LITMIR.BIZ

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unnerved at the observation, she wasn’t surprised to hear the actress explain, “I was having one of my sleepless nights and for once, the book I was reading did not put me to sleep. I had my bedroom door partially opened and I heard the two of you when you came in.”

      Isabelle instinctively braced herself for a volley of questions. It was an ingrained response. When she’d lived at home, her father would always grill her, bombarding her with questions whenever she came home after a date. At first she’d told herself it was just because he cared and was being overly protective. Eventually she realized it was because he was jealous that she was paying attention to another male. Though he never displayed any affection toward her, he wanted to be the focus of her world. He never seemed to understand that in order to get so much, he needed to give at least a little.

      Braced, she was more than a little relieved when all Anastasia asked was, “Did you have a good time?”

      The woman seemed apparently satisfied with the answer she gave when she said, “Yes.”

      Resuming the new task she’d been assigned involving a large, colorful scarf that was tied around her upper thighs and keeping it there as she moved across the room, Anastasia smiled and nodded quickly.

      “Good. About time my son saw the value of the company of a decent young woman.” She rolled her eyes as she confided, “You should have seen who he’s taken out in the past. They all looked like special deliveries directly from some upscale cathouse. And not a single one of them would drown in a flash flood even if they wanted to, if you know what I mean.” She gave Isabelle a penetrating look.

      She knew exactly what Anastasia meant. That the women Brandon Slade went out with were all well-endowed—or at least well-enhanced.

      In that kind of inflated company, she was definitely someone who could be overlooked or lost in the shuffle when it came to large cup sizes, Isabelle thought.

      “Not one of them has the IQ of an intelligent shoelace,” Anastasia lamented. She shook her head. “I have no idea what he sees in them—beyond the obvious, of course.” She shook her head as she continued to attempt to walk without allowing the scarf to drop. “He has better standards than that.”

      Maybe he didn’t, Isabelle couldn’t help thinking. “I don’t think your son’s end goal is to really be mentally stimulated,” Isabelle pointed out. But heaven knew that the word “stimulated” was dead on in this case. Forcing her mind back on Anastasia, she frowned. “And you’ve stopped moving,” she told the actress in as stern a voice as she could manage. She glanced at her wristwatch. “C’mon, you’ve only got ten more minutes to go.”

      Anastasia scowled. She looked down at the scarf, which had slipped several inches and was in danger of pooling down to the floor altogether. Keeping it up was a combined effort of the muscles in her thighs and sheer determination. The exercise, one that Isabelle had created herself, had her moving from one end of the gym to the other, waddling in effect, while keeping the multicolored scarf in place.

      So far, the actress was having only moderate success. Each time the scarf sank past her knees, the event was accompanied by more than a few choice words hurled at the world of physical therapy in general.

      As before, several steps later, the scarf had sunk down, this time encircling Anastasia’s ankles and threatening to make her trip.

      The woman lost her legendary temper. “What is the godforsaken point of all this ridiculous nonsense?” she thundered in a voice that she usually used to project to the very last seat in a large theater—without the aid of a microphone.

      Isabelle bent down and retrieved the scarf, once again slipping it back into place for the actress.

      “In an odd sort of way, the point is the same as learning to walk with a book balanced on your head. One is to perfect your posture and keep your back erect and strong, the other is to strengthen your thighs, especially the one on the leg that’s been operated on. Both boil down to a matter of extreme complete control.”

      Anastasia looked unconvinced. “You’re just trying to change the subject,” she sniffed.

      No, she didn’t want to discuss the subject, Isabelle thought. What had happened was between Brandon and her. Last night had been special, and she had tucked it away, out of the light of day, where it would remain.

      Right now, what she wanted to do was to concentrate on the reason she’d been hired in the first place. To rehabilitate Anastasia in time to join the tour before it left Los Angeles.

      She pinned Anastasia with a look that was meant to convey to the woman that she meant business. It was a look she’d seen her mother give her father often enough when she was growing up. Back then, there’d been frost attached to it.

      “As far as I’m concerned, Anastasia, you are the subject.”

      It was obvious that, although it was usually second nature to the woman, this time the actress didn’t want to focus on herself. At least, not yet. “Be that as it may, I want to know if you two really enjoyed yourselves.”

      She knew. For a self-absorbed woman, Anastasia certainly did pick up on things in her surroundings, Isabella thought.

      “I can’t speak for your son, but yes, I had a very nice time at the reception,” she said evasively.

      “And afterward?” Anastasia asked shrewdly.

      “Afterward was nice, too,” Isabelle allowed, trying not to smile too much. This much she could tell the woman, she thought.

      Anything more was either admitting too much or taking something for granted. That part was up to him to admit or deny. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself—or get carried away. With her father as a glaring example, she was well aware that acute disappointments lay in that direction. She would far rather just go along the way she was than get her hopes up, only to see them come crashing down around her in shattered, painful fragments.

      Besides, if things went sour with Brandon while she was still here working with Anastasia, at the very least it would make working conditions awkward for her. At the worst, it would make them intolerable. She was not about to do anything to set those kinds of waves in motion.

      Better to have nothing than to have something blow up on you.

      To her surprise, Brandon’s mother didn’t press any more. The woman gave her a completely inscrutable smile, murmured, “I see,” and then terminated any line of further questioning.

      Isabelle didn’t know whether to be highly relieved—or very suspicious. From everything she’d ever read about the dynamic actress, Anastasia Del Vecchio was not the type who subscribed to the “let sleeping dogs lie” philosophy. On the contrary, she was the kind of person who insisted on always being in the know and in the thick of things.

      What was she up to?

      Again, Isabelle forced herself to focus on the exercise at hand. She tapped her watch. “You still have nine more minutes to go, you know.”

      “No, I don’t,” Anastasia protested. She swept her hand majestically toward the south wall and pointed to the clock. “Eight minutes have gone by since you said I had ten to go.”

      “Ten working minutes,” Isabelle emphasized. “Not talking minutes.”

      Anastasia pouted. “Anyone named ‘Legree’ in your family tree?” she asked. “As in Simon Leree? He was the evil plantation—”

      “I know where the reference comes from, Anastasia,” Isabelle replied patiently. Humoring the woman, she answered, “And no, there’s no one with that surname in my family tree. Not to mention the fact that he was fictional.”

      Anastasia smiled despite her impatience to get the exercise over with. The fact that Isabelle was familiar with a book written in the mid 1800s was, to her, a testament to the young woman being well-read and well-rounded. That made her all the more perfect for Brandon. There had to be some subtle way to make him see that.

      But

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