She had been alone with Brant only twice—the one night at the theater, which had precipitated the second: her going to his house. Never had he instigated the dalliance. It had been she, fueling a fire with no regard for the consequences.
And now he was back, apparently with a surprising memory of what she thought he might have forgotten. It was doubtful that he remembered the stolen kiss of her waking dream—he had certainly shared a thousand such kisses. But he surely did remember the night she came to his house, and it was evident already he didn’t intend to let her forget.
She had never really blamed him. Her decision to keep her secret a secret had been based on several factors, the main one complimentary to him. He might have wanted to marry her and she couldn’t have, knowing that he cared nothing for her. Furthermore, his whole career was before him. He had become a success almost overnight. It would have been too ridiculous to put through a call to Hollywood and say, “Hey, Brant, we really don’t know each other that well, but I’m the friend you consider to be a sweet little girl. Well, anyway, you know that night I said was nothing. I’m afraid there’s something after all…” Who in their right mind would have believed her?
No, what she had done had been for the best. Her way had been the only way. And she had done so well, she had no regrets. She adored her son and she loved her life in the theater.
Except now. Brant was back. She had been fine as long as he was living in the Hollywood dream world. But he wasn’t an elusive memory. He was flesh and blood, and in Sarasota, Florida. Every day for the next three months he would be talking to her, touching her.
And she would want him again, but in three years she had grown too old to play with fire. She could tell by his eyes last night that he no longer considered her a child. She had also grown old enough to be fair game. Lord, she moaned silently. How was she going to cope? She couldn’t run around acting like a spoiled, spiteful child. But she had to keep a distance.
Annoyed with her fear and confusion, Vickie jumped out of bed and into the shower. It was early, she thought wryly, but at least she wouldn’t spend the morning rushing! By the time she finished scrubbing her skin, she felt she had the answers.
Polite and aloof. She could manage that. Again, her way would be the only way, especially when she still had feelings for him. Oh, not the puppy love of three years ago. But he was still and always would be her knight in shining armor no matter how mature or how capable she was, or how wonderful the life she had chosen was.
Block out the past, she told herself firmly, be polite and aloof. The summer could go smoothly. Besides, she was assuming a lot in imagining Brant was interested in her now. Terry was available, and the city was alive with attractive young women.
Yet her mind would not turn off as she dropped Mark at his school and finally parked at the theater. Pausing to brace herself mentally for the morning to come, she unconsciously checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Had she changed much physically? Three years was not actually that great a span of time. Did one change externally as a result of internal changes?
To an extent. Her face had narrowed, increasing the height of her cheekbones and giving her a look of greater sophistication. The raven hair, which she had worn fairly short before, now waved down her spine. Monte liked her with long hair; it was useful for many of her roles, easily hidden when not.
Her nose hadn’t changed any, but its imperious little tilt had its uses. It could give her the image of cool regality, an image she planned to rely on now.
The dining room, lit by the full glare of the houselights, was abuzz with conversation as she entered. Two tables were drawn together and the cast were sitting around them, sipping coffee, munching on danishes, and chatting. Vickie picked out Brant’s blond head quickly and with dismay. The seat beside him was empty, obviously left for her. Monte would be to her right.
Squaring her shoulders, she sidled through the other tables and made her way to the group, chirping a pleasant “Good morning” that extended to everyone. The group answered her in a ragged chorus before returning to their individual conversations, except for Brant, and although he was being included in other discussions, his eyes were on her.
“Good morning, Miss Langley,” he said gravely. His long arms, crooked at the elbow, were cast carelessly over the back of his chair. One jean-clad leg was crossed over the other casually. Part of his charisma, Vickie thought bitterly. No matter how far Brant went in his career he, could give the appearance of fitting in naturally anywhere.
“Good morning,” she replied briefly, opening her script.
“We missed you last night,” he continued, oblivious to her rebuff.
“Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to be curt. Her eyes rose unwittingly to his; something in his tone had compelled her to look at him. What she found in his intense cobalt gaze gave her shivers.
Time was playing tricks; fate was lending a hand. Brant Wicker was interested in her. He was more than interested; he was openly curious about her. He was evidently out to charm her. His look—warm but faintly grim and decidedly determined—told her simply that he meant to succeed.
“Okay,” Monte announced, making his appearance from the stage in a brisk manner. “Cut the chatter. Work time. Vickie, did you have coffee yet? Get some.” He stopped speaking for a moment as he took his chair to confer privately with Jim Ellery.
Brant was chuckling. “May I get your coffee for you, Miss Langley? I’ve heard you’re never quite all here without it.”
Vickie looked at him balefully, grinding her teeth. Apparently he had been discussing her with Monte, or the others, or both. She was famous for needing a cup of coffee to be completely lucid. He had been asking questions, and she didn’t want any of his courteous concern.
“Thanks,” she said stiffly. “I can get my own.” Despite her resolve to be polite, her words carried the bite of rudeness. She winced; Bobby had heard her down at his end of the table and he was frowning, puzzled by her manner. She had to be careful.
