“The hell I do!” he yelled. His fists clenched over his folded arms and Vickie was sure he controlled an urge to shake her.
Back down, she warned herself. Lowering her lashes, she murmured, “I can’t make any one-sentence explanations.” Trying to appear sheepish while still shaking at some inner core with hurt and an anger of her own, she added softly, “Get the wine and we’ll talk.”
If she had been thinking rationally, she would have realized an attempt to dupe Brant was the least intelligent thing she could do. Nor was she thinking that even if she succeeded in eluding him, she would be in trouble for hours to come. But she had lost all cool, rational thought. Her normal, controlled thinking processes had been absent since Brant returned.
Nor did she give a damn about the hours to come. All she wanted was to find a berth of safety away from him, a place where she wasn’t reduced to longing by the sight of him, tremors from the anger she had elicited. Withdrawal wasn’t defeat…
As soon as Brant grudgingly eyed her with a cynical warning and strode put of sight in the hallway, Vickie found the pin in the door’s lock and bolted it. She ran ridiculously down the beach with no place to go, the salt and sand and gentle surf a padding for her bare feet.
It was pathetic, the soft thud of her footsteps pounding in her ears. Where was Victoria, the woman who could handle anything with the blink of a commanding gray eye? The woman who thought and spoke, and never behaved on wild impulse?
She didn’t hear him coming. He was as fleet and silent as a rabbit on the sand. One second she was running, the next she was spinning. And then she was on the ground, the wind knocked cleanly from her lungs, the force of her fall shielded by Brant’s body. A superb tackle. Hindsight told her she should have expected no less.
He shifted and she was locked beneath him on the sand, staring into enigmatic pools of deep-set blue ice, fighting for breath to rail against him. She found some satisfaction in seeing that he was as winded as she; it had taken him a bit of effort to catch up.
She tried to speak, but instead of finding words, her lower lip trembled as her mouth parted. The pink tip of her tongue edged out to moisten the dryness that had parched her lips. Then everything she had been wanting to say left her mind as well as her tongue. The blue of his eyes began to mist before her as Brant lowered his head over hers and took her lips with a gentle, poignant yearning that belied any anger. He tasted of the wine; his scent was that of the surrounding sea. To resist him would be like trying to hold back the flooding tides of the ocean.
His tongue explored every succulent recess of her mouth. Then his kisses became butterflies that fluttered over her face, her cheeks, her eyelids, light as a breeze. But they wouldn’t end there. Despite the soft enticement of his sensuously teasing mouth, the arms that held her were vibrantly alive with heat and passion; his entire, sinewed being was taut.
With a shivered groan Brant encapsulated her head with his hands, raking his fingers through the raven hair that spewed across the sand like a silk covering, and brought his hovering chest to rest next to hers. His face was buried in her neck as he murmured, “Let me lie down beside you, babe…”
Vickie’s fingers moved to his head, sinking into his hair. It was the only gold she would ever covet. Her hands moved downward then, over his back, trembling as they ran down the strength of his spine. Her eyes were closed, clenched tight, but she could see him with her hands, trace the beloved pattern of his body. On the taut muscle of his left shoulder blade there was a tiny scar; above that was a smattering of faint freckles, made darker by the sun. And as her fingers played lower, over a bronzed expanse of ribs, they found a tiny mole just above his left hip.
His cheek moved against hers, slightly and deliciously rough with the dawning of an early morning beard. His tongue invaded her ear, drawing moist lazy circles that tensed her fingers immediately, and she clung to him, still at a loss of words, wondering vaguely if she cared to find any or not. The breeze that wafted over them was cooled by the water. She shivered. But she wasn’t cold. Brant’s heat was encasing her, infusing her, lapping her with a flame that entered the deepest center of her desire with a soaring blue flame. Vickie twisted to kiss the hollow of his neck, moving the tip of her tongue erotically, grazing him with small nibbles.
