Six More Hot Single Dads!. Kate Hardy

      Of course.

      He was Brandon Slade. The Brandon Slade, author of—at last count—ten bestselling thrillers. And that was in addition to being the son of the movie icon she’d been sent to work with. She didn’t know who she was more bowled over by—her client or her client’s son.

      In awe of Brandon Slade’s talent—she’d read every single one of his books at least once if not more—and definitely not unaffected by his looks, Isabelle Sinclair felt as if she’d just won some kind of fortuitous celestial lottery.

      So this is what you meant by saying “Happy Birthday” when you handed me this assignment, Zoe.

      At the time, she’d just thought it was her sister’s very strange sense of humor kicking in. Now she understood. She was being sent to the home of a writer she admired to work with his mother, an actress who had been her personal heroine when she’d been a child laid up in a hospital bed for an intolerable number of months, thanks to a car accident that had left everyone else with scratches and had all but broken every one of the bones in her body—or at least it had felt as if all her bones had been broken.

      Watching Anastasia Del Vecchio take command of every situation she was in had provided her a vicarious thrill—and had ultimately given her a role model to attempt to emulate.

      Since the woman in the doorway wasn’t saying anything, Brandon asked, “May I help you?”

      Oh, God, yes. In so many ways. But, for the sake of decorum, she kept that response to herself, and instead, Isabelle smiled and said, “Actually, I’m here to help your mother, Mr. Slade.” Extending her hand to him, she introduced herself. “I’m Isabelle Sinclair. Helping Hands sent me. I’m the physical therapist.”

      The response came out before he could stop it. “You’re kidding.”

      She looked at him a little uneasily, puzzled by his reaction. “No, I’m not. Why would I kid about something like that?”

      This had foot-in-mouth written all over it, but he felt he had to at least try to talk his way out of it. “Shouldn’t you be, you know…bigger?” He used his hands to emphasize his point.

      She smiled, and he immediately noticed that it was one of those impossibly sunny smiles that seemed to light up a room. The kind of smile that came with its own wattage. Brandon caught himself smiling back.

      “Trust me,” Isabelle told him, “I’m as big as I need to be, Mr. Slade.”

      He really had his doubts about that, but if she had any trouble, he intended to be around to lend a hand, so he supposed it was all right.

      “If you say so,” he murmured. “C’mon, I’ll take you to her. She’s waiting for you.”

      Isabelle could feel the butterflies in her stomach multiplying as she followed him. It was a first for her. She’d never felt nervous about meeting a client before.

      Brandon led the way to the place his mother was currently presiding over: the living room. Ushering the physical therapist in, he withdrew to give his mother the center stage he knew she both needed and loved.

      “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me,” he told Isabelle in a soft murmur.

      The sound of his lowered voice caused a chaotic ripple effect that involved every part of her body. The man was just too handsome for her own good, Isabelle thought.

      The next moment, thoughts of the writer’s chiseled profile were forgotten as she found herself looking into Anastasia Del Vecchio’s violet eyes.

      Wow. The single word undulated through her.

      “Tell me about yourself, dear,” Anastasia instructed with a regal wave of her hand that would have made Queen Victoria proud.

      Anastasia was lying on an oversize sofa in the living room, where she had taken up court, choosing to be “in the thick of things” rather than “cooped up” in the guest room, a room that had been sumptuously decorated according to her dictates for those times that she needed to stay overnight rather than return to her own home. The actress lived in a mini-mansion approximately ten minutes away by car—if that car happened to be speeding all the way. And when she drove, it usually was.

      As Isabelle appeared to do her best to meet her scrutinizing gaze, Anastasia did a succinct evaluation. Not of a therapist, but of a young woman for whom she had plans.

      She had a nice smile, Anastasia thought, and lovely skin and hair, but she definitely needed a little work and patient guidance as far as making the most of her appearance. She supposed that was a good thing. It meant that the girl was dedicated to her work, which was, after all, why she was predisposed to hiring her.

      I hope you’re right, Cecilia, Anastasia silently cautioned.

      This was Anastasia Del Vecchio, Isabelle thought, trying her best not to act like a starstruck groupie. The Anastasia Del Vecchio.

      She could hardly believe it.

      Granted, this was Southern California, and movie and TV stars did cross paths with mortals on a somewhat regular basis, but that didn’t make this moment any less awe-inspiring for Isabelle. As a native to the area, she’d encountered more than a couple celebrities herself, but no one of this magnitude and definitely not someone who had captured her heart at a very young age, when fantasy and escape had been so important to her.

      “You can speak now,” Anastasia told her.

      Honesty had always been Isabelle’s best strategy. So rather than say she was busy mentally reviewing the woman’s case—something she had already done before coming here—she admitted the reason her tongue had remained so unnaturally—for her—dormant.

      “I’m sorry, Ms. Del Vecchio, I’m a huge fan of yours—”

      Anastasia sat up a little straighter, pleased. Preening. Her eyes smiled first. It was a magnificent sight and she knew it. “Nothing to be sorry about, dear.”

      “It’s just that it’s going to take me a few minutes to get used to be being in the same room with you,” Isabelle confessed. She did her best not to take any noticeable deep breaths.

      Anastasia’s pleased smile deepened, going clear down to the bone. “I understand, dear,” she sympathized, then tried to lean closer but found that her hip prevented any fluid movements on her part. Silently cursing the impediment, she asked, “Tell me, which of my movies have you seen?”

      “All of them.”

      “Really.” Anastasia stretched the word out as she absorbed the young woman’s meaning. A slightly canny look came over Anastasia’s still amazingly youthful features. After all, Isabelle Sinclair might just be paying lip service, saying what she assumed someone of her stature wanted to hear. “And exactly how many was that?”

      Again, there was no reason for Isabelle to even pause to think. She had the answer at the tip of her tongue. She rarely forgot facts she’d learned. “Fifty-three movies, three TV series and two miniseries on PBS,” she recited.

      Anastasia raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Fifty-two movies,” she corrected generously.

      “You had an unbilled walk-on in It Takes Two,” Isabelle reminded her, unfazed.

      Highly impressed, Anastasia declared warmly, “You’re hired, Isabelle. So when can you move in?”

      Isabelle blinked. Had she missed something? “Excuse me?”

      “I’m going to need round-the-clock work,” Anastasia explained, not accustomed to having to explain herself. “None of this ‘an hour here and I’ll see you Tuesday’ nonsense. I have a play I’m going to be in, Isabelle,” she told her with deadly earnest. “I’ve a key role in the revival of A Little Night Music. I sing ‘Send in the Clowns,’” she said with a proud toss of her head, adding, “I have put in a great deal of work on this play and I’m not about to have them give my part away