“No need,” Brant was replying pleasantly. “I’ll get it. Black, right?” There was just a slight edge of sandpaper to his voice, implying that he realized she was purposely snubbing him.
“Right, thank you,” she murmured, lowering her eyes to her script.
She thanked him again as he handed her a cup, avoiding his probing eyes. It was going to be harder than she thought to forget the past. It was going to be almost impossible with him sitting beside her. Three years might have never been. She could still remember the touch of the hands so close to hers, the heated strength of his thigh just inches away.
Nevertheless, the reading went well. The entire cast was inspired by the presence of the leading man, even Vickie. As straightforward as this simple read-through was, Brant’s clear, low voice rang through the room with a sincere grasp of each and every of Shakespeare’s often misunderstood innuendos. The entire room was so still when Harry Blackwell, reading Lodovico, came to the final line, that the proverbial pin could have been heard dropping.
“Good!” Monte declared, the first to speak. He scribbled on his script for several seconds before adding, “We’ll finish here for the day. Tomorrow, a rough blocking of act one. If you’re not in the act, you don’t have to show.”
Vickie, surprised that they had again been given extra hours of freedom, stayed seated for a minute, as they all did. Her hesitation proved to be her downfall.
“Well, Miss Langley,” Brant drawled, twisting to her with a sardonic smile. “You can’t have any emergency to rush off to now. Have some lunch with me.”
“I can’t—” Vickie began.
“Sure you can!” Monte interrupted, looking up from what Vickie had thought was intense concentration on his notes. What was he doing, feeding her to the lions with plate, napkin, and fork? “You don’t have to pick up Mark for two hours!”
Vickie’s cheeks burned. “I know,” she protested quickly. “But I do have half a million other things to do and—”
There was no polite excuse. She couldn’t protest any further without appearing churlish. “A short lunch,” she agreed, trying to appear indifferent rather than rude. “I really do have things that definitely do need doing.” She managed an apologetic smile.
“A short lunch it will be,” Brant promised, grinning devilishly as he waved a friendly good-bye to the others and proprietarily escorted her from the room. When they walked out into the sunlight, he indicated a shiny blue Mercedes, propelled her to it, and unerringly opened the passenger door and ushered her in with his customary gallantry. She settled warily into the plush interior.
“Where to?” he asked as he folded his own length into the car and turned to her, his powerful hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, his cobalt gaze unfathomable.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
Brant switched on the ignition. “All right, Miss Langley, I’ll choose.” He deftly maneuvered the car from the parking lot and headed out on the highway. “If I remember correctly, and sometimes I do have a good memory, there’s a nice little steak and seafood place not far from here. A hole in the wall, but clean, and the food is terrific.”
Vickie turned her head to look out on the familiar scenery, convinced she was going to have to be as cold as possible. Brant seemed to be unaware that he was sitting next to an ice cube; he spoke occasionally as they drove, commenting on the growth of the city since he had last been here. Maintaining her vigil out the window, Vickie refrained from responding to his one-sided conversation, uttering a polite yes or no only when directly questioned. Hopefully he would eventually believe she found him boring, and even a composed ego couldn’t tolerate such an insult!
The restaurant he brought her to was one she had never been to before, and not exactly a hole in the wall. It was on the beach, an atmospheric, thatched-roof, dark and cleverly decorated spot. Although expensive, as she realized on perusal of the menu, the dining room was comfortable and casual, intimate with a friendly warmth. Brant ordered a bottle of vintage wine before Vickie could stop him, and he overrode her order for a simple shrimp cocktail, insisting she try the Alaskan king crab legs, the house specialty.
His polite, faultless conversation continued until the wine arrived and the waitress went off to her other duties. Then he leaned forward, his eyes a hard, dark glitter in the glow of the single candle upon the table, and asked, “Okay, Miss Langley”—his voice was edged with derision—“would you mind telling me just what the problem is?”
His attack took her totally unawares and she stared at him blankly, her fingers slowly tightening around the stem of her crystal wineglass. “Problem?” she echoed, annoyed to hear a quiver in her voice. Taking a deep breath, she steadied her tone. “I don’t have any problem, Mr. Wicker, and if I did—not meaning to be rude—I doubt if I would feel inclined to discuss it with you.”
“There is a problem. You do have a problem,” he said grimly. “I assure you, it will only get worse if we don’t come to an understanding.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine while studying her frozen face with an astute intensity.
She returned his scrutiny, her unwilling eyes drawn to his as if they were magnetized. If she had thought that there would be any Hollywood pretty-boy laxity to Brant, she had been sadly mistaken. He was the same man he had been, but three rough years older. Time had taken them both through worlds of rough lessons; if anything, he had matured now to a frightening, dominant virility that had nothing to do with his “star” status. The eyes that stared into hers were unmasked—dark, forceful, and determined with unconcealed annoyance, impatience, and anger.
“Well?” he prodded her with a deceiving softness.
