Ever the trouper, she'd reinvented herself a handful of times since then and was now considered one of the acting world's last true icons.

For the most part, the actress refrained from giving in to this whim. Although, by no stretch of the imagination could the terms "shy" or "retiring" ever be applied to Anastasia Del Vecchio, not even when she slept. At this point in her career, everything about the legendary star was considered to be larger than life. She made a point of greeting both life and people with enthusiastic gusto.

If something couldn't be done in a big way, she saw no reason for it being done at all. Her energetic approach was the hallmark of her life, her five marriages and her numerous affairs. That aspect of her personality would never change. So it was no surprise that when an unexpected fall from the stage where she was rehearsing her latest play necessitated her being rushed off to the hospital, Anastasia was quite vocal about her pain. And she fiercely fought off the suggestion that any sort of drugs be introduced to alleviate her suffering.

"I can use this," she declared, batting away the paramedic's hand as he hovered over her with a syringe containing a measured dose of morphine. There were genuine tears of pain in her eyes as she gritted her teeth together. "I can remember this when I have to portray a woman in the throes of dire physical agony."

Anastasia had witnessed too many falls from grace to be complacent about taking any drugs. Drugs would wrestle the control she treasured so highly away from her.

As it turned out, these words were the last the renowned actress said in the ambulance before the pain succeeded in knocking her unconscious.

At the time of his mother's accident, Brandon Slade had been in the midst of wrestling with a completely unfamiliar foe. Writer's block. Like any writer faced with this demon, he had welcomed any distraction. So when the phone had rung, he'd snatched it up and found himself summoned to the theater by a very shaken and distraught director, Tyler Channing. He'd been in his car less than three minutes later and managed to arrive just in time to climb into the back of the ambulance with his mother as the doors were shut.

The paramedic slanted a nervous look at him as he administered the injection to the now unconscious actress. "She always like this?" the man asked.

A fond smile curved Brandon's mouth as he held his mother's hand. "Always."

Brandon Slade, a media darling in his own right, was Anastasia's only child, the product of his mother's second marriage. Head over heels in love, she'd married a passionate Australian actor whose ardor, sadly, was not restricted to the woman he'd exchanged vows with.

Unable to overlook the mounting number of women her husband slept with, Anastasia, with a secretly aching heart, had sent him packing eighteen months into their marriage—and eight months into her one and only pregnancy. The rather pedestrian actor, one Kevin Slade, had made one more appearance to take a look at his son through the nursery window and then disappeared from both their lives.

Brandon was raised by a succession of nannies, some good, some not-so-good. But he never felt the lack of his mother's love even as she wove in and out of his life like a darning needle, taking work close to home when she could, leaving him behind with a nanny and under the watchful eye of her own mother when she couldn't.

Despite this chaotic upbringing, Brandon never felt neglected, never acted out, never felt desperate for attention. For a child born into the acting community, he was a rarity. He grew up centered and well-adjusted. He bore no resentment toward his mother for her less-than-orthodox behavior. She was Anastasia Del Vecchio, and that was just the way she was, a hurricane blowing in and out of his life.

For his part, Brandon enjoyed his life and enjoyed his mother whenever he could. And when he sought to make his own way in the world, there was no one who was more supportive of his efforts—and his chosen field—than his mother. He loved her dearly for it.

Just how much was brought home to him when his own wife had walked out on him—coincidentally before he'd sold his first successful thriller and landed on the New York Times bestseller list. She'd told him just as she'd packed up and left that he, and the life he wanted, bored her. He'd been heartbroken and struggling to put the pieces of his life back together, not for his own sake, but for Victoria's. His daughter had been a little more than a month old at the time, and he hadn't known the first thing about taking care of a baby. When she'd heard what had happened, Anastasia had deliberately restructured her life, accepting a lesser part in a cable series that was being filmed in Los Angeles just so that she could be there to help with Victoria.

Unlike some parents when they made sacrifices— and in complete departure from her public persona— Anastasia never made any mention of the inconvenience this restructuring necessitated. She also never told him that she'd passed up a part that landed the woman who took her place an Academy Award. Her best friend, a hairstylist named Olga Newton, had let that little gem drop five years after the fact, which was the only way Brandon ever found out.

Now it was his turn to help her, Brandon thought, still holding his unconscious mother's hand.

As it turned out, the fall resulted in a cracked left hip. When she finally woke up eleven hours later, it was all over but the healing. The horrified actress was less than pleased to discover that she'd had to have emergency surgery and that where there'd once been bone, she now had titanium.

"Like the Bionic Man?" Her voice boomed with displeasure as she absorbed the news.

"Something like that, except you won't be able to run that fast," Brandon informed her, amused. "But the good news is that the surgeon used the newest approach to this surgery on you—"

"You let them experiment on me?" Anastasia cried, alarmed.

"Not experiment, Mother. This was a proven method. It's called Anterior Hip Replacement and what I'm trying to tell you is that you're going to bounce back faster because there were no muscles cut with this approach. They were just stretched. You'll be walking by the time I get you home," he promised her.

By this time, twelve-year-old Victoria had been brought to the hospital by his agent and had sat, looking worried, until her grandmother had opened her uniquely violet eyes.

Brandon rested his hands now on his daughter's slight but sturdy shoulders as they both faced his mother with the news. "Oh, and by the way, I'm having your things moved into the guest room."

Anastasia frowned, then sighed wearily. Numbed and a little fearful, she fell back on what she knew. Drama and bravado. "You don't know what things to move."

Brandon took her resistance in stride. He was on familiar ground. "No, I don't," he admitted. "But I'm sure you'll tell me if I've forgotten something."

Sullen, Anastasia reached out for Victoria's hand. Her granddaughter was quick to respond. The role reversal was obvious and unselfconscious. "It's easier just leaving me at home and getting me a nurse."

"You know no one would be able to put up with you on a round-the-clock basis but me," Brandon pointed out, suppressing a grin. "Besides, who will you have around to help smooth out all those feathers you're going to ruffle?" His mother was far from the easiest person to deal with when she wasn't feeling at the top of her game, and this circumstance promised to keep her from that height for at least a month under the best of conditions. Undoubtedly more. "No argument, Mother. It's a done deal."

"I'll disrupt your well-ordered life," Anastasia protested for form's sake. It was easy for Brandon to see that he'd already won the argument. But his mother being what she was, she had to go through the motions so she had something to point to later, should he have a complaint about her staying at his home. "People will be coming and going. Loud people," she emphasized.

"I'll make the adjustment," he promised. "Now, the surgeon said we needed to make arrangements for you to begin physical therapy sessions as soon as possible."

Anastasia balked at the image that suggested to her. "That's for old people," she protested, this time in earnest.

"No," Victoria told her in her quiet, wise voice. "That's for people who take one too many steps backward off a stage."

Also in the room while this verbal three-way tennis match was going on was Cecilia Parnell. Initially just providing a cleaning service, she'd transformed into something more: Anastasia's occasional confidante and friend.

"You know," Cecilia began, "I know the name of an excellent physical therapist. She's very dedicated and comes with a long string of recommendations," she threw in for good measure.

This was his only mother, and as blase as he could sometimes sound, Brandon wasn't about to take a chance when it came to the woman's well-being.

"I'd like to see those recommendations," Brandon told Cecilia.

"Oh, Brandon, don't be so uptight," Anastasia chided. "If Celia says she's good, she's good. You want to be useful, make the arrangements," she dictated. Her violet eyes shifted to the woman who cleaned her house to a spotlessness beyond reproach. "They promised me I could go home in two days. See if this miracle lady can be at the house by Wednesday morning. I need to be ...