LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      But nothing, Isabelle thought, turning around slowly to view herself from as many different angles as humanly possible, said she couldn’t look good while acting as Anastasia’s keeper.

      The reflection looking back at her was damn good.

      Rather than the utilitarian style she wore most days, with her hair pulled back away from her face, Isabelle kept her hair down. And, except for one small ornamental comb strategically positioned over her right ear, her hair was free to swing about.

      “This is as good as it gets,” she declared under her breath. No amount of extra fussing would improve on what she saw.

      Not that there was a need for improvement.

      Stepping into black sling-back sandals that added four inches to her height, Isabelle picked up her small black purse and slipped the thin strap over her shoulder. She would have preferred a clutch purse, but there was no way one of those would accommodate the absolute minimum of things she considered vital for functioning.

      The next size up barely did that, but, with some strategic packing and squeezing in the right places, the purse accommodated what she needed and still allowed her to snap the clasp shut.

      Isabelle paused for a second just shy of the doorway, took a deep breath to center herself and then let it go.

      Okay, here I come, ready or not, she silently declared.

      Stepping out into the hallway, she heard Brandon, already downstairs from the sound of it, calling for everyone to come together.

      Clapping his hands, he called up the stairs. “Let’s go, let’s go, ladies. I don’t want to be late for my own signing.”

      “Why not?” Anastasia asked. She took the stairs down seemingly without effort, which pleased Isabelle no end. Going up and down the stairs was actually a good form of exercise for the woman—as long as she was careful not to move too fast. “This way, you can make an entrance. An entrance with a beautiful woman on each arm,” she added with a flourish as she came to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

      “Dramatic entrances are for you, Mother,” Brandon answered with patient affection. “I’m just happy nobody’s throwing any rotten fruit or vegetables at me.”

      “They never did that,” Victoria spoke up loyally, then paused, curious since her father had brought it up. “Did they?”

      “No.” He laughed, about to ruffle her hair, then remembered that it had been painstakingly arranged by Olga, his mother’s hairstylist these past ten years and the only one she would even allow to touch her hair. Ever tactful, Brandon dropped his hand to his side. “Okay, I count two. Where’s Isabelle?” he asked, glancing at his watch again.

      “Right here,” Isabelle answered, addressing him from the top of the stairs. It was no easy feat considering that her heart was in her throat, as well.

      “Good,” he declared, “because we have to get…going.”

      The last word came out in slow motion because he’d just looked up, following the sound of her voice, and had completely lost the thread of his thoughts. And lost his breath as well, at least temporarily, as his eyes traveled up and down the length of her. The slinky black garment stopped several good inches short of her knees, caressing her thighs with each step she took down. Making him long to do the same.

      She smiled, pleased at the expression on his face. “You’re staring,” she pointed out.

      “That’s because I’ve never seen your legs before. I mean, without pants on.” That didn’t sound right. “Your pants.” That sounded even worse. “I mean—”

      Anastasia shook her head. “Listen to the world-famous writer, tripping over his own tongue.”

      Isabelle saw the mesmerized look in Brandon’s eyes, and it triggered an excitement within her she hadn’t been prepared for. “I don’t mind,” she said, her voice low as her eyes met his.

      “Were your legs always that long?” he asked, still very much captivated by the image she projected.

      “Always,” she assured him.

      Brandon took in a long breath, then let it out again. Slowly. His pulse beat erratically, but mercifully, began to settle down. “Funny, I would have thought I would have noticed that,” he commented.

      Anastasia was the one to finally break the spell. She let out a deep stage sigh. “Of course her legs are the same length as always. Really, Brandon,” the older woman chided, shaking her head. “Now, if you’re finished fantasizing, you have a signing to get to. The one you didn’t want to be late for, remember?” his mother reminded him with just a touch of sarcasm.

      The venerable actress gave no indication that she was pleased at his reaction to the young woman she had already given her seal of approval to. Anastasia knew her son well enough to realize that if she appeared to be pushing Isabelle toward him or him toward her, Brandon would find a reason to suddenly take off, leaving the house and the vicinity for long, long stretches of time.

      He refused to be manipulated, and in that, he was very much his mother’s son, she thought with pride. Fortunately, she was better at manipulation than he suspected.

      So, for now, it would appear to be business as usual for her. That meant focusing on herself and the world as it revolved around her.

      Not too much of a stretch, Anastasia silently granted. But Lord, she really did feel impatient. More than anything else, she wanted the blinders to be lifted from her son’s eyes so he could see for himself how very perfect this young woman was for him.

      After all, he wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to make certain that both he and Victoria had someone in their lives who was looking after them while she was away.

      She couldn’t be expected to put her own life on hold indefinitely, Anastasia thought. The public would grow weary of waiting and find someone else to adore. And she absolutely refused to be replaced so easily.

      So she pretended to glance at Isabelle and gave her only a short, distracted nod of approval. “You look very nice, dear. As do we all.” She smiled at Victoria to make her point.

      Her granddaughter looked so grown up, Anastasia thought. Where had that adorable, pigtailed little girl gone? And who was this mature-looking young lady who’d come in her place? Time went by too quickly.

      “Now, can we get going before the people waiting on you decide that they like someone else, someone more punctual,” Anastasia emphasized, “someone better?”

      “Yes, Mother,” Brandon murmured, amused since, for the most part, he and Victoria spent a great deal of time waiting on her.

      With a gallant little bow, Brandon offered her the crook of his arm for support.

      Anastasia sniffed and waved him away.

      “I am perfectly capable of walking out the door on my own,” she informed him haughtily. “Besides, if I do need someone’s assistance, I have Victoria.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “If you really want to play the role of a gentleman and a scholar, offer your arm to Isabelle there.” The actress waved him toward the other woman. “She’s the one wearing impossibly high heels.” Even as she made the

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