It wasn’t fair, she thought vaguely, he was stronger. But she was lying to herself if she believed strength alone kept her in his arms. His heady scent now overpowered that of the food, and the commanding magic of his hands upon her back was hypnotizing. She could remember the touch of his fingers upon her bare skin, remember with delight that his lips could weave exotic spells on any part of her flesh, and as clear as yesterday she could remember his magnificent body melded to hers, creating nothing short of ecstasy. An ecstasy that brought the agony of deprivation. Brant gave with every part of himself, except for his heart…
Humiliated and horrified by the intensity of excitement that stirred so easily within her at his practiced conquest, Vickie finally found the strength to fight against him. And now he released her instantly, smiling with the satisfaction of the victor.
“Damn you!” Vickie cried hoarsely. “Don’t you ever do that again. You have no right…I invited you to dinner—”
“I know,” he grinned wickedly, undaunted by her clenched-fist fury. “You invited me to dinner, not to bed. But you don’t see me dragging you anywhere.”
She was tempted to slap his smug, handsome features. “I hardly think even you, Brant, would drag a woman off to bed with her two-year-old son sitting in the next room!” Enraged, she kept on, heedless of what she was saying. “Now you can understand why I don’t care to see you! I don’t feel like being the victim of another ra—”
She broke off her own word, appalled and sorry as she saw his lips go white in a thin tense line and his eyes harden to gems of deep indigo. His voice, when he uttered the single word, completing her sentence, was a deceptively calm whisper. “Rape?”
Flushing furiously, Vickie closed her eyes and spun away from him, rubbing her temple.
“I think we both know how ridiculous that was,” he spat out contemptuously. “If that was a rape, it was surely the most provoked in history.”
“The steaks!” Vickie shrieked, wishing against all odds that they could simply forget the interlude.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Brant had reached the breaking point of his usually concealed, infamous temper. His arm clamped onto Vickie’s and he spun her back around like a disc. “The hell with the steaks!” he thundered. “Is that what all this standoffishness has been about? This rude, touch-me-not behavior. You’ve deluded yourself into believing that you were raped by me?”
“No!” Vickie whispered miserably, her eyes upon his white-knuckled grip that was turning her arm the same pasty color. “No!” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to say that. I was angry. I—please, let go of me.”
Startled, he looked at his own hand. Muttering an oath, he released his grip to stride past her.
“What are you doing?” she cried, frightened by the violence of his movement.
“I’m getting your steaks out before they burn,” he replied curtly, snatching a potholder from the wall to remove the sizzling meat. He set the broiler tray upon the waiting hot pad and tossed the potholder back down, stalking furiously for the swinging doors.
Stopping abruptly, he swung back to her sharply on a single heel. “And now, Miss Langley, I’m checking on your son.”
Not interested in any further comments she might have to make, he slammed against the door and went out, leaving it swinging erratically in his wake.
Mark, she thought sickly. She had momentarily forgotten about her son while Brant, thoroughly irate, had remembered him. Snapping herself from the trauma enveloping her, Vickie transferred the meat to a serving platter. She wondered if Brant still intended to stay for dinner, or if he was going to walk out as soon as she brought the food to the table. He should leave. It would be for the best. They should stay enemies for the entire summer. But despite herself she was hoping he wouldn’t.
He was sitting on the divan, rolling a small ball back and forth to Mark, who sat delightedly a few feet away on the floor. Vickie silently began to set the various platters on the table. “Can I do anything?” Brant inquired coldly.
“No,” Vickie murmured. “Ah, yes,” she added. “You can pour the wine.”
The silence between them was stiff and ominous as they finished setting the table together. Only Mark chattered on, pleased that his new friend seemed to be staying. Brant heaved him high into the air before situating him in his booster chair, the dark glower of his fair features receding as the little boy whooped with laughter.
“He’s young to sit at such an elegant table so nicely,” Brant commented as he pulled back Vickie’s chair for her to sit.
