Tender Deception

by Heather Graham

  “I see. You don’t have time to be civil.”

  “Okay, Brant,” Vickie acknowledged. “I haven’t been particularly civil. Haven’t you heard of people having bad days?”

  “Sure, but that isn’t the case now, is it?” He took her hand again before she could withdraw it, sending a tingling sensation through her arm, which ended as a trembling shiver throughout her body. Feeling the shiver, he grinned. “Listen, Victoria,” he said in that soft voice of his that served only to underline grim determination. “I’m not an idiot. I know something is wrong. I’ve seen you pretty cool, but this is different. Waspish arrogance is not you. But I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t pry—for the time being at least—if you’ll make an attempt to act like Vickie around me.”

  “Brant!” she declared, trying to break the magnetic spell of his eyes. “I’m not Mary Poppins!”

  “I know that!” he laughed, a finger tracing the outer edges of the hand he held.

  “I don’t want to be your lover!” she snapped.

  “Only time will tell the truth to that,” he mused, nonplussed.

  “Please…” Vickie grated out, irritated that his touch seemed to make her breathless. “Do us both a favor, and forget about me. I’ll be just charming while we’re at the theater.”

  “Othello forget Desdemona?” he teased in mock horror, his hand tightening around hers. His statement was a guarantee, a promise. It even sounded like a threat.

  Vickie finally pulled her eyes from his to sip at her wine and take a deep breath. “Well, then,” she said with dry exasperation, “Othello is going to have a wretched time of it.”

  “Of course,” he replied complacently. “Othello was a wretched fellow.” Both of his brows rose with pretended pathos and resignation. “He too was looking for the truth.”

  “And it was always right in front of him!” Vickie bit back. “And poor Desdemona was the wretched one. Maligned for minding her own business!”

  “Only because Othello loved her so much.”

  Their sparring was making her very nervous, so nervous that she feared another slip. The sooner lunch ended the better. She drained her wineglass with indifference. “You are not Othello. I am not Desdemona, and”—she raised an eloquent brow—“thank heavens, no one is in love with anyone.” With her caustic composure steadily fraying, she looked around the room for their waitress.

  “Oh, but I am a little bit in love with you.”

  Vickie’s startled gaze whipped back to Brant. His eyes were unreadable, indigo pools, telling her only the one thing she already knew. She was dealing with a powerful man, relentlessly determined to have his own way. He never faltered in pursuit; he wouldn’t do so now. But she could never be a one-night fling for him again. She couldn’t take the ultimate truth again. She couldn’t endure learning a second time that no part of his heart really belonged to her. And she couldn’t ever chance his discovering he had a son. In a wild moment of panic she wondered if there would be anything he could do. With his fame and fortune, was it possible that he could prove Mark was his? Take him away or demand partial custody? Hover in her life forever?

  No, she assured herself, there was nothing Brant could do. But the thought did nothing for her. The possibility of his figuring out the truth was still terrifying. She was going to have to start lying like the devil.

  “Tell me,” she demanded with dry cynicism, “is this one of your new Hollywood practices? Falling a little bit in love with all your leading ladies? Is that part of your success?”

  “No,” he replied easily, handing his credit card to the waitress, who had ignored Vickie but practically tripped over her own feet in her haste to scamper to Brant’s summons. When the girl was gone, Brant hunched his shoulders conspiratorially over the table, bringing their power-radiating breadth uncomfortably close. He didn’t touch Vickie, but she felt as if he held her within the blue sea of his eyes. It was a chilling, fascinating prison, one that locked her against her will, against her well-performed nonchalance.

  “I fall in love only with raven-haired beauties. The ones with mysterious gray eyes and deep dark secrets. The ones I always loved a little.”

  “Really, Brant,” Vickie protested huskily. “My memory isn’t all that bad. You were ‘in love’ with Lenore.”

  “Ah, so you remember Lenore. Is that why you’re playing cold fish?”

  “No,” Vickie lied smoothly. “I was dating Langley myself at the time. We-er-we were married shortly after you left.”

