LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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