Tender Deception

by Heather Graham

  “Coffee anyone?”

  Vickie glanced at Bobby with sheer gratitude for his timely arrival. “I’d love some!” she proclaimed. “In fact, you and Terry go sit—I’ll get the coffee.”

  She hurried into the vast kitchen, exchanging friendly words with the waiters and waitresses she passed. Pouring three cups of coffee, she drew deep breaths before returning to the dining room now peopled only by the cast and a few scattered restaurant employees finishing up with their tables.

  Why couldn’t she just be blasé and tell the truth? There was no Mr. Langley, never had been, except in the telephone book, and her finger had simply fallen on the name.

  She hadn’t cared then, not about much of anything. Her mother, gently proving her love and her mettle, steered her on a course of action. “Victoria, your father and I can’t force you to do anything. You won’t tell us the name of the father, and I’m sure you have your reasons. But you want to keep your baby and I can’t say that I blame you. I could have never given away a piece of myself either. But honey, let us help you! I know you think your life is over; it’s not. For your own sake and that of the baby, go away for a year. Take on another name. Dad and I still want you to follow that dream, to make it as an actress.”

  There had been no recriminations, no harsh words, judgment, or disappointment. And so emerged Mr. Langley, and a Victoria Langley who learned to appreciate the kindness and wisdom of her parents. She had the baby without ever breathing the truth of his paternity. After the birth she immediately auditioned for a South Carolina summer stock company and earned the role of Juliet. And it was there that Monte found her again on one of his talent-seeking trips, unable to believe that the girl had changed so drastically in a single year. Sometimes it amazed her that she seemed so terribly different from other young women her age. But then, she had had little to do in that year except wait and change, reconcile and mature.

  “You know, Vick,” Bobby said as she set the coffee before them and sat down. “You really are amazing. Thanks.”

  “Too good to be true,” Terry interjected dryly.

  “The beautiful green eyes of jealousy!” Bobby teased. He loved to irritate Terry. “Vickie, won’t you reconsider and marry me? I’m really such a nice guy!”

  Bobby asked her to marry him at least once a month. It was a standing joke between them. “Let me sweep you into my arms and take you away from all this,” he continued dramatically. “I promise to make you forget all about the mysterious man in your past who holds your heart away from us all.” He ended his comical speech by grabbing her hand and pressing his forehead into it.

  “Bobby,” Vickie moaned, “will you stop it? Monte is going to walk in any moment with our overly prized artist, and we’ll look like a couple of idiots!” And besides, she thought, no one would ever make her really forget the man in her past. In three years she hadn’t managed to forget him.

  She had hated him enormously at times, but she knew there would never be another like him, never be another man who could send her to heaven with the slightest touch, command her love and respect with a single whisper, whose lean, tall frame could send shivers down her spine with mere memory.

  “Where the heck is Monte?” Terry complained irritably. “If he doesn’t show up soon, I’m leaving!”

  As if on cue, Monte suddenly came striding out from the darkened stage to sit at its edge, his legs dangling. “Sorry to have kept you all waiting. I should have let you get out of costume.” He grinned delightedly. “Our guest was spotted by reporters and held up, but he’ll be here momentarily.”

  “Who is it—God?” Terry muttered, unintentionally audible.

  Monte gave her a sharp stare, and she had the grace and good sense to smile as if her words had been a joke. “Come to think of it, Miss Nicholson, I think you did compare him to God at one time,” Monte said dryly, his grin taking on a slightly malicious cast. “A few of you know him, a few of you know only his work.”

  Monte’s voice droned on, but Vickie wasn’t listening anymore. Small stabs of fear were beginning to shoot through her. It couldn’t be! No, it just couldn’t be him, she thought desperately. The last she had heard, he had completed one of the recently popular space-adventure movies and gone on to Broadway. His television series had been successful, but he had pulled out when he felt its course had been run.

  No! She shook her head vaguely, feeling the whip of her pigtails as they hit her face. How absurd. He had been gone three years. He was worth a fortune; he could call his own shots. Why should he come back to such a comparatively small theater town?