  “What happened?” Brant asked softly.

  “He died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The compassion emanating from Brant was real. Vickie bit her lip, appalled at herself for stating such a horrible fabrication.

  “I tried to see you, you know,” Brant said abruptly.

  “Oh, Brant, please!” Vickie groaned, leaning back in her seat to put distance between them. “I know. You apologized. There was nothing to apologize for. I felt bad for you that night, I came to be with you of my own free will. We went to bed. You went on with your life, I went on with mine.”

  “But not quite the same,” he said severely, and she eyed him with stubborn silence as he continued. “Vickie, the memory of that night is a strong one for me. It has haunted me ever since. Don’t keep trying to tell me it was nothing to you. Your sheet trick was clever, but I wasn’t all that drunk. You were a virgin that night—”

  “Brant!” Vickie fought the flush that rose to her cheeks. “I don’t even remember!”

  “The hell you don’t!” he growled forcefully, and the hard set to his well-defined chin kept her from protesting afresh.

  She glanced uneasily around before leaning toward him, the hardness in her stare equaling his. “I repeat,” she stated heatedly. “What difference does any of this make now? You keep talking about three irrelevant years ago! I’ve been married since. I’ve had a child. You’ve had your numerous affairs. We are working together now, and that’s all. I don’t like to discuss the past!”

  “I’m discussing the past so that we can get to the future,” Brant said, strumming forceful fingers upon the table. “Me-thinks, my lady, that thou doth protest too much,” he quoted lightly. “And I also think you’re one hell of a liar.”

  “Brant—”

  “No, Vickie.” He cut her off firmly, his eyes blazing despite his low tone. “I came back here for Monte, but I came back for another reason too. You, my dear Miss Langley. In all my consequent ‘affairs’ as you call them, I’ve been looking for something. Something real, something honest. Something we could have had.”

  “Don’t!” Vickie objected fiercely. “Talk about liars! You walked out of here with nothing on your mind but your star-studded future! You’re inventing things that didn’t exist! You’re all talk, and I’m just too old to fall for it.”

  “Wrong!”

  The ogling waitress brought the credit card and form to the table and Brant and Vickie both fell silent as he signed in a large distinct flourish. Preoccupied, Brant still gave the girl a polite smile, obligingly signing the autographs she requested with a pleasant banter. Lulled by his tone, Vickie began to believe their too personal conversation would be over.

  But when the waitress had gone, he turned back to her with none of his grim fervor lost. “Wrong, Vickie. I’m not talk—you know damned well I never was.”

  “You’re a Hollywood star,” she sniffed derisively.

  “I’m a man,” he corrected her quietly. “The same man I was before. I happen to be an actor, which makes it rather incongruous that an actress should scorn my livelihood.”

  Vickie inclined her head skeptically. “Sorry.”

  Rising, Brant assisted her from her chair. She was forced into greater awareness of his dominating physique. An involuntary shiver rippled down her spine, and she felt her breathing grow ragged.

  “Come, my lady,” he chuckled, his voice deep and throaty in her ear, “and I’ll shortly relieve you of my proximity.”
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  She graced him with a very baleful glare that caused his grin to deepen devilishly. “I’ll relieve you of my proximity for the time, that is,” he promised with amused solemnity. “You are going to be seeing a lot of me.”

  “Really? Your confidence is amazing.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t suggest a wager against me. I want you, my sweet leading lady, and I intend to get you.”

  The door to the restaurant swung shut behind them and Vickie turned to him bitterly as they strolled for the Mercedes.

  “I thought you weren’t going to ask me to bed.”

  “I haven’t—yet. We’re going to start with basics.”

  “You’ll excuse me,” she retorted, raising an arched brow as he ushered her into the passenger seat, “if I don’t happen to be around for your basics, since I’ve stated I’m not interested in the finale.”

  His annoying, knowing grin never left his face. His blue eyes raked over her form in a probing, assessing gaze.

