Tender Deception

by Heather Graham

  Vickie had never missed a day before. Not a show, not a rehearsal, not a critique. She explained that she had felt desperately ill, but was fine now. It was the truth, she told herself, or would be by the time she had to report back for the show. Monte sounded concerned, but not suspicious. Apparently Brant had said nothing to him.

  Vickie spent the rest of the morning rehearsing her own private final scene, the meeting with Brant that she could not run from after the show. She would have to be dignified and not burst into tears, she would have to convince him she would play no more games but allow him to see his son—on her terms for the good of the child. He was too young to be uprooted, even for a month or so in the summer.

  Brant would have to come to Sarasota specified times, times when Vickie could disappear and Edward could be there with his nephew to greet Brant.

  She left the house tentatively when it was time to pick up Mark, afraid that Brant was waiting for her. But he was nowhere in sight. Nor was he at the school. Nor did he attempt to call her, or come to the house again.

  He had probably decided the hell with his futile efforts. He knew he would be able to corner her at the theater. The complete break could come tonight, and again she would feel as if part of her body had been severed. But at least now she was better prepared. Her star had been within reach, but she had gambled and lost. It had moved farther and farther from her grasp, and the insurmountable problem she had tried to ignore had exploded in her face. So much for dreams. They died along the wasteland of reality.

  Eventually it was time to return to the theater. Vickie drove in with her eyes bone dry and her back as straight as one of Smoky’s plywood flats. She even called cheery greetings to the others as she made her way to the dressing room, careful to keep her vision from falling directly on Brant, not wanting him to accost her before the show. But Brant ignored her. From trying to pound down her door like a madman, he had made a complete turnabout. His role was now one of an indifference as staunch as her own. She caught his eye just once, fleetingly. And he smiled, a grim smile, a smile full of purpose.

  She turned away quickly. That smile told her everything in a nutshell. There was going to be no more running away. He was going to get her—tonight.

  Everything about the theater was so normal, Vickie thought as she set about applying her makeup as she had hundreds of times. There was the usual chattering in the dressing room. Terry was in an especially good humor, and tried to draw Vickie out. There wasn’t anything malicious in her bantering, and Vickie realized she had been foolish ever to worry about Terry. The brunette was simply a sultry beauty who liked men. She would have never infringed upon the depth of love that had been Vickie’s with Brant. But it didn’t make matters better to know she had dug all of her own holes.

  Life went on, Vickie told herself stoically. And if she could endure this night, she could surely endure anything.

  In the wing as the show opened, Vickie closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on her character. She rolled the name Desdemona over and over on her tongue, recalling early acting lessons. Be a tree. Be a bird. Think tree. Move bird. Be Desdemona, walk Desdemona. Think and talk Desdemona. And she did. The wheels began to turn. The play was on. Brant was Othello; she was Desdemona. Moving fluidly from scene to scene, act to act. To the end, murder most foul. Brant’s corpse falling over hers.

  Applause. The beautiful, thunderous sound that actors lived for. Then would come the curtain call, and the peace of solitude. Maybe she could evade Brant for one more night. He had left her last night. Perhaps with the excitement he would leave her again.

  Brant’s left hand was gripping hers as they moved to the footlights to bow to another standing ovation. The curtain fell once, and Vickie tried to retrieve her hand. The curtain went up one more time. Vickie wound her facial muscles back into a rather sick smile for the still standing audience. Her mind wasn’t with them. When she had tried to extricate her fingers from Brant’s death grip, she hadn’t been able to budge them. Thoughts of running again were swept away. Tonight, in a matter of minutes, they would have to decide what to do, how to dissolve all ties between them, how to handle Mark.

  The curtain fell for the final time. Vickie jerked madly at her fingers again, and glared at Brant with a trembling hostility when he refused to let go. He ignored her, and turned to the others still milling onstage, as if they had been previously asked to stay.

  They had been asked to stay! Vickie realized quickly as Brant began to talk. Vickie felt herself go clammy with fear. He was going to make an announcement about Mark, she thought with sick terror. Right here, right in front of everyone. Oh, God, do, please, she prayed silently, don’t bare my heartache to an audience. She couldn’t believe Brant would do such a thing, but she knew he was headed for something.

  “This is a very special show for me,” he was saying, his beautiful grin starkly displaying perfect white teeth against the mahogany of his makeup. “For several reasons. One, I began my career here, with the help of a brilliant man, Monte Clayton.”