  “Oh, and here he is now!” Monte said, jumping to his feet and smiling warmly toward the dark right wing from where Vickie could hear assured footsteps and just begin to see the tall, broad-shouldered frame of a man. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Monte called in a ringing voice, “may I present with much pride and great pleasure one of my own protégés, our summer guest, Mr. Brant Wicker.”

  The room filled with ecstatic applause, but Vickie didn’t hear it. A buzzing began in her ears as her face blanched beneath the greasepaint. She sat motionlessly, not able to register thought, as Brant appeared on the stage, his cobalt eyes twinkling merrily, his full, sensuous mouth set into a heart-rending grin, his blond head gleaming like a halo.

  Then, as if she were an outside observer, an unknown entity sailing above her own body, she made a few mental notes. He had changed. His jaw was squarer, firmer, his face leaner, the hollows beneath his high cheekbones more pronounced. Small lines etched their way around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His body was still long and trim, wire-muscled, but it had filled out; the shoulders and chest were now wide, tapering to a narrow waist and slim hips.

  Like a marionette, Vickie jerked around as Bobby emitted a loud yelp and rushed for the stage to pump Brant’s hand. Terry followed him; they had been the two who had worked with Brant before, the two who had been with the company before Brant Wicker, the Tampa football hero turned actor, had left his home state for fame and fortune. A cacophony of excited voices rippled through the room, but they didn’t register in Vickie’s mind. Only the deadly buzzing. Nice guy, she thought, the words shooting shrilly in her mind. That was what even the most probing and vile of the fan magazines said. Oh, yeah, nice guy. Good man. Ethical, dignified, and unaffected. Hysteria was rising beneath her immobility. Calm down! she warned herself, finally managing to lick her parched lips. Play it cool! He won’t remember, I know he won’t remember.

  Monte was walking with Brant around the tables where the cast sat scattered, introducing him to all the members. Vickie reached across the table for Bobby’s pack of cigarettes and somehow lit one without fumbling. She seldom smoked—it was hard on a performer—but at the moment she needed that cigarette as much as she usually needed air to breathe. Inhale, exhale. “That’s better,” she told herself, noting thankfully that her long, slender fingers were steady and her hands composed.

  “Come to think of it,” Monte was telling Brant as they approached her, alone now at the table, “I think you have met Victoria. If I’m not mistaken, she was running around here your last summer.” Directing his gaze to Vickie with a puzzled frown, he asked, “Wasn’t that the summer you were here, Vick?”

  “Yes,” Vickie replied coolly, raising her eyes to meet the crystal blue stare of Brant Wicker. “Yes, Mr. Wicker and I have met. We were here the same summer.” Forcing a stiff smile, she continued. “To be honest, I scarcely remember it myself, so I’m sure Mr. Wicker doesn’t.”

  “Brant, please,” their guest insisted, sliding his long frame into the chair beside Vickie’s and studying her with an intense, contemplative assessment that made her throat burn dry. “Vickie. I remember you very well. I remember a very special night we shared, a night when I was really down and you pulled me back up by the hair.”

  Vickie shook her head and stretched her smile with an apologetic blankness. “Sorry, I don’t remember that.”

  His brow raised teasingly
. “Don’t you?”

  “No,” she said flatly, coldly, dragging on her cigarette. “I’m afraid three years is a long time ago to me. I have problems remembering last week.” She attempted to smile again and sprang to her feet. “Brant, it’s a pleasure seeing you again. Monte, forgive me, but I have to get out of here. I can’t keep Mrs. Gimball too long.”

  “Vickie!” Monte protested. “I wanted you to have a drink with Brant and me. You two will be working very closely together. You could chat a bit, renew an old acquaintance.”

  If there was anything she didn’t want to do, it was renew an old acquaintance. “Sorry, I have to go.”

  Her polite excuses might have been working on Monte, but they certainly weren’t on Brant. He rose slowly and took her hand in a gentle but strong grip from which she couldn’t possibly escape without making a scene. His jaw was hardened, and his blue eyes were narrowed dangerously. “Really, Miss Langley, do come along.” His voice was steel-plated. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together, you know.” A warning rang beneath his pleasant words, one intended to be noted by her only, but she could read it plainly in his eyes. I don’t understand this, but I don’t put up with petty grievances on stage.

