. A small one.
    He definitely was not expecting a petite, delicate young blonde who looked as if she would blow over in the first high wind that blew through the Newport Beach community. So he could be forgiven if he came to the conclusion that this willowy woman on his doorstep was here for some other reason than to begin his mother’s physical therapy regimen.
    Maybe this was a nurse sent by the physical therapy agency to assess his mother’s needs and condition before the actual therapist could be dispatched to begin her work, he thought.
    At first, Isabelle didn’t recognize him. Oh, she was aware that she was looking up at a tall, dark-haired, charmingly handsome man with a definite boyish streak going for him—and that he was giving her a very deep, thorough once-over almost down to her bones—but she didn’t actually recognize his face for at least a good thirty seconds.
    And then it suddenly clicked into place.
    Of course.
    He was Brandon Slade. The Brandon Slade, author of—at last count—ten bestselling thrillers. And that was in addition to being the son of the movie icon she’d been sent to work with. She didn’t know who she was more bowled over by—her client or her client’s son.
    In awe of Brandon Slade’s talent—she’d read every single one of his books at least once if not more—and definitely not unaffected by his looks, Isabelle Sinclair felt as if she’d just won some kind of fortuitous celestial lottery.
    So this is what you meant by saying “Happy Birthday” when you handed me this assignment, Zoe.
    At the time, she’d just thought it was her sister’s very strange sense of humor kicking in. Now she understood. She was being sent to the home of a writer she admired to work with his mother, an actress who had been her personal heroine when she’d been a child laid up in a hospital bed for an intolerable number of months, thanks to a car accident that had left everyone else with scratches and had all but broken every one of the bones in her body—or at least it had felt as if all her bones had been broken.
    Watching Anastasia Del Vecchio take command of every situation she was in had provided her a vicarious thrill—and had ultimately given her a role model to attempt to emulate.
    Since the woman in the doorway wasn’t saying anything, Brandon asked, “May I help you?”
    Oh, God, yes. In so many ways. But, for the sake of decorum, she kept that response to herself, and instead, Isabelle smiled and said, “Actually, I’m here to help your mother, Mr. Slade.”