  The cast began their own round of affectionate applause for Monte, who Vickie saw blushing slightly in the wings. It didn’t surprise Vickie that Brant should direct the praise for his success to Monte; relating in such a way was part of the charisma that was Brant Wicker. But still she knew something else was coming, and she braced herself for it, mentally and physically. No matter what he said, she would hold her head high. She would get through it. It was coming…

  “Something else began for me here,” he continued pleasantly, and Vickie was aware she could barely hear the sound of breathing, perhaps her own respiratory system had simply stopped. Brant turned to her, his blue eyes vivid against the darkness of his face. “Something even more important than my career.” He was an actor, he couldn’t resist a dramatic pause, but that pause almost killed Vickie. Get it over with! she silently screamed. He began again.

  “Three years ago, without even realizing it at first, I lost my heart to this lovely leading lady. I admit, I came back here for more than a show. I came back for Vickie, and this time around, I won her for good. She consented to be my wife. I’d like to take this opportunity to share our happiness with you and announce that our marriage took place three days ago.”

  She couldn’t have remained standing if he hadn’t been there to support her. What was he doing? she wondered desperately as a gasp escaped her, luckily covered by the eruption of applause, whistling, and hearty congratulations from the cast. Was he playing a new game, or was this real? How could he walk out on her, ignore her, and then calmly announce that they were married? A combination of soaring joy and the fear that it would be immediately snatched away caused her to turn on him waspishly. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, her voice audible only to him as she wrenched herself away, backing warily from him. He advanced on her as she moved, slowly and surely, keeping pace as she kept backing away. He was laughing, and she quickly realized why. Her sightless meanderings were a sad mistake. She backed herself all the way to Desdemona’s stage bed and found her knees buckling, her form sprawling gracelessly upon it. Heedless of those around them, Brant leaped beside her and pinioned her there. “I was going public,” he declared. “It seemed the only thing to do when you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  The others were quickly around them and Vickie didn’t have a chance to say any more as she rose to sit at the edge of the bed. The entire cast had enthusiastic congratulations to give, kisses for Vickie, handshakes for Brant. Bobby, being closest to them both, was the most vociferous. Terry, too, seemed wildly excited, which momentarily surprised Vickie. Until she discovered why. Brant had made good his idle musings and introduced her to Frankie, who was waiting to take her to a late dinner.

  “I’m just crazy about Italians!” Terry whispered to Vickie while Brant was distracted by another well-wisher. “They do make the sexiest lovers!” she cooed. “Maybe we can double sometime!”

  “Sure,” Vickie smiled, “I’d like
that.” She wondered briefly who would rule that roost and laughed inwardly with imaginings of the battle for supremacy between the two.

  The stage remained alive for several minutes longer as people chuckled and chatted, the drama of real life at its best. Then one by one the players began to filter to the dressing rooms, until only Vickie and Brant remained, eyeing each other silently on Desdemona’s bed.

  “I want to make an apology,” Brant said gruffly, then demanded, “and then I want one in return!”

  Vickie’s tongue felt like lead. “You really want to stay married?” she asked thickly.

  “What?” he growled. “Of course I want to stay married, you little bonehead! I told you once that marriage was forever to me! If you had any thoughts of dissolving any commitments to me, you had better forget them fast! You’re my wife, from now to eternity.”

  She wanted to touch him so badly, to be held by him, to grieve together for past mistakes. But a remnant of fear stayed through the joy and relief slowly filtering to her conscious mind. “Brant, you left me!” she accused him.

  “I was angry, very angry,” he admitted, his eyes bare to hers. “But I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry, very sorry. Now do I get my apologies in return?”

  He was half teasing, and she knew it, but his love came through in his constricting touch, his voice, the eyes that bored into hers. She wanted it all out. She wanted to hold him in return.

  “Oh, Brant,” she murmured miserably. “I really don’t know where to begin. It’s just that I always thought I was right. In the beginning I had no idea that you cared for me. I was in love with you, and I would have stayed with you that night three years ago except that you said, ‘I love you,’ but not to me! You said it to Lenore. So when I found out about Mark…” Her words trailed away.

  “Lord!” Brant groaned, wincing. He ran a finger tenderly over the outline of her lips. “What a thing to have done to you! I didn’t realize…forgive me! Love was just a word to me until that night. I tried to see you again, but you wouldn’t give me the time of day. Then your memory kept haunting me, so I came back. I knew you were on your own with a child. Monte told me, and I prayed you might want me now that you were a few years older. You were so cool. I never guessed about Mark. And then when the evidence slapped me in the face, I was crushed. I’m thrilled that he is my son. But, Vickie, I was hurt. I couldn’t believe you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. Actually”—he smiled ruefully—“I left because I wanted you so badly it was killing me and I needed badly to simmer down.”