The result was an earthquake, an eruption of need, and a groan that threatened to split the ground asunder. She was immersed in his embrace, rolling with him along the sand, shedding her robe in the process. His hands steamed over her body like molten lava, sensitizing her flesh for the moist fire of the lips that followed in their path. He didn’t touch her skimpy suit at first, but aroused her to levels of insanity by making love through the sheer knit, making her feverishly toss and writhe beneath him as his fingers and then his mouth taunted her nipples to rigid peaks that strained against the fabric.
Only then did he release the ties of her bra top, to continue his torture with ever enlarging circles of his tongue that became figure-eights over her breasts. Both roseate peaks were then assaulted afresh with a fervent suckling that created a mindless whirlpool of pleasure, only to be deserted as his kisses followed his hands to strip her of the bikini bottom.
Vickie was fire herself, unable to keep still. His cutoffs did nothing to hide his desire, and they were a poor shield between them. The core of her being, demanding only satiation, went with her fingers as they moved to his snap. There was no hesitation to the hands that brought down his zipper with an ardent rasp. The cutoffs were gone. Brant was beautifully beside her, his masculinity throbbing its yearning to possess her. He was a golden god sent from the heavens. She found her voice.
“Oh, Brant…”
His thoughts weren’t much different as he gazed at her with the passion and awe of ageless centuries. She was all things to him, a Guinevere to be adored on a pedestal, a wild, passionate, raven-haired wood-nymph, a sweet, honeyed rose, a seductress, a temptress, an arrogant Morgan le Fay. His woman. All that woman should be…She was exquisite, her skin creamy against the sand, her waist his handspan, the intoxicating mounds of her breasts perfect for his devouring lips. Her hips fit to his with an unbelievable, harmonious rhythm. The enchanting gray eyes that returned his stare with no restraint were as deep as the earth, loving and trusting and incredibly sultry…
He had a simple answer for her. “I love you, Victoria.”
And then he was tumultuously inside her, their coupling the magical combination of the intensity of love and the fulfillment of long-awaited and dreamed of desire. Each aching thrust of elegant madness drove Vickie deeper into the abyss of culminating sensation, arching and writhing for every touch of fevered delight.
“Brant!”
His name was an explosive whisper of ecstasy. Her eyes flew open to absorb the elation that did not end with the shattering of their passion, but flooded through her with a tender change of character. Brant did not leave her, but held her tenderly as they both shuddered beneath the stars that had seemed to multiply dizzyingly in the sky. Gradually sounds became coherent again, the soft pounding of the surf, the barely discernible rustle of the breeze through the palms. Her body was so sensitized that she felt each grain of sand in their earthen bed as well as each breath Brant took, every twitch of a muscle.
“I love you,” he told her again, raising himself just high enough to see her eyes. “Forever.”
With wonder, she lifted a hand to smooth back the ever-straying tendril of hair that fell over his eye. “I love you,” she admitted, “it’s all so hard to believe…”
“What,” he challenged gently, “that I love you, or that you love me?”
“Oh, Brant,” Vickie murmured, wrapping her arms back around his neck and pulling him down so that she could bury her head in his shoulder. “You’re adored all the time!” she mumbled brokenly. “I’ve been so afraid…”
“Adored, Vickie, not really loved. Not for myself, for the man that I am. Love is a very special thing, between very special people only. There are a million shallow c
ounterparts, but the real thing is rare and precious.”
Was the salt on her cheek a taste of tears, or a mist of the sea? she wondered. “Brant, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I thought, I thought…”
“You thought I was rigging a simple seduction,” he answered for her, his hands soothing as they created soft patterns over her ribs that seemed a subtle extension of the air. “Well, it was all rigged, but not the way you thought. I was willing to go to any end to be with you. I knew you were free, but I also saw you were prickly as a pear near me. I knew you didn’t trust me; I had to take every opportunity to prove myself.”
“Then you really want to marry me?” Vickie murmured, a little awed. “Brant, we could never make it.”
“Why not?”