  “I can’t join you,” Vickie snapped. “Excuse me.”

  As she moved toward the dressing room, she heard snatches of their conversation.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into Victoria,” Monte said ruefully. “She’s usually the most pleasant person you’d ever want to meet.”

  “Who knows,” Brant replied with an offhand shrug. “I believe I stepped on her toes three years ago. But she certainly did turn into a stunning young woman…”

  Vickie slammed the door to the dressing room and sank into her chair before she fell down. Her body had become as formless as wet cement, and she was shaking like a dry leaf in winter. This can’t be happening, she thought, laughter bubbling in her dry throat. Not this nightmare!

  But it was. Brant Wicker had returned. Tears were forming in the large gray eyes that returned her stare from the mirror. A summer! she moaned inwardly. An entire summer. I’ll never make it. And what will happen when he sees Mark? Nothing, she assured herself, concentrating on long deep breaths for control. Nothing. No one could possibly see a resemblance. Just keep playing it cool and everything will be all right.

  Without taking off her makeup she changed into her street clothing and fled from the theater. At home she thanked Mrs. Gimball and fell into bed as soon as the baby-sitter left. But Vickie couldn’t sleep. The memory she had been fighting all day was upon her, flooding over her like the massive wash of a tidal wave. Her cheeks burned with a humiliation compounded rather than diminished by the years, and she tossed about her bed fitfully. The buzzing she had experienced earlier turned into a taunting monotony that whispered a name over and over and over…Brant Wicker…Brant Wicker…Brant Wicker…

  CHAPTER TWO

  BRANT WICKER, AT TWENTY-NINE, had been everything a girl could want, a handsome daredevil, assured and confident, master of his own fate, aloof and yet courteous to a point of distraction. Those who had known him in his college days assumed he might head for pro-ball, law, or eventually politics. He followed none of the assumptions, enlisting in the service, and then arriving at Monte Clayton’s Dinner Theatre.

  Seldom had anyone seen such a natural for the stage. Within a year, about the same time a dewy-eyed Vickie fresh out of college became an apprentice with the group, Brant was taking all the leading roles, creating a host of ardent fans, male and female. He possessed just the right combination of macho toughness and compassionate down-to-earth reality to make women love him and men admire him.

  Working with the group in her menial capacity, doing whatever needed to be done, Vickie admired and adored him from afar. To his credit, his ego was never inflated, and he was friendly with everyone from the lowest busboy to his employer, Monte. Vickie was touched by that kindness; she cherished it and built it into something else deep within her heart. Her fantasy of his secretly returning her feelings became a reality within the hidden recesses of her own mind. Dreaming—a fallacy and beauty of youth.

  She had discovered, however, before that curious night of fate, that he was capable of being moody. Repairing a costume long after the theater had closed one night, she was surprised to hear noises from the stage. Tentatively she wandered from the costume shop to the dining room. Brant was sitting on the stage, dangling his legs and thumping them against the stage with distraction. His eyes were narrowed fiercely, his features tight in a scowl, his arms crossed in a vise over his chest. Suddenly, as she hesitantly wondered what to do, he looked up and noticed her partially hidden form. “Who’s there?” he demanded sharply.

  “Me,” Vickie squeaked, cowering before the uncharacteristic wrath in his eyes.

  “Me?” His impatient sarcasm was lightened by a touch of growing amusement. “Me who? Come down here. Let me see you.”

  Picking her way through the tables, Vickie complied with dread. She had never seen him angry before, and the fact that his anger seemed to be directed at her did nothing to still her pounding heart.

  “Vickie, isn’t it?” he inquired with a frown when she stood before him. “What are you doing here so late?”

