Sighing, Vickie stopped walking and returned to the tables where they had scattered their belongings. They were an ensemble; if one member had a problem, all helped to solve it so Connie, Bobby, and Terry were crawling around the tables.
“How about backstage?” Vickie asked Brant.
He shrugged. “Good idea. Thanks.”
She nervously followed him back to the left wing, where he did find the script on the podium. “Found it!” His voice rang out. “Thanks, everyone!”
“Well, see you tomorrow,” Vickie murmured politely, remembering her resolution.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he corrected her.
Startled, she glanced at him warily, wondering what he now intended to contrive. But he wore that expression of amusement that never failed to irritate her. He knew her thoughts.
“Prickly, aren’t you?” he drawled, his stillness denoting a leashed energy that was all the more potent and vital. “I come at night,” he told her, chuckling, “to help Smoky in the scene shop. Not to attack unwilling actresses.”
“I hardly thought you intended to attack me,” Vickie replied airily. “Good-bye.”
She knew he watched her as she walked away, and she knew he still grinned with that knowing amusement. The hell with him, she decided.
Chin held high, she walked briskly through the empty dining room out to the Volvo, supremely agitated and thoroughly furious with herself for being upset in the first place. What the hell was happening to her? Brant was just a man, and she knew how to deal with men.
Still, she practically ripped the car door from its hinges. Gritting her teeth, she decided it was better to take her frustrations out on the steel of the car than to expose them as she had with Monte. Sticking her key into the ignition with a vengeance, she was further irritated to find the old Volvo refusing to start. And in her reckless irritation she quickly flooded the engine.
Unbelieving, she kept at the car, knowing she should leave it alone, but unable to do so. Finally she pulled the key from the starter with disgust. She crawled out of the car, and sure she was alone, kicked a wheel viciously.
Chastising herself as she admitted defeat, she looked around the parking lot hastily for a ride. Bobby’s white Cutlass was just pulling out to the highway and she raced after it, slowing when she realized he was too far away and would never see her. Even as she waved her arms frantically, the Cutlass became swallowed up in the afternoon traffic. Disgusted, Vickie walked back to the Volvo, bitterly wondering why her day was going so badly. Everyone was gone.
Except Brant. He was leaning against the Volvo, his frame imposing against the compact car, his arms casually crossed as a subtle half grin lit his face. His golden hair rippled in the slight breeze, that one unruly piece softly draped over his forehead. “Having a problem?” he inquired.
“Obviously,” she retorted.
“Kicking the car does nothing for the engine,” he commented.
“Really?” It was a pity she couldn’t kick him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just try the engine again.”
“That’s foolish. Your starter just isn’t flicking over.”
Vickie delicately arched a cynical brow. “I didn’t realize you were a mechanic as well as a star. If you don’t mind, I’ll just try it once more.”
Brant shrugged and leisurely stepped aside. “See you later.” He walked to his own Mercedes as Vickie slipped back into her car.
He was, of course, right. The car simply wasn’t turning over, and she knew she merely flooded the engine worse with every attempt.
It was getting later and later and Mark would be waiting. Wincing, Vickie looked through her rearview mirror to see Brant in the driver’s seat of his car. His engine was spinning to life and he was about to drive away. Which is exactly what she deserved. She had hardly been gracious.
In consternation she chewed on her lip. The thought of having Brant see Mark was appalling, but the nursery would be closing shortly. She had to pick up Mark, and Brant was the only transportation available. It was inevitable that he would see the child sometime during the summer. She might as well start her string of lies now, that is if she could still catch him. The Mercedes was pulling from its parking space as she realized desperately that she really had no choice. But damn, it was going to be galling to ask for a ride.
Slamming out of the Volvo, she wondered if Brant would drive past her after her rudeness. But he didn’t, of course, and she experienced a moment of shame over her own cattiness. At twenty-five, she should be able to accept his teasing banter as easily as she accepted Bobby’s good-natured innuendos. She should be able to smile and shrug as she had with any other man.