He was young, Vickie thought proudly, ready to break the ice that Brant had begun to chisel. “He’s an only child,” she explained modestly. “He goes many places with me, and he’s been dining out in restaurants since he was an infant.” She didn’t add that she had simply been lucky with Mark. He was innately fastidious; he ate neatly and kept his toys in order.
From Mark they went on to discuss the theater, Brant complimenting Monte’s current production of Godspell, then moving on to talk about their upcoming work in Othello. Dinner passed swiftly and comfortably, with Brant insisting afterward that he help with the dishes. Vickie was keenly aware of him beside her as they performed their after-dinner domestic tasks together, but he made no further attempt to touch her, nor were any of his comments even remotely personal. It seemed they had reached a stalemate.
They had eaten dinner early, so there was plenty of time left for coffee. Vickie insisted Brant retreat into the living room while she prepared the coffee, telling him he had been more than a helpful guest.
“Damn!” she exclaimed suddenly as she brought the coffee out to the living room to join him. “I forgot about my car!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brant told her, picking up his cup. “I’ll take a look at it when we go back to the theater. Believe it or not,” he told her wryly, “I am somewhat of a mechanic. And if I can’t find the problem, I’ll have it towed to a garage.”
“Thanks,” Vickie murmured, sipping her own coffee as she wondered what Brant’s public would think. So far the big “star” had acted as chauffeur, entertained a toddler, washed dishes, and sat to dinner at an ordinary table. Now he was going to play grease monkey.
She was startled when the phone rang. Excusing herself, she was dismayed to find upon answering that the caller was Mrs. Gimball.
“Vickie, dear,” the lady began with abject remorse, “I do hate to call you like this, but there’s simply no help for it! I was so stupid! I just scalded my left hand pouring tea and I’m afraid I have to go to the hospital to have it treated. I hate to leave you in such a spot—”
“Mrs. Gimball!” Vickie protested vehemently, knowing full well her dependable sitter would never call to cancel unless it were a true emergency. “Don’t you dare sit there apologizing to me! You go and get that taken care of right away!”
“I hope you can work something out.” Mrs. Gimball fretted. “I’m so sorry—”
“Please, stop worrying,” Vickie begged. “And get on to the hospital. That burn must be killing you right now. Can you drive? Shall I come and get you?” Vickie was aware she didn’t have her own car, but she was certain Brant would not object to such a mission.
“No, no,” Mrs. Gimball assured her quickly. “My son is coming to get me. You worry about yourself and that little boy.”
Slowly replacing the receiver after hurried good-byes, Vickie sagged against the wall. What else could happen today? Nibbling at a long, bronze nail, she worried over what to do about Mark. Her parents would happily watch him, but they were in Bradenton. Her brother, Edward, would also cheerfully help her out, but he was an hour away in St. Petersburg. Sighing, she decided she would have to call Harry Blackwell’s wife, Cathy. But that meant that Vickie would have to take Mark over there and leave him for the night.
“A problem?”
Brant was standing in the hallway, hands on hips, astute blue eyes gazing at her. She looked for a hint of mockery in his features, b
ut there was none.
“Yes, a real problem,” she answered him idly, thinking even as she spoke. “My baby-sitter has had an accident.” She picked the receiver up while mentally conjuring a picture of the Blackwells’ number. “Excuse me,” she told Brant, remembering he stood before her, “I have to do something rather quickly.”
Brant wedged the phone firmly from her fingers. Startled by his action, and annoyed by the electricity of his touch, Vickie stared at him with heated dismay. “Brant—”
“You don’t have a problem,” he informed her firmly. “I’ll watch Mark.”
“You!” Vickie gasped.
“I am a responsible adult,” he reminded her dryly, amused by the amazement and consternation of her voice.
“But—but, you can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because”—Vickie fumbled for words, watching dazedly as he replaced the phone—“you have to help Smoky in the shop. And I couldn’t impose on you.”