  “You’ll be around. We both know it. The only one you’re lying to is yourself. Why, I don’t know. But I think I’ve already solved half of my dilemma. You’re afraid of me. Now, the question is why.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “SCENE THREE—FIVE MINUTES.”

  Jim was a damned good stage manager, Vickie mused idly as she watched him call his command. A no-nonsense person, he seldom smiled or joined in any of the revelry natural to the cast. But he held their respect. He kept the troop together and had a talent for whipping them into shape when necessary. Monte, although a superb director, was too much of a nice guy. He was personally attached to each of his cast members. At times he’d yell, but then would become pliable in their hands.

  Chewing on the nub of her pencil, her legs stretched comfortably on the chair before her, Vickie decided the two men were a great pair. Monte was genius; Jim was discipline.

  Brant, she admitted grudgingly, was both in one. When he rehearsed, he was business. He didn’t miss a cue, he didn’t cause a minute’s waste of time. He accepted direction gracefully while still imbuing his character with the irrefutable uniqueness of his talent. Offstage, he would tease. He had already brought the entire cast and crew around to lighthearted acceptance. He was the star, the big man brought in for the season. But no one would ever know it. Which was nice, Vickie thought dryly. His down-to-earth humanity had been one of the things she had once loved him for…

  Except now, she was heartily resenting him. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to deal with an egotistical snob whom everyone else was having difficulty stomaching. She was the only one feigning polite welcome. But then she was the only one wishing Brant back in his Beverly Hills manor or Madison Avenue town house.

  And she was the only one who knew he was capable of being ruthlessly demanding and persistent. It was doubtful that anyone could underestimate him. Perpetually polite and especially pleasant to those who were nervous around him, Brant wore a tangible aura of determination. If his height and lean, muscled build did not quell a stout heart, the strong line of his profile and piercing intensity of his eyes would. With a quirk of amusement Vickie decided he was not a person she would like to run into in a dark alley at night.

  Monte, sitting beside her, stretched, groaned, and rubbed the back of his neck before casting a glance her way. “How was lunch?”

  The question startled her. She had been sitting next to him for the past two hours, watching the progression of the first two scenes—scenes in which Desdemona didn’t appear. He had spoken to her only occasionally, and then only to make a general comment or issue a rhetorical question that he would immediately answer himself.

  “Lunch was fine,” she told him, assuming a casual tone even as she attempted too late to hide a frown. She could still remember and bristle at the memory of Brant laughing at her when she haughtily informed him she was definitely not afraid of him.

  “What have you got against Brant?” Monte quizzed her pointedly.

  “Nothing!” Vickie protested. She shifted her legs and crossed one ankle over the other, comfortable in her jeans.

  “You’re bristling!” Monte chuckled. “I don’t believe it, and I love it. My little, untouchable Ice Maiden bristling!”

  “I am not bristling,” Vickie objected with a sigh. “I’m just not all that enamored of the man. And I’m not really sure why you brought him in for Othello. The dark man? The moor?” She laughed, pointing her pencil at Brant who was still onstage conversing with Bobby, who was playing Iago. “You couldn’t have found a man more fair if you would have scoured half the country.”

  Monte gave her his full, reproachful attention. “You’ve heard him,” he told her sternly. “His Shakespeare is untouchable. I’ve seen him do this particular play before with remarkable results. You know yourself what can be done with good stage makeup.” Shrugging, Monte continued with even a stronger note of rebuke. “Brant is an exceptional actor. He could walk on that stage in jeans and a T-shirt and by the time he walked off half the audience would be ready to swear he had been in period costume.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Vickie said noncommittally.

  “Damn right, I’m right!” Monte agreed. “And as a favor to me, I’d like you to act a little more decently. I was lucky to get him. He only came here as a personal favor. You know I couldn’t possibly pay the salary he could be receiving elsewhere.”

  “Well,” Vickie said curtly, “he should have come as a personal favor to you. There wouldn’t have been a Brant Wicker if it weren’t for you.”

  Monte waved a thin hand in the air dismissively. “That’s where you’re wrong, Vick, and I think you know it. Brant would have gotten a break somewhere else. He never needed much luck; he had talent.”