But Brant wasn’t any other man. He was made of relentless, persistent steel. And he was the one man in the world that no amount of logic could keep her from wanting and still loving.
He didn’t make her come to him; he stopped the Mercedes next to her. “Can I give you a ride?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He pushed open the passenger door. “Enter, the chariot awaits.” His eyes were on the road as she slid beside him: “I believe we have to pick up a child?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” Vickie replied, somewhat surprised that he would remember such a thing. She gave him the address of the nursery school.
“I have a feeling,” Brant commented dryly, “that your son is the only reason you’re in this car with me. If it were only you,” he chuckled, “I believe you might walk ten miles out of spite.”
“I’m not spiteful,” Vickie said quietly.
“No?” he queried pleasantly, “Not the type to cut off your nose to pay back your face, huh?”
“I rather hope not,” Vickie murmured, surprised by his almost playful tone. She glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed to have nothing beyond driving on his mind. “The school is right around the corner,” she advised him as they neared the end of the block. “Just pull into the driveway by the gate; his teacher will bring him out.”
Trying not to stare directly at Brant, Vickie was tense and compelled to watch him as Mark appeared. Did she detect a faint narrowing of his eyes? Or was it merely her own guilt? Surely not guilt. She had nothing to be guilty about. Brant had never known about Mark; all that was between them was an accident of biology.
“He’s a beautiful child,” was Brant’s only reference to the boy as Mark toddled to the car on his stubby legs, then stopped abruptly as he saw the stranger.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Vickie urged her child, opening the door to scoop him up beside her. “This, Mark, is Mr. Wicker—”
“Hey! Don’t teach him that!” Brant protested. “Mark, my name is Brant.” He made no effort to touch the little boy, but grinned at him invitingly.
Mark continued to eye him warily, his bright little gaze popping to his mother and then back to Brant. “Brant,” he repeated, saying the name with surprising accuracy.
“That’s right. Brant. Mr. Wicker is quite a mouthful, and quite unnecessary.”
The car pulled back out on the street before Brant turned back to Vickie. “Where to now?”
“Oh!” Vickie had been so involved in watching Brant’s reaction to Mark that she had forgotten he didn’t know where she lived. Mumbling her address, she buried her face in her son’s black curls.
“How old is he?” Brant asked, and Vickie covertly watched for any sign of suspicion in his features. There was none, none that was discernible. It was a perfectly normal question to ask about a child. She was growing paranoid. No, she wasn’t growing paranoid. She had been paranoid since Brant had appeared.
“Not quite two,” Vickie replied, calculating quickly in her head.
“He’s a big boy.”
“Yes, uh, his father was a large man.” Eager to change the subject, Vickie rushed on apologetically. “I’m sorry to have you driving around like this. I know you must have other things to do—”
“No, not a thing in the world!” Brant interrupted. “I don’t mind
picking Mark up at all. I like kids.”
Vickie pulled her head up from Mark’s and openly stared at Brant. He hadn’t made his statement off-handedly as so many people did to be polite. He meant it. He sincerely liked children. And he must have spent time around them, because he hadn’t come on too strong at the first introduction to Mark. He sensed that children needed to come to adults in their own time.
“Brant.”
“Hmm?”
“I—” She what? She knew she owed him an apology. “I’m sorry I was so rude. I really needed this ride, and I’m grateful you waited.”
“Think nothing of it,” he returned easily, allowing his eyes to wander from the road to hers for a mischievous look. “Actually I’m finagling for a dinner invitation.”
His open good-humor was impossible to resist. Vickie laughed, more at ease now that Brant had seen Mark, and, as she had previously assured herself without conviction, had not noticed a thing unusual about the child.
“All right,” she told him with a hint of amusement. “You’ve got yourself a dinner invitation. Except you’re going to have to take pot luck.”
“I’m crazy about pot luck,” he assured her gravely. “Is this it?”
They had pulled in front of the modest, old, Spanish-style home that Vickie had purchased after taking the job at Monte’s. She was grateful that she had recently mown the lawn and trimmed the profusion of hibiscus and crotons that rimmed the house and the neatly tiled walk.
