What the Single Dad Wants... (17 page)

Don't you know that you'd never be just like someone I'd pass on the street? That you were and are so very special to me? Too special,
she underscored.

Out loud, she merely said, “I didn't want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Well, by not saying anything, you did. You made a hell of a very big deal out of it,” he informed her, all but yelling into her face. He struggled to get the better of his anger. Shouting at her wasn't going to bring her around.

Isabelle couldn't wrap her head around the logic of his words. “I just assumed you would have preferred it that way. Quietly,” she emphasized.

His eyes were dark with suppressed anger. “What I would have ‘preferred,'” he informed her, “was a chance to talk to you.”

She took a deep breath, telling herself that she wasn't intoxicated by the very scent of him. That her heart wasn't beating harder than a bongo drum, racing to a strange, exotic beat. That this rush was normal for someone in an argument.

She ran the tip of her tongue along her very dry lips to moisten them. “Well, you're here now. Talk.”

He should just go. Ignore her. Not let her know that she'd succeeded in shredding him into teeny-tiny little slivers. That was the only way to save face. To save his pride.

But the truth was, he didn't give a damn about his
pride. What he gave a damn about, now that he'd found her, was Isabelle.

He struggled not to take hold of her shoulders, afraid he'd wind up hurting her by holding on too tightly. “Damn it, Isabelle. Was it all one-sided? All that time together, was I just there by myself? Fooling myself?”

She was having trouble catching her breath, centering her thoughts. Trouble staying where she was instead of throwing herself into his arms and just holding on for as long as he'd let her. She'd missed him more than she had ever thought possible.

Taking in a shaky breath, she tried to sound calm as she asked, “About?”

“About us!” he shouted. “About you. About you caring.” He took a breath. “Damn it all to hell, Isabelle, you can't just leave like that. I need you.”

Isabelle shook her head. It sounded too good to be true. Or maybe she had just imagined she'd heard him say that.
Ached
for him to say that. “You need me?” she heard herself asking, praying that if this was a dream, a hallucination, she wouldn't ever wake up.

“That's right, I need you,” he all but shouted, struggling to get his voice under control. “I need you very much.” His voice softened, and he smiled down into her face. “As does my mother and Victoria. Nothing's going to be the same in the house until you decide to take pity on us—on
me
—and come back.”

“Come back as what?” she asked. “Your mother doesn't need a physical therapist. Anastasia's going away on that cross-country tour. And Victoria's still at camp—I talked to her yesterday,” she told him before he had a chance to question how she knew his daughter's current location.

“You're right,” he answered honestly. “My mother
doesn't need a physical therapist. What she needs is a daughter-in-law.” His eyes took her prisoner. “Any suggestions? Know anyone open to taking on that position?”

Again, Isabelle stared at him, this time utterly dumb-founded. She couldn't have heard him right—could she?

The ensuing silence throbbed in his ears like a thunderous heartbeat. It was far from a comfortable silence. “Look, I get it. You're scared. Well, I'm scared, too. We can be scared together,” he proposed. “And tell each other that there's nothing to be scared about. Your father might have played around on your mother—”

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, stunned. “I never told you that.”

“No, you didn't trust me enough to let me in on that,” he conceded.

She didn't understand. “Then how—?”

“Zoe told me. Nice woman, your sister,” he said with approval. “I like her.”

How could her sister have betrayed her like this? Made things known about her without asking first? “Don't get used to her. She's on borrowed time.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You're unconventional, Isabelle, I'll give you that. I guess it's one of the things I love about you.”

The all-important phrase echoed in her head. “One of the things you lo—” She blinked, stunned beyond words. “You love me?”

“Hell, yes, I love you. What do you think we're talking about?” he demanded.

“I don't know. You lost me when you said you liked my sister.”

“I like your sister,” he repeated patiently. “But I
love
you.” He took in a deep breath. Waiting. Praying. “You have anything to say to me?”

Adrenaline raced through her like a gathering lightning storm. She was utterly surprised that she was still standing. “You're crazy.”

He laughed, waving the words aside. “Okay, anything to say to me other than that?”

She couldn't stop smiling. Her face refused to relax. “Maybe I love you, too.”

He eyed her. “Maybe?” It was going to be all right, he thought. She needed to take baby steps, and he was all right with that. As long as the steps ultimately led to him.

She felt as if her heart was bursting. As if what she had always secretly wanted was suddenly being granted after all this time. “All right, all right, all right. Yes, I love you. Satisfied?” she cried.

“Getting there. Now, about that vacancy that I mentioned. You know, the one for a daughter-in-law for my mother—”

There went her heart again. “Then you
are
saying what I think you're saying?”

“I am if you think I'm proposing.” Right on cue, Isabelle's mouth dropped opened. “I thought you deserved an unconventional proposal.” His eyes were already making love to her—asking her to give him the answer he needed to hear. “But if you don't like that one, I can rewrite it until I find one that you do like.” Opening his jacket, he reached into his pocket for a small scratch pad and his pen.

She put her hand on top of Brandon's, stopping him before he got carried away. “There's no point in rewriting it. Why don't you just ask me?”

Was that all it took? Just asking her? “Because I
didn't think it would be that simple. In a world of plain butterscotch pudding, you're custard cream.”

That had to be the strangest compliment she'd ever received. But it was definitely a compliment, and she loved it.

Loved
him.

Isabelle couldn't help wondering what she was letting herself in for. And part of her could hardly wait to find out.