“I’ll take Mark in with me for an hour or so and give him some little task,” Brant said, dismissing that protest easily. His hand moved to her elbow and he led her confidently back to the living room. “And it’s no imposition. I like kids.”
“Listen, Brant, it’s nice of you to offer—”
“I’m not offering, I’m doing. Sit down and drink your coffee.”
Still dazed, Vickie plopped back onto the divan as he nudged her. A moment later he had stuck her coffee cup into her hands. “Relax!” he ordered her. “I know what I’m doing. Mark will be perfectly safe with me.”
“He has to get to bed,” Vickie said feebly.
“He will.”
“But—” She made one last attempt at refusal, but she was quickly overridden by Brant’s stern “No buts. We’re lucky this happened now, while Godspell is still running. If we were into the run of Othello, I couldn’t have helped. Now, get that nail out of your mouth before you sever your finger. It’s settled.”
“All right,” Vickie agreed reluctantly. She drained her coffee cup, annoyed when the liquid swished dangerously as her fingers trembled. “I have to take a shower. You can start watching Mark now.”
Leaving Brant and her son in the living room, Vickie found herself stomping into the bedroom to collect her things, then stomping into the bathroom and into a cooling shower. She was relieved, but she was also damning Brant to a fiery hell.
What had happened today? She had determined to politely stay as far away from him as possible, but he had rescued her, they had fought, come to a truce, and now he was rescuing her again. He was practically ensconced in her house, and he had gotten himself there with utmost propriety and consideration.
She spoke little as they drove to the theater, a fact that Brant seemed not to notice. Mark was chattering on in his sometimes comprehensible speech.
Fleeing to her dressing room as soon as they reached the stage door, Vickie left explanations for her son’s presence up to Brant. He had been so sure everything would be all right, let him handle their mutual employer.
“Spending a lot of time with Mr. Wicker, huh?” Terry quizzed Vickie with lazy, laconic eyes as she slid onto her stool.
“Not really,” Vickie replied curtly reaching for her Pan-Cake makeup. Agitated as she was, she didn’t feel like dealing with Terry’s jibes.
“Oh?” Terry murmured innocently. “Then there’s nothing between you?”
“Nothing,” Vickie agreed, trying to ignore her.
“Good.” Terry swiveled in her chair and watched Vickie’s eyes in the bright lights of the mirror. “Then you don’t mind if I make a play for him.”
Caught off-guard, Vickie froze with her sponge held on the bridge of her nose. Mind? She would mind terribly, she admitted to herself as her heart seemed to take a sudden plunge to her stomach. Frightened as she was of Brant in more ways than one, she knew with a strange ferocity that she would rather be burned by his fire again than watch him in the arms of another woman. She was sure that he had taken lovers in the three years since his departure, but she had never had to see them; they were vague forms of the past. In the last few days while he pursued her, she had convinced herself she didn’t want to be caught. But neither did she want him caught, especially by Terry.
“Mind?” Gritting her teeth into a smile, she met Terry’s eyes blandly. “Terry, I couldn’t stop you from making a play for anyone, could I, whether I minded or not. So”—her eyes narrowed ever so slightly—“go right ahead. Make whatever play you like.”
Terry laughed and swept her thick brown hair into a ponytail. “That’s true, honey, I will play where I like. But I did want to know where you stood. I’d hate to think that I was the one to keep our little Ice Maiden from thawing.”
Vickie rose abruptly, meeting Terry’s sweetly devious eyes straight on. “You worry about you, Terry. I’ll worry about me.”
Terry shrugged and looked back into her own mirror. Vickie wriggled into her costume and left the dressing room, knowing that she was followed by Terry’s speculative eyes.
Monte’s dinner theater was built like a large, irregular U; the stage, dressing rooms, and dining room occupying the center, the kitchen and food preparation areas to the right, and the costume and stagecraft shops to the left. Taking the latter turn, Vickie decided her hurried makeup session had left her time to check on her son. Entering the huge room that served as the main scene shop, she discovered Mark sitting happily with a paintbrush and an old, out-of-use flat. Brant, looking more like a backwoods logger than famous actor in his worn jeans, Weejuns, and now paintstained flannel shirt, was helping Smoky, Monte’s crusty old designer, to saw a stack of lumber into appropriate lengths.