“You are Brant Wicker.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, shifting to an elbow to better observe her as she lay in the sand, a naked sea nymph, an exquisite daughter of Neptune with eyes that portrayed the depths of the oceans, the gray tranquility, the tormented storms that could rage.
“A star in the heavens is beautiful,” Vickie purred, touching his sandy shoulder, unable as he to draw away. “But it can’t be captured…”
“Damn, you do need a swim!” Brant was suddenly on his feet with her in his arms, walking slowly to the surf. “I am not,” he said sternly, “a star in the heavens. I’m a man—one who loves you completely, who wants to spend his life with you.”
Glancing at him adoringly as they moved into the tepid water, Vickie said, “But I’m afraid I’m a very jealous woman where you’re concerned. All those other leading ladies…”
“We’ll work together as much as possible,” Brant said with a shrug. “I admit to a fairly jealous nature myself. We’ll seek each other’s approval before committing to any project.”
“But Brant—”
“But you do need a swim!” he countered. “Something to clear those ‘buts’ out of that webbed brain of yours!”
He released her and she sank into the surf, only to be recaptured.
“But what?” he demanded gruffly.
“Oh, there are still a million buts!” Vickie answered, laughing as she wiped the salt water from her face, not the least of which was Mark. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She knew what she was doing. The time would come.
“But,” Vickie insisted, winding her arms around his slick wet neck and pressing close to his flesh, relishing the sensation. “I can’t think of anything more right at the minute. Except that I don’t even know which coastline you’re actually living on and I have a permanent job in Sarasota.”
“I liked it better when you weren’t thinking!” Brant scowled. “Maybe you need another swim!”
She was back in the water again, and this time she did swim. Together they followed the shoreline, their bodies close, radiating warmth through the water. Eventually they tired of their play and returned to the sand to collect their clothing.
“I hope you haven’t any close neighbors.” Vickie shivered as Brant leisurely dried her, titillating her skin afresh.
Regretfully, he wrapped her terry robe back around her. “If I do,” he said with a lascivious smile, “let’s hope they’re not into voyeurism!”
“Brant!”
“Come on. Let’s head back to the house and nibble on some cheese and indulge in that wine I was tasting before you decided on a disappearing act!”
Hand in hand they returned to the house. “I think we should take the tray upstairs,” Brant suggested, his eyes narrowed. “I want to clarify several of those buts for you, and you seem to comprehend things so much better in a reclining position!”
“Seduce me and I’ll agree to anything?” Vickie inquired dryly.
“Something like that.”
“You’re terrible!”
“Really?” He came close and nuzzled her ear while sneaking a hand beneath her robe and along her thigh, inching it ever higher. “I thought I was rather good…”
“Incorrigible!” Vickie corrected herself, spinning from his touch. “Maybe I’d better take the tray.”
The pink light of dawn was streaking through the window as they entered Brant’s room, arrayed in a gentle prism of early morning colors. Vickie snatched a piece of cheese and gnawed it as she stood before the window, wondering if a day would ever dawn so beautifully again.
Brant came behind her, enveloping her with his arms as he handed her a glass of wine. “To Mrs. Brant Wicker,” he murmured.
Vickie turned in his arms so quickly that she spilled wine on them both, exclaiming, “What a mess! Salt water and wine—”
“I’ll cherish each taste,” Brant promised, kissing her collarbone with lips that seemed insatiable.
“I need a shower—”
“Not now, woman!” He took her hand and demurely adjusted her robe before leading her to sit on the bed. “Talk about plotting,” he told her ruefully, “I really do have this well plotted out. We’re getting married next week. Then we have a summer of Othello here. Then how do you feel about a movie?”
Vickie carefully bit into another piece of cheese and sipped her wine before answering. “I know you’re doing the movie, Brant, and that’s why I think we should wait.”
He emitted a long groan of exasperation. “Not me, Vickie, you.”
Her eyes hit his directly. “What do you mean?”
He chewed a piece of cheese long and carefully, his eyes sparkling with devilment. “There just happens to be a part in this film for a sexy Russian spy.”