“Ask me,” she coaxed in a soft whisper.

God but he loved her. Even so, he couldn't resist teasing her. “To be my physical therapist?”

Isabelle was beginning to catch on to the way his mind worked. She shook her head. “Ask me the other thing.”

He stopped teasing and grew very serious. “Isabelle Sinclair, will you marry—?”

“Yes,” she cried before he had all the words out. “Yes, I'll marry you.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, she knew she'd just given him the right answer. It was the right thing to do. The only thing she
wanted
to do with all her heart. Brandon
wasn't
like her father. He wasn't going to disappoint her. Wasn't going to break her heart as her father had broken her mother's. She was betting her own on it, but she'd always been a safe better, and this, she was certain, was definitely a sure thing. And now that she'd finally gotten out of her own way, she saw that clearly.

He smiled down into her face. “Right answer,” he told her before he kissed her and set his world back on track again. “Oh, by the way,” he said just as his lips had brushed seductively against hers, “I wasn't just talking a minute ago. I really do love you. More than I ever
thought possible. Hey,” he cried, upset by her reaction, “I didn't mean to make you cry.”

“Happy tears,” she told him. “These are happy tears. Because I love you, too,” she added, then sealed her mouth to his before he could find another footnote to add to the occasion.

T
he applause was like life-giving water to a thirsty flower. She stood there, bathed in it, absorbing it as she and the rest of the cast took yet another curtain call. Their fourth.

But as wonderful as it was, as much as she had really missed the sound of instant, gratifying feedback, Anastasia had to admit, in the privacy of her own soul, that something, a small but viable component, was missing from her life these past three months that she had been on the road, touring with the play. A component that interaction with the other members of the cast and crew—some old friends, others brand-new acquaintances—as entertaining as it often was, could not adequately replace.

Which was why, as she sat in her small, private dressing room going about the task of turning herself back into Anastasia Del Vecchio, legendary icon, and her
cell phone rang, she immediately stopped what she was doing and reached for it. Hoping.

A glance at caller ID as she flipped the phone open brought an instant wide smile to her lips. Love was evident in each word as she asked, “Hello, darling, how are you?”

“I'm good, Gemma,” the girl on the other end of the call answered. “Did you knock 'em dead again tonight?”

A deep, throaty chuckle met her granddaughter's question. Grandmother though she was, she was also part living legend, a fact she never forgot. “Do you have to ask?”

“No,” Victoria readily agreed. “I don't. You always knock 'em dead.”

“You were always my very best audience, sweetheart.” Anastasia looked at her watch. It was after eleven. “Forgive me for making grandmother noises, my love, but shouldn't you be in bed, asleep?”

“I wanted to wait until your show was over before I called,” Victoria answered evasively.

Anastasia was instantly alert. Bohemian-like though she had been for most of her life, there was a very strong mother-grandmother streak alive and well within her heart. It rose to the foreground, blotting out everything else. “Why? What's wrong.”

“Nothing's wrong, Gemma. I just wanted to call you as soon as I heard.”

“Heard what?” She had never once lost patience with her granddaughter, but she felt herself coming close to the edge now.

Instead of answering, Victoria asked a question of her
own. “Do you think you can come home three weeks from Saturday?”

Anastasia blew out a breath. “Victoria, you grow more and more like your father every day. Now what is going on?” She wanted to know. “
Why
do you need me to come home? Is it your father? Has something happened to Brandon?”

“Well, yes,” Victoria hedged. “Something's happened and it does involve Dad, but not like you think.”

Her head suddenly filled with a variety of dramatic scenarios, none of them good, Anastasia assured her granddaughter, “Trust me, you have no idea what I'm thinking. Now, what's going on, Victoria?” she demanded with the full range of her powerful voice. She was a force to be reckoned with.

“Dad's getting married!” Victoria cried happily, the news all but bursting out of her. “To Isabelle,” she told her in case there was any doubt. “They just told me. It's going to be at Maura's house because it's so big and all,” she went on breathlessly, referring to her father's literary agent. “But they said they won't have it if you can't make it. Tell me you can make it, Gemma. I've never seen Dad look this happy before,” she added.

Anastasia laughed shortly. As if anything could keep her away. “Of course I can make it. My understudy is watching me like a hawk, hoping I'll fall off the stage and break the other hip so that she can go on in my place. She'll be thrilled if I take a few days off. But why didn't Brandon or Isabelle call me themselves?”

Just as she asked the question, Anastasia heard her phone beep, telling her that another call was coming in. She quickly glanced at the screen for confirmation. “Well, speak of the devil. It's your father,” she told Victoria.

“Oh. He's probably calling to tell you the news. Don't tell him I told you. It'll spoil it for him. Act surprised, Gemma,” Victoria implored.

“Of course, darling. Acting is what I do best. Now go to bed. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Gemma,” Victoria said. “Isn't it wonderful?” she couldn't resist asking.

“Yes, darling, wonderful,” Anastasia replied, sharing her granddaughter's happiness. She heard Victoria end the call.

Settling back in her chair, Anastasia switched to the incoming call.

“Hello, Brandon,” she greeted her son cheerfully.

Raising her eyes, she looked up into the mirror. The woman reflected there was smiling in triumph. And why not, Anastasia silently asked rhetorically. Her son's forthcoming marriage was, after all, at bottom all due to her initially calling Cecilia. She considered the match to be her own personal victory.

Her smile widened as she innocently asked, “So, what's new?”