Smoky gave her his absentminded smile and disappeared into the back. Brant switched off his power saw and grinned. “That was a quick change.”
Vickie shrugged. “Simple costume, simple makeup. How’s it going?” Vickie asked.
“Fine.” Brant inclined his head toward Mark, who hadn’t noticed his mother. “As you can see.” He tugged lightly on one of her pigtails. “Go on, get out of here and have a good show. I promise to take him home soon. Oh, I’ll probably stop by my place for a few things. And borrow your shower.” He grimaced. “A day of rehearsal and now a fine spray of sawdust. I’m feeling rather rank!”
“Sure,” Vickie agreed, covered with a sudden feeling of warmth. It was the same strange warmth she had felt when they were doing the dishes together—a sense of pleasant domesticity she didn’t really want to recognize. But as silly as it was, she liked the idea of Brant in her shower. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she said quickly, turning away from him, embarrassed by her thoughts.
“No hurry,” he replied cheerfully.
Vickie started down the hall, and then impetuously turned back. Any reservations she had had about leaving Mark with Brant had been problems of her own mind. Brant, looking curiously more macho in his casual clothes than he ever had in a movie, was discussing the fly system for Othello with Smoky while still keeping a covert eye on Mark. With that golden lock of hair over an intense blue eye and the breadth of his shoulders emphasized as he crammed his hands into his pockets, his simple presence was hypnotizing, even from a distance. Damn! she told herself disgustedly. She really needed distance! And it was getting harder and harder to keep it.
The show that night went especially well and Vickie was besieged by well-wishers after the curtain call, causing her to run very late. But there was nothing to be done. Monte’s, although a popular attraction for tourists, survived because the locals supported it, and every member of the troop knew how very important it was to personally accept praise and congratulations from the audience.
Finally out of costume, Vickie hastily warned Monte that she might need a ride, then ran out to check on her car. Amazingly, it started. She ran back in to inform Monte that she didn’t need transportation after all, only to be waylaid as her director decided to tease her.
“Getting chummy with Brant,
huh?” Monte demanded with a feigned solemnity. “For a girl who wouldn’t have a drink with him a few nights ago, you seem to be on very good terms.”
“You asked to me to be decent,” Vickie snapped, tired and wanting only to take her confused emotions home and smother them with sleep.
“Don’t go getting temperamental on me!” Monte gasped with mock horror, pretending to be hurt.
“Oh, Lord!” Vickie muttered in disgust, flicking her hair over a shoulder as she strode away. “What I have to put up with to keep a decent job!”
With Monte’s laughter ringing behind her, she hurried from the theater to drive home quickly in the sparse late-night traffic. Her house was strangely quiet as she slipped her key into the door.
Walking in, she discovered why. Brant was sound asleep, curled comfortably on the divan, oblivious to his ankles and bare feet, which protruded many inches over the surface. For a moment she stood still and watched him, unable to resist the temptation to study him now in his vulnerable state. The tiny lines around his eyes were faint in repose, the bush of golden hair endearingly disheveled. There was no touch of the quick, dark anger she knew him capable of. He held his slightly parted lips in a half smile, as if his dreams were good ones. Gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder, Vickie could feel his peaceful, even breathing, and the hard muscles that held no tension at rest.
Gnawing afresh on the nail she had started to chew earlier, she stepped away from the divan. It was almost two A.M. It would be a crime to awaken him. In any case, what harm would it be to allow him to finish his night’s rest on her divan? She hesitated only a moment longer, then secured a blanket and an extra pillow from her room. Half tenderly and half nervously, she wedged the pillow beneath his head and draped the blanket over his long sprawled-out form. He didn’t stir.
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