  She couldn’t answer right away, her throat had constricted. The scent of his clean, crisp aftershave was assailing her, and she stared at the corded muscles in his arms, bared as his shirt sleeves were rolled high. A pulse beat in a blue vein that was just visible on his bicep, and she glued her eyes to it in fascination, fearing fancifully that if she were to look directly into his deep blue gaze, she would turn to salt.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His demand sounded in her ears again and she stuttered, “A-a costume. I was sewing a c-costume.” Having found her voice, she found courage. “What are you doing here?”

  “Brooding,” he replied, blunt and brief. At the hurt look in her soulful gray eyes he softened. “Sorry, little girl, I shouldn’t take this out on you.” Sliding onto his side and resting his head on the hand of a crooked arm, he explained: “I had a bit of an argument with Monte, and I’m having to realize he was right. I’m cooling off so I can go apologize.”

  Nothing had registered in Vickie’s mind except that her idol had called her a little girl. She had to set the record straight.

  “I’m not a child,” she exclaimed in indignant reply.

  “No?”

  “No, I’m a college graduate.”

  “Whew!” he whistled. “Forgive me!” The teasing twinkle she so loved was returning to his eyes. “You’re a real old hag!”

  Vickie blushed and lowered her head. “No, I’m not!” she murmured, raising her head to meet his eyes with a flash of defiance in her own. “But I’m also not a child.”

  “No?” His voice held a strange note as he raked his amused blue gaze down her body. “Maybe not, come here and we’ll see.”

  Her feet seemed glued to the floor. His brows rose mockingly and she knew he still teased her even as he watched her speculatively. “What’s the matter, little girl?” he chuckled.

  That decided her. She had the vague suspicion that he was comparing her to the tempestuous Lenore she had heard he dated, and she was determined that he would find her to be far more worthy of his attentions than that siren. Tilting her head high, she moved slowly toward the stage, vaulting the edge with a graceful leap. She sat beside him, crossing her beautiful legs provocatively and looking deep into his eyes.

  She could still the quivers that raced through her; she could hold her head high…be enticing. She was going to be an actress and could hide the fear that threatened to tug her from the stage and send her flying into the night.

  He had meant to tease, to brush her lips, to promise solemnly she would be a beautiful woman one day before sending her on her way. But when his arms came around her, he found himself dragging her lengthwise beside him, claiming her lips in a caressing kiss which, begun as a jok
e, quickly became something else as a fire kindled in both of them—Brant, the man who had dated only mature women, his own age or older, women attuned to flirtations, and Vickie, the girl who so far knew little except the pursuit of elusive and hazy dreams…

  His weight shifted over hers; his powerful hands began a delightful exploration, slipping beneath the material of her blouse and searching her bare skin with tantalizing finesse. His thoughts meshed and mingled with his desires.

  She was not that young; she was very much a woman. Her innocent response belied a deep sensuality, now budding beneath his practiced touch. Her flesh was alive, warm, beautiful, enticing.

  But it was wrong. He had an understanding with Lenore, who thought no more of making love than she did of taking a walk. And somehow he knew this girl was different. Each experience for her would be special. She would give and take and cherish—and trust. He wasn’t the man for her. She deserved a young man of her own, one who could give with total commitment before taking. He broke from her, his breathing harsh and ragged.

  Vickie looked into his darkened eyes, confused. She had forgotten everything in the pleasure of his arms. Now his look was angry again, and all she knew was that she ached, painfully, mentally and physically. She didn’t want to moralize; she simply longed to have him meld her body to his sinewed one once more, longed to understand and broaden the marvelous new sensations that he awakened to a rage within her. But he had withdrawn, irrevocably.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked hesitantly, suddenly feeling very awkward beneath his dark gaze.

  “Nothing,” he muttered hoarsely. He made a feeble attempt at one of his careless grins. “It’s just that, well, you’re right. You’re not a little girl at all.” Uncrossing his legs, he rose and reached a hand down to her. “Come on, Vickie, I’ll take you home.”

  Vickie bolted up in her bed, shaken by her dreams. A feverish feeling had left her shivering; beads of perspiration had broken across her forehead. Hindsight was cruel, she thought, groaning aloud. How could she have been so pathetically naive?