Six More Hot Single Dads!. Kate Hardy

entertainment unit. Which not only held the flat-panel TV and a number of treasured, repeatedly watched DVDs but her somewhat limited book collection.

      Amid which were all of his books.

      Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

      Mentally crossing her fingers, Isabelle quickly darted back to the living room to see what he was doing, hoping for the very thing that she’d worried about only seconds ago—that boredom had overtaken him and Brandon had fallen asleep.

      Slipping silently into the living room revealed, to her disappointment, that he wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even sitting. Brandon was on his feet, standing in front of the entertainment center, exploring the collection of books neatly arranged on the shelf.

      Specifically, her collection of his books.

      Rooted to the spot, she watched him for a moment, wishing for a mini-earthquake, one where the ground opened up only beneath her feet and swallowed her whole before Brandon had a chance to look up.

      The ground remained frustratingly solid. So much for an earthquake.

      She debated going back to the bedroom before he did look up.

      And then it was too late for even that.

      As if sensing her presence, Brandon glanced up from the book he was thumbing through—a well-worn copy of his third bestseller, Speak Softly and Die—and flashed that beguiling grin of his at her.

      “You didn’t tell me you were a fan. You are a fan, right?” he asked, closing the book and giving her his full attention. His expression had turned semi-serious. “I mean, you do have all my books and unless you’re planning on using them to toss into the fireplace as fuel next winter—” Each of his books was easily over five hundred pages—he liked saying that he wanted to give the readers their money’s worth. “—that would mean that you are, in fact, a fan.”

      Feeling embarrassed—although there was no reason to because, after all, it wasn’t as if she was stalking the man, his mother had called their agency, asking for a physical therapist and according to Zoe, she just happened to be up next—Isabelle nodded her head.

      “Yes, I’m a fan,” she answered in a small voice which sounded as if it should be coming out of someone barely two feet tall.

      In contrast, the smile on Brandon’s lips would have overwhelmed a person of such small stature. It belonged, more fittingly, on the face of someone at least three times as tall.

      The smile belonged, she thought, her pulse accelerating again, exactly where it was. On his, handsome, chiseled face.

      “I’m flattered,” he told her.

      The funny thing was, despite the fact that he had veritable legions of fans, she actually believed him.

       Chapter Five

      Ticking off a list of necessary items in her head, Isabelle did her best to pack quickly. She focused on what she needed to take with her—the various pieces of equipment she used in her physical therapy sessions that aided her helping her clients, in this case Anastasia—and keeping them motivated.

      What she was trying very hard not to focus on was the kneecap-melting, rapid pulse-inducing man presently wandering about her postage stamp-size living room.

      She couldn’t exactly put it into words as to why, but having Brandon here, in her apartment, felt almost intimate. She didn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else. Still, she didn’t want to just rush out of the apartment, conspicuously forgetting half the things she’d come back for in the first place.

      Since when had she turned into this scatterbrained creature, Isabelle silently demanded, irritated. She was the one who always prided herself on being so stable and levelheaded, so unflappable. Prided herself on always being able to know exactly what to do, at least within the parameters of her career. Zoe was forever lamenting that she was being too serious, too focused, too work-oriented.

      If that was true, then where was all this fluttering pulse stuff coming from?

      She was too young for a second adolescence—although she hadn’t had all that much time to enjoy her first one. She could remember being this determined, this serious when she was very, very young.

      It was, she supposed, all done in an effort to win her father’s approval. Her father had been a neurosurgeon, well-known in his circles, and her mother had been high up on the board of Swan Laboratories. Both had expected great things from their daughters. As far as each of them was concerned, “physical therapist” did not come under the heading of “great things.”

      Because Zoe ran the company, her parents saw some merit in her career, but as for Isabelle, well, she was “little better than a glorified masseuse.” At least, that was the way her father had put it. There’d been a disdainful expression on his patrician face at the time.

      That had been shortly before her entire world had fallen apart. Before she’d discovered that her father was cheating on her mother. And before learning that this was only the latest “indiscretion” in a very long list of indiscretions.

      Finding out that the man who’d always demanded nothing but the best from her apparently didn’t believe he needed to measure up to the same standards himself had taken a huge toll on her. She’d never thought her parents had a loving relationship, but she’d thought it was built on mutual respect and trust. Discovering she was wrong had nearly crushed her. It had made her look to her career for satisfaction rather than to any kind of a relationship.

      The breakup of her parents’ marriage had accomplished one more thing. Never close to her mother and now estranged from her father, Isabelle had found herself free to make whatever she wanted of her life. She chose to follow the path she’d originally set out for herself.

      That path, she now silently emphasized as she quickly tucked a few essentials into the overnight case lying opened on her queen-size bed, did not include being some starry-eyed fanatical “groupie” who lost the ability to think beyond three-word sentences just because a handsome specimen of manhood like Brandon Slade was sitting in her living room.

      Waiting for her.

      Waiting for his mother’s physical therapist, Isabelle tersely corrected herself. It wasn’t as if he actually saw her as a woman. She was just a genderless being whose assignment was to get his mother up, walking and then, hopefully, dancing within a finite amount of time.

      She’d always liked challenges, Isabelle reminded herself, and this certainly promised to be one.

      Stuffing her most frequently used reference manual on top of the rest of her things, she pushed down hard and struggled with the case’s zipper, slowly managing to drag it up and around the three sides of her navy blue suitcase. Swinging the suitcase off the bed, she proceeded out into the living room, listing ever so slightly to one side. The suitcase proved to be heavier than she’d anticipated.

      Brandon looked up the moment she entered the room, putting the book he’d been paging through back into its place on the shelf.

      “Here, let me,” he offered, quickly cutting the distance between them and slipping his hand over hers in order to take possession of the suitcase handle.

      Isabelle swallowed in an attempt to moisten a mouth that had gone powder dry. She could have sworn an intense zap of electricity shot between them. At least, it crackled on her end and jolted her right down to her suddenly curled toes.

      “That’s okay,” she demurred, still holding on to the handle. “It’s not heavy.”

      The hell it wasn’t, he thought. Brandon continued to keep his hand on top of hers, waiting for her to give up the pretense and surrender the suitcase.

      When she didn’t, he asked, “Am I going to have to wrestle you for it?” Amusement curved the corners of his mouth as his