“Brant.” Vickie said with a sigh, folding her hands before her and watching her own fingers. “I know you are accustomed to having people fawning all over you. They like you sight unseen. This may strike you as inconceivable, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I personally don’t care for you. Still, I don’t see where that presents a tremendous problem. We have to work together, yes, but in our business we often have to work closely with people we don’t particularly care for. We are both professionals. There will be no problems as far as the theater is concerned.” Her speech was softly spoken, but arrogantly adamant. Not daring to face him, she kept her eyes on her own hands and waited for an explosion. She knew his cobalt stare was still relentlessly on her, she could sense it beyond a doubt, just as she could sense his very presence, his scent, his nearness. She knew his facial expression hadn’t altered a hair.
“I don’t believe you,” he said calmly.
So much for the expected explosion. Vickie glanced back up at his words, astounded. They had been stated as simple fact.
“What don’t you believe?” she asked, perplexed and irritated. He should have been angry, really angry, ready to wash his hands of her completely. “I assure you, Brant, that we can work together.”
“That I don’t doubt for an instant,” he replied, cutting off his own speech as their food arrived and he thanked the young waitress, who recognized him with jittery awe and had difficulty keeping her mouth closed. After she had again disappeared into the kitchen, probably to tell the rest of the staff that the Brant Wicker was sitting in her station, he leaned forward once more and this time gripped Vickie’s chin firmly so that she couldn’t lower her eyes. “I don’t believe that you don’t like me.”
“Of all the insufferable conceit!” Vickie blared out.
“Not conceit,” he denied calmly, releasing his hold on her chin to pick up his cocktail fork and dig into the crab. “I believe there are lots of people in the world who may not particularly care for me. They may blatantly dislike me. What I don’t believe is that you’re one of them.”
Vickie’s own fork froze in the air with a morsel of tender white crab dangling from it as she stared at him, speechless. What was the matter with the man? She had been rude and blunt enough to lend credence to her words. “I—I suggest you start believing!” she said curtly, as unnerved as she had ever been three years ago. “It’s true!” Except the statement rang false and hollow to her own ears.
He smiled unexpectantly, easing the grimness of his angular features. “It isn’t true. I told you, I do have a good memory sometimes, and, Vickie, I remember we were more than friends. We didn’t part as enemies. So what I don’t understand is why we can’t be friends now.”
“What difference does it make?” she flashed irritably.
“A lot, to me.”
“Why?” Vickie demanded with exasperation, toying with her food.
“Because,” he said softly, “I remember all that you can be. A Victoria as honest and open as the morning sun. A woman full of feeling, vibrancy, and compassion.” As he spoke, his hand moved across the table to cover hers and envelop it in warmth and a gentle, rugged strength.
Flushing, Vickie pulled her hand away. He didn’t stop her. She took a long swallow of her wine before remembering that white wine had precipitated her downfall with him once before. Setting the glass down firmly, she quietly began. “Mr. Wicker—”
“What is this Mr. Wicker bit?” he interrupted irritably. His eyes glittered into hers with an edge of mockery as he dropped civility for insinuation. “Don’t you think such formality is a little ridiculous?”
“No, I don’t,” she replied coolly.
“You know my name; I’ve heard you use it nicely.”
“All right, Brant,” Vickie hissed, challenging him with stormy gray eyes. “You’re talking about three years ago. A night that didn’t mean a damn thing to either of us. Now you’ve sailed back in here, and I should be willing to pick up where you left off, except there’s nothing to be picked up. If you’re looking for a few hot dates whil
e in town now, try Terry.”
“Good Lord, woman!” he ejaculated angrily. “I am not looking for a few hot dates. I’ve had enough so-called ‘hot dates’ to last ten lifetimes. I’m not looking for anything. I want to know why you’re avoiding me and what the hell I could have done to you.”
“You didn’t do anything to me,” Vickie stated tonelessly, actually meaning what she said. He hadn’t done anything to her; she had done it all to herself. But he had been the unwitting accomplice in the greatest humiliation and trauma of her life. That she couldn’t explain. “Brant, I’m just not a starry-eyed kid anymore. I don’t want to be your summer entertainment. To be blunt, I simply have no desire to jump back in bed with you.”
“I don’t recall asking you to,” he said with an arched brow.
“Then why don’t you just leave me alone?” she wailed, frustrated and annoyed by his sardonic response.
“I have no intention of leaving you alone,” he grinned, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth before biting calmly into a clump of butter-drenched crab. He chewed and swallowed, watching her speculatively before adding, “I’ve thought of you frequently during the last three years. And I think I know you better than you give me credit for. I’m going to hound you mercilessly until I discover just why you’re behaving like a spoiled brat toward me.”
“That’s a discovery you’ll never make!” Vickie lashed out in cold defense, realizing with horror what she had said only after the incriminating words were out of her mouth.
“Ah-hah!” Brant exclaimed, delving back into his crab. “The truth leaks out!”
“Will you stop,” Vickie grumbled. “There is no truth.” She feigned a great interest in the rim of her wineglass. Damn! She couldn’t allow herself to fall into his goading, persistent traps. “There is no truth,” she repeated. “My life is hectic, that’s all. I don’t have time to run around worrying about you.”
Tender Deception Page 5