  Vickie said nothing in reply. She was being churlish, and she knew it. She couldn’t deny Brant’s acting ability, and she winced at herself as she argued against him. Had they never met, she would have been thrilled with the prospect of sharing the stage with him. She deplored her own attitude and made a mental note to keep her personal feelings entirely to herself. It was sad to pride oneself on professional ethics and sophisticated work habits and then turn around and sound like a spiteful ingénue.

  “Onstage. Scene three!” Jim called.

  “You heard my main man,” Monte said, smiling at her wryly. There were times when Jim even told Monte what to do.

  “Yes, and I’m rushing to obey!” Vickie chuckled. Springing to her feet with script and pencil in hand, she started for the stage.

  “Victoria.” Monte stopped her quietly.

  She stopped at once and glanced back at him curiously.

  “I meant what I said. Please be decent to Brant.” Seeing the stubborn set to her chin, he added softly, “Please. I’m not threatening you, you know that. Just be nice and decent for me.”

  “Monte!” Vickie chuckled, a mischievous twinkle flickering in her eyes. “When am I ever indecent?” Sobering, she added, “I’m sorry, Monte. You’re right, Brant is exceptional; we’re lucky to have him. And I shall be charming and entirely decent!”

  She spun gracefully around and bound for the stage, accepting a hand from Bobby to leap up to the planking.

  Monte’s voice took on its professional “directorial” tone. “Duke, senators, upstage right at the table. Messenger, Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Desdemona, offstage left. Go!”

  Blocking was slow and tedious. It was a time when the actors were free to speak, make suggestions, voice complaints, and clarify misunderstandings of any lines. Vickie, who didn’t enter until halfway through the scene, when she was called upon to declare her love for her new husband before her father and the duke, sat on the planked floor for thirty minutes before she heard her own cue, the final line of a speech by her father.

  Her part of the scene went well. Only moments later, the duke, the senator, and others made their exits. Then came Othello’s final line entreating her to come with him: “Come Desdemona, I h
ave but an hour of love, of worldly matters and direction, to spend with thee. We must obey the time.”

  “Put your arm around her waist,” Monte directed Brant. “Vickie, you do the same, but slowly as you watch him, having the action last while you walk offstage.”

  Brant did not move his arm as they reached the wing. “You can let go now,” Vickie said dryly.

  He complied with a grin. “Pity. Although who knows? By the time we reach act five, I may be happy to smother you.”

  “I guess I’m lucky this is just a play,” she replied sweetly. Damn! So much for decency, but there was something about his look and touch that goaded her, no matter how earnest her intentions were to be pleasant.

  “I guess you are,” Brant smiled, his voice subdued, belying his true thoughts. His blue gaze swept her briefly. “Excuse me, I promised to watch the end of the scene for Bobby.”

  He turned on his heels and left her with the silent agility of a cat to take a seat near Monte and focus on the speeches of Iago and Roderigo that ended the act. Vickie remained behind the drawn curtain and sank weakly to the floor, furious to find herself shaking. She couldn’t go on like this, being affected by every encounter with him. They were acting, but his possessive hand on her hip had sent shivers racing down her spine. But he had walked away from her. That was what she wanted. He had said he intended to have her, yet today he was almost ignoring her.

  Good. She was beginning to feel an irresistible tug to respond, to savor his touch whenever it fell her way. Oh, no! she wailed silently to herself. Not again. Never again. No matter what he said about his feelings, about being “a little bit in love,” she knew him! His love was an expansive thing. He was going to leave again, as he had before. And he would be “a little bit in love” a dozen times.

  No. She would never set herself up for another fall. It was a good thing, a marvelous thing, that he had dropped all pretense and chosen to ignore her.

  They ran the full act once more, surprisingly smoothly, before Monte told them all they could leave after he had given them each a few personal notes and instructions. Quickly heading for the door, Vickie was stopped by Brant’s all-encompassing call. “Hey! Has anybody seen my script?”