“This is it.”
Mark, glad to be home, bounded to the ground and scampered up the walk as Vickie more sedately got out of the car, fumbling for her keys in her bag.
“Allow me,” Brant said, taking the keys from her fingers to dexterously open the front door. He paused as he followed Vickie in, his gaze sweeping over the room. Once again she was grateful she had a habit of straightening up before she left the house in the morning.
“This is nice,” Brant said, assessing the room as he closed the door behind him and went over to sit nonchalantly on the cranberry-cushioned white wicker divan, his fingers locked behind his head.
“Thanks,” Vickie replied, moving into the living room to cast her script and bag down on the oak coffee table. Now that she had him in her house, she felt strangely tongue-tied. Even Mark had deserted her, having ambled into his own room. “Can I get you anything, Brant?”
“Not a thing.” He grinned satyrlike and patted the divan. “Sit down.”
His words gave her an alarming sense of déjà-vu, but she agreeably complied, sitting at an angle so that she faced him without being too close.
“So,” he murmured, his blue gaze casually moving from the decor of the house to sweep over Vickie, “tell me about Victoria Langley.”
She shrugged and vaguely lifted a hand. “The story isn’t very thrilling. I landed a job in Charleston, then wound up back here at Monte’s. That’s it. The Brant Wicker story has to be a lot more interesting.”
He raised both brows and emitted a long stream of breath. “Actually, the Brant Wicker story is incredibly boring. I spent two years doing that inane sit-com, then I did that inane space movie. Then a show on Broadway, which I did enjoy doing. Not that I’m not grateful to the ‘inane’ TV series or the ‘inane’ movie. Between the two of them, I became financially independent. I can choose now to do whatever I want, and my next project should be a good one.”
“Oh?” Vickie couldn’t help but ask. “What is your next project?”
“A movie, but a good one this time. A remake of an old Hitchcock thriller.”
“That’s good,” Vickie murmured. “I’m happy for you.”
“You really are, aren’t you?” he mused, reaching to touch her chin.
“Of course, why not?” she replied, flushing and catching his hand.
The grip she held subtly switched so that he was holding her, fascinated as he drew idle patterns on her veins. “I guess I’ll always remember Lenore.”
“Ah, but you loved Lenore!” Vickie reminded him.
He chuckled with no bitterness. “I don’t think Lenore or I ever had a great love for each other. We were both just there.”
Like I’m “just here” now! Vickie warned herself, willing the exciting sensation of his light touch upon her hand to go away. But futilely.
“Have you heard from Lenore recently?” she asked with indifference.
“Not from her, but of her,” he replied honestly. He glanced at Vickie and his grin broadened. “She married a used-car salesman in Pittsburgh. I hear he doesn’t allow her out of the house. Smart fellow.”
Again Vickie couldn’t help but laugh. It was a fitting end for the conniving Lenore.
“Now,” Brant started to say as Vickie suddenly realized that he was holding her hand so that she couldn’t possibly escape him, “let’s get back to Victoria Langley. And back to Mr. Langley. Do you still miss him?”
“I—ummm.” Vickie’s gray eyes fell like a lead balloon. She might be an actress, but as an out-and-out liar she was poor. It had been so long since she had had to invent a story. Her private life was considered private at Monte’s; the only one who ever pried was Terry, and avoiding Terry was merely a nuisance.
Trying to lie to Brant was another matter. For one thing, his questions terrified her, constricting her throat. She had too much at stake. For another, he was so above board himself. She couldn’t imagine him lying for any reason. And she had the uncanny suspicion that his piercing eyes could detect a falsehood before it was ever uttered.
“No,” she said, not trying to disengage her hand. “But, er, Mark’s father is a subject I’d rather not discuss.”
“Then we won’t discuss him,” Brant said softly.
Mark himself chose that moment to come toddling back into the room with his collection of small Star Wars toys. From the corner of her eye Vickie could see that Brant’s features had twisted into a puzzled frown.
