Free What the Single Dad Wants... by Marie Ferrarella Page B

gone, Isabelle instantly straightened up. She did her damnedest not to look as if she even noticed the contact between them was terminated. Or that she missed it.

Chapter Six
    â€œC an’t you do anything to speed this up?” Anastasia asked impatiently.
    It was several days later. Isabelle and her less-than-patient patient were in the room that Brandon had equipped to serve as his private indoor gym. Open and airy, with a massage table on one side and mirrors running along the length of two of the walls, reflecting a number of different exercise machines, it was the perfect location for Anastasia’s therapy, Isabelle thought. The mirrored walls would allow the actress to see for herself what she was doing wrong—and improve upon what she was doing right.
    At the moment, the movie icon felt it was a great deal of the former and not nearly enough of the latter.
    â€œYou’re doing very well,” Isabelle assured her in the calm, upbeat voice that was her stock-in-trade when she worked with restless clients.
    â€œAre you sure this is how this therapy stuff is supposed to go?” the woman questioned with more than a touch of frustration in her voice. “I thought I’d be lying on a table, having you knead the muscles around the affected area to get them back into shape.”
    â€œThat’s not therapy, that’s a massage,” Isabelle pointed out, her smile never leaving her lips. “Speaking of which, let’s get you up on the table,” she directed.
    â€œFor a massage?” Anastasia asked, brightening.
    â€œNo, to rotate the leg that was operated on, see if we can’t stretch those muscles of yours a little,” Isabelle told her.
    Because she didn’t want the actress pulling anything, Isabelle discreetly moved a single-step step stool into place, getting Anastasia to use that in order to help her get on the table.
    With effort, Anastasia lowered herself onto the table, then looked at her.
    â€œOkay, now what?”
    â€œNow, you lie down,” Isabelle said, gently taking hold of the woman’s leg and lifting it upward, “and we do this.”
    Anastasia’s eyes widened, unprepared for the salvo of pain that shot through her. The anguished cry escaped the woman’s lips before she could think to stop it—not that she would have. “Aren’t you supposed to make a wish first before snapping the bone?”
    â€œThat’s only with a wishbone and there’ll be no bone snapping today,” Isabelle promised. “Just a couple more times,” she coaxed, rotating the leg even more slowly. “You’re doing fine.”
    â€œ That is a matter of opinion,” Anastasia grumbled.
    Unfazed, Isabelle continued smiling and slowly rotating the woman’s leg from side to side to encompasswhat she felt were its essential limits for now. “Don’t worry, this’ll seem like nothing to you soon.”
    Anastasia wanted something more definite than that. “When?” she demanded.
    â€œWhen your body gets a little stronger.” Stopping, Isabelle lowered the woman’s leg and leaned back. They both relaxed. “This is a slow process, Anastasia, and you’re already making more progress than most patients in your age bracket.”
    Somewhat pleased, Anastasia still saw fit to challenge her. “Is that your polite way of saying that I’m old?”
    â€œNo, that’s my way of using the data that’s been compiled about the response rate of various different groups of people as a reference point. This way, as your physical therapist, I know more or less what to expect by way of normal progress—and what to shoot for.”
    Anastasia looked unconvinced. She sniffed slightly. “That’s very diplomatic.”
    Isabelle wasn’t about to be baited. Her father used to do that, trying to trap her into admissions she had no desire of making. He felt it was his way of