LITMIR.BIZ

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the side in order to offer his arm to her.

      “If you’re waiting for a pratfall, I’m afraid you have a long wait,” Isabelle informed him as she slipped her own arm through the crook of his. “I’ve gotten pretty good at moving rather quickly in high heels.”

      He was grinning at her before he realized it. “I’ll challenge you to a foot race after the reception,” he offered.

      Amusement rose in her eyes. “All right, Brandon, I’ll just take that challenge.”

      Anastasia hung back by several steps, observing what she considered to be her handiwork, even if it began by accident because she had complained to the right person. She had to remember to send more business Cecilia’s way, Anastasia told herself, making a mental note.

      “They make a nice couple,” Victoria whispered to her.

      The actress glanced at her granddaughter. There were times she forgot that the girl was actually as young as she was. But that was only chronologically. Anastasia was certain that, at birth, Victoria had been granted an old soul.

      It was, she supposed, a consolation prize of sorts, to make up for the fact that the woman who had given birth to Victoria chose to turn her back on the small miracle she’d brought into the world.

      The little witch has no idea what she’s missing out on, Anastasia thought, not for the first time. And she, for one, was glad that Jean was gone. Both Brandon and Victoria deserved better.

      She smiled at her granddaughter. “Yes,” Anastasia whispered back. “They do.”

      Isabelle had no idea that a bookstore this size—and it was by no means tiny—could actually pack in this many people. It seemed as if every possibly available space in the store had been taken up by adoring Brandon Slade fans.

      For the most part, Isabelle observed, the crowd was comprised of women. And not just women of a certain age, but of all ages. Young ones, old ones, tall ones, short ones, fashionably dressed or looking as if they’d just jumped out of bed or had come running over from their local gyms, sweaty and eager—they were all here. Here and clutching Brandon’s newest hardcover to their chests as they stood in what appeared to be an extremely long, winding and seemingly endless line. They were all patiently—or not so patiently—waiting for their ten seconds of one-on-one time with Brandon Slade. At this point they would get a personalized autograph jotted down within the front pages of this newest tome, which they would treasure and sigh over in the days to come.

      Several times Isabelle found that if she hadn’t staunchly held her ground where she was—near Brandon—she would have been either elbowed or pushed outright to the side by some overeager fan. Apparently they all wanted to get close to, if not their favorite author, at least the best-looking one they’d seen up close and personal.

      Anastasia gestured for her to stand beside her and Victoria, directly behind Brandon’s table. Bypassing another handful of fans, Isabelle managed to get over to where the actress and her granddaughter were standing.

      “The madness is all taking place in front of Brandon, not back here,” Anastasia assured her confidently. “This isn’t my first signing,” she added.

      Isabelle noticed the way Brandon’s agent, Maura Reynolds, hovered close to his side, a position she’d been in for the past ninety minutes. The other woman had assumed that place immediately following the reading he’d given from the first chapter of his new book. Isabelle couldn’t help wondering if Maura, who was clearly older than her prize client, had a crush on Brandon the way so many of his fans appeared to.

      Needing a diversion, Isabelle turned toward Brandon’s mother. “Is it always this crazy?” she asked.

      Anastasia waved a well-manicured hand indulgently about the crowd. “It’s been worse, trust me,” the actress told her, adding after a beat, “it’s also been much worse.” When Isabelle raised her eyebrows quizzically, the woman elaborated. “Those were the signings when no one came. It took his first book a while to catch on.” Anastasia leaned in so that she didn’t have to raise her voice—or have Brandon overhear her. “Personally, I think his looks had a lot to do with those initial sales,” she confided.

      “And he got better,” Victoria interjected loyally, referring to her father’s second book. It was all speculation on her part since she had been far too young at the time to know any of the actual details.

      “Yes, he did,” Anastasia agreed—whether because she meant it or was humoring her beloved granddaughter was hard to say, Isabelle thought. But the enthusiasm in the older woman’s voice would have been the same either way and that was all that counted. It was apparent that in her own, very dramatic way, Anastasia Del Vecchio loved her son very much, even though she found ways to bedevil the ego she feared he’d develop.

      Isabelle smiled at the exchange between grandmother and granddaughter.

      The next moment, her smile faded as a woman in the line before Brandon’s table caught her attention.

      A rather statuesque woman, whose long, straight hair was just possibly the palest shade of blond she had ever seen, leaned forward over Brandon’s table.

      “I’d like an autograph, please,” she murmured in a deliberately melodic voice that sounded as if it had been dipped in honey.

      “That’s what I’m here for,” Brandon answered, his pen poised. “Who shall I make it out to?” As he asked the question, he reached for the book she was holding that he assumed she’d just purchased.

      But the woman shook her head. Placing the book on the table, she put her hands on top of it and leaned even farther forward. Her blue silk blouse, already unbuttoned farther than Isabelle felt was decently acceptable, strained against the weight of two very ripe breasts that were ready to make a break for it at any moment.

      “No, not the book,” she said in what could only be termed a Marilyn Monroe whisper. “I want you to sign here,” she instructed with a wicked, come-hither smile. “Make it out to ‘Annaliese, with love and appreciation, Brandon Slade.’” She ended her instructions with a frothy giggle.

      As Isabelle watched, waiting to see what he was going to do, Brandon remained completely unflappable. He returned “Annaliese’s” smile, but he shook his head.

      “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m afraid that my pen only writes on paper,” he apologized.

      Apparently prepared and very much undaunted, the would-be Marilyn Monroe produced a laundry marker from her purse.

      “How about this?” she suggested. “It’s supposed to write on anything,” she breathed.

      For a moment, it looked to Isabelle as if Brandon would give in and sign his autograph on the young woman’s very ample chest. But then, to her relief and surprise, he said, “How about I put it someplace where it isn’t going to be washed off when you take your next shower?”

      By his satisfied expression he knew he had the young woman. She would either say she didn’t intend to ever shower again, which was off-putting by anyone’s standards, or she’d have to indicate that she didn’t care if the autograph lasted or not, which was ultimately an insult to the man she was trying to flatter.

      With a sigh, the woman called Annaliese straightened and allowed the fabric of her blouse to fall back into place, covering at least part of her cleavage. With a pout, she held up the book she’d had to purchase in order to take her place in line to begin with.

      “Okay.”

      Brandon took extra time and made sure that the message he wrote down was more than just the standard “To my friend So-and-So—”

      The young woman’s disappointment faded away as she retreated from the line, reading his message and smiling to herself.

      “Nicely done,” Isabelle murmured. She’d made the observation under her breath, and it was intended strictly for herself.

      Despite that, Brandon

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