“Oh?” She busied herself with spreading a cracker with a glob of Camembert. “What makes you think the casting director would find me, with no film experience, right for this Russian spy?”
“The casting director has seen you,” Brant said blandly, digging into the Camembert himself.
“Damn it!” Vickie lost all patience and snatched his cracker from him. “What are you saying?”
“Hey!” Brant growled, snatching his cracker back and gently moving the tray as he leaped over her and pinioned her to the bed. “I’m a contemporary man,” he stated sternly, munching as he held her with one hand, “and I’ll be proud to allow my brilliant wife a career, but,” he growled fiercely, heedless of the giggles he was receiving, “I’ll be damned if that same wife is going to give me fits in the bedroom.”
“Brant!” Vickie wailed beseechingly.
“All right, sweetheart, I’ll give it to you straight and simple.” He did a wonderful Bogart imitation. “I had the casting director in the audience of Godspell the other night. Clancy thinks you’ll be perfect.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Well, it’s true, I told you I never lie.”
A shiver swept through Vickie, an icy wind that permeated her limbs. It felt like the old adage of someone stepping on her grave. A foreboding of disaster…
It was amazing that Brant couldn’t feel the terrible cold. But he didn’t. He kept on talking. “Besides,” he told her with a broad grin, “I own the production company doing the film.”
“I might be horrible!” Vickie warned him, part of her automatically responding to his words, another part of her still in a distant land of worry. Now was the time to tell him.
“You won’t be,” he said simply. “And now that all the buts are taken care of—”
“Can it really be that simple?” Vickie said softly, meaning far more than he knew.
“Love is simple,” Brant told her, “if we let it be.”
“Oh, God, Brant,” Vickie shuddered violently, drawing herself as closely as possible to him with a feverish intensity. “I do love you, but I’m still afraid…”
“Not with me, my love. I want to spend my life with you, and chauvinistically protect you all my days.”
He made love to her again with an agonizing expertise, escalating them both to a wild and erotic abandon with hands that teased and demanded and burning wet kisses that delved into every secret of her womanhood. And as his heat diminishe
d any thought of cold, Vickie returned his touch, all hesitancy lost in the desire to give the ardent, spiraling pleasure she received. As a lover, as a man, he was part angel, part devil. The delight he drove her to was as tempestuous as hell, as exalted as heavenly bliss.
Only as she lay still beside him again, held in his arms, her legs tangled with his, his even breathing telling her that he slept in perfect contentment, and the pink dawn had turned to full yellow light, did she find the time to worry again. But nothing, she knew, would allow her to chance an immediate end to the soaring, unbelievable happiness in her heart. The deception would have to go on until the timing was right to admit the truth.
She was right; she had to be right. Nothing else could influence his decision. Not the child she adored, not the past. Within a lifetime together, the right moment would come.
If she were so right, she wondered, why did the doubts continue to plague her, keeping her awake long after Brant slept?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’VE FOUND THEM!”
The long, laconic drawl brought Vickie back from a deep sleep. Blinking rapidly to acclimate herself to the bright light of midday, and to the fact that someone was unabashedly standing in the doorway, Vickie instinctively grabbed the covers. A movement beside her warned her that Brant was also groggily awakening.
“My, my, aren’t they as cute as two peas in a pod!”
Thought processes hit Vickie before her eyes focused. It was Terry. It had to be. She was the only person Vickie knew with the audacity to stare at someone in bed. And then make herself look merely concerned.
“Terry,” Brant murmured, shaking his head slightly as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” Terry laughed brittlely. “We’ve all been looking for you. We saw the car but couldn’t find you anywhere!”
“Well,” Brant said dryly. “Here we are.” He could feel Vickie tensing beside him, and his annoyance with Terry increased. The encounter didn’t bother him, but he knew Vickie was disturbed. She could come to him without inhibitions, but her moral fiber shied from any form of public exhibition. He was surprised she hadn’t crawled all the way beneath the sheets yet.
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