“I had blond curls like his black ones,” he said idly. Catching Vickie watching him, he added sheepishly, “My mother still has them in a Baggie!”
Vickie laughed with him, but the sound seemed to be strangling in her throat. It turned to a cough. “Langley was very dark,” she heard herself saying. “His hair was darker than mine. And he…he had the curls until…”
She had expected Brant to bail her out, to apologize for bringing up a painful subject, but he didn’t. His frown deepened. “Why do you keep referring to him as Langley?”
“Pardon?” Vickie blinked rapidly.
“Your husband. You call him Langley.”
“It was his name,” Vickie said blankly.
“Yes, I know,” Brant persisted impatiently. “But most wives or widows refer to their spouses by their given names. What was Langley’s given name?”
“Mark,” Vickie said quickly. In a single movement she jerked her hand away, and sprang to her feet, unable to sit still for the conversation any longer. “I’d better check the refrigerator if we’re going to have dinner,” she garbled in haste. “Just make yourself at home.”
“I will,” he promised.
“And—”
“And I’ll keep an eye on Mark. In fact, if it’s all right with you, I’ll take him outside for a bit and let him play.”
“Sure,” Vickie murmured queasily, “if he’ll go with you.”
She was chagrined to see her two-year-old accept Brant’s hand and invitation for “Outside?” without hesitation. And she had to bite her lip to keep from thinking her own son a traitor.
“Go on,” she said with a helpless sigh. “Dinner will be about an hour.”
She turned quickly for the swinging shuttered doors that led to the kitchen, not wanting to watch as the two heads, one tiny with raven curls, the other blond and high atop broad shoulders, as they exited by the front door. She was glad in a way that the afternoon had been forced upon her; it was a relief to no longer fear Brant’s seeing her son and coming to an immediate conclusion. But she wondered if she would
ever get over feeling uneasy.
Vickie was grateful to find that she had several strip steaks in the freezer. Despite their frozen state, they would broil quickly. Setting them on the counter to be forked and seasoned, she prepared a quick broccoli and cheese casserole and peeled potatoes to mash. She kept telling herself that Brant had cajoled her into inviting him for dinner, and if her culinary skills didn’t please him, he’d be smart enough to dine elsewhere in the future. Nevertheless, she took great pains with the simple menu, dressing the table with a fine linen cloth, her English bone china, a spray of flowers, and two candles. She was nothing short of ingenious, she decided wryly as she surveyed her efforts before returning to the kitchen to throw the steaks under the broiler.
She didn’t see Brant, nor hear him come in. The sensuous, masculine scent that usually warned her of his presence was blotted out by the aroma of the broiling meat. She didn’t know he had entered until his arms slipped around her waist and he whispered into her ear, “That smells delicious!”
She must have jumped three feet, which caused him to laugh a hearty, irritating laugh. “I don’t bite,” he told her.
“I know,” she replied acidly, without thinking. “You only nibble.”
His arms were still locked around her waist, holding her tightly to him, her hips pressed against his. His brows arched high as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.
But he wasn’t letting go. “My, Victoria,” he said mockingly, “it seems that you too have a memory.”
Vickie stopped struggling, to stare at him in open-mouthed dismay. Brant’s eyes kindled their fire of piercing blue ice, then his lips descended to take full advantage of the situation. They lowered over Vickie’s with a swift and firm persuasion that momentarily took her breath away. Too stunned to protest, she felt her mouth sweetly invaded by the probing warmth of his tongue, and her form crushed more tightly to his. His fingers splayed across the small of her back, making the contact between them so intimate that their clothing might not have existed. She could vibrantly feel his heat, and his lean corded muscles as her arms fell to his shoulders. There was a warning sounding in her head, but she seemed powerless to listen or obey. Brant didn’t intend for the kiss to be quick or easily forgotten. His hands began a lulling massage down her back as his mouth continued to plunder deeply—exploring, savoring, leaving her so breathless that she was pliant, too weak to object to his assault in any way.
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