  “I wanted you too,” Vickie admitted, trembling fingers dipping into the dyed black hair on the head that hovered over hers. “I thought that you hated me,” she whispered, “that you would never forgive me.”

  “Foolish,” Brant whispered back. “An argument doesn’t stop love.”

  “But you walked out—”

  “I tried to come back, but you must have bolted the door before falling asleep. I was afraid too, Vickie. I just couldn’t make you trust me! I thought you wanted out, and that you wanted to deny me Mark. I thought about a few of the things I had said, and knew I had to talk calmly. I took time to think. That’s something you’re a little poor at too, my love.”

  “Thinking?” Vickie flushed and clasped his hand to bring it to her breast. “I acted abominably today, I guess, refusing to trust you enough to talk.”

  “You certainly did!” Brant agreed, chuckling. “How dare you, after all those lies!” With mock severity he warned her, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”

  “Shakespeare?” Vickie intoned with a quirk of her brow, a slow smile slipping into her lips. “Haven’t we had our quota for the night?”

  “Not Shakespeare!” Brant groaned. “Your knowledge of quotes is also poor, Victoria, but I suppose I can overlook that fault. Sir Walter Scott.”

  Vickie giggled. Brant was staring at her with an innocently academic look while finding fascination with unobtrusively kneading fingers in the plunging valley between her breasts where she had drawn his hand in comfort. “Oh,” she murmured, lazily enjoying the sensation of his touch before frowning. “Brant, I am so sorry. So sorry about everything.”

  “Vickie,” he returned intently. “I’m sorry too. I hit you with the blow you were expecting, going into a fury like that. But it’s all out and over now. We both understand the tightropes we were teetering on. We have everything going right for us now, loving each other, believing in that love. And we have a beautiful son, two good careers. I think we’re remarkably lucky people. I want all sorrys to be in the past. Except”—his eyes danced mischievously—“feel free to apologize for any dumb moves you make in the future. We are going to argue now and then, but I won’t walk out again, and you won’t start planning the divorce!”

  “Agreed!” Vickie chuckled, then her temper flared. “Dumb moves that I might make! What about you—”

  “I knew we’d argue, with your temper!” Brant sighed.

  “My temper!” Vickie saw the twitch in his lips and dissolved into laughter.

  “Oh! I forgot!” Brant kissed her quickly. “Say you’re sorry for one last time!” His free hand swung as if to tap the exposed side of her rear end, but the sharp, teasing slap became a caress. Vickie jumped in surprise and yelped a protest that became an endearment. “Don’t cajole me, Mrs. Wicker!” Brant feigned chastisement. “I insist you promise to never, never mistrust my capacity for understanding again!”

  “I’m sorry!” Vickie added hastily. “One last time!” Her voice became a serious vow. “And never! I will never again mistrust or doubt anything about you! I love you.” She clutched the fingers that taunted her flesh through the sheer gown. There were still things that had to be said. “Brant,” she asked slowly, “what about Mark?”

  He sighed and looked her steadily in the eye. “He is my son, Vickie, and I love him, as I do his mother. I loved him before I realized who he is, and I think you know that. In this state we can go back and legally change his name. When he grows up, he’ll never have to doubt either parent.” He touched a finger to her chin to deeply study her eyes. “The papers may get wind of it, Vickie. Will you be able to handle the publicity?”

  A soft, sultry smile was forming on Vickie’s lips. “I don’t care what is written or said, as long as I know that you love me, and Mark, and that we’re all going to be together. Mark is the important one, and he does deserve his father. And speaking of Mark, don’t you think we’d best head home to our son—and our own bed? Desdemona’s is a little lumpy!”

  Brant looked like the reincarnation of the devil then, ice blue fire dancing in his eyes against the sinister darkness of his Othello makeup. He sprang from the stage bed, pulling her with him. “Home sounds wonderful. I’ll need a long, long bath”—he nibbled the corner of her ear erotically—“but that sounds enticing too. My darling wife can help me wash this makeup from all over my body!”

  “It’s all over your body?” Vickie inquired teasingly.

  “Well,” he admitted, his words muffled as his nibbles moved down the length of her throat, “not all over my body but we’ll pretend that it is!” He left off his nibbling and abruptly gave her a playful smack on the rump. “Let’s have no more of this, woman! Let’s change and go home!”

  They met outside the dressing rooms and arm in arm left the theater slowly. It was empty now; the others had gone while they dawdled on the stage. There was a cast party to celebrate the opening of Othello somewhere, but once again, neither of them would be going.

  Brant halted with his hand upon the switch for the entry lights. Pulling Vickie into the circle of his arms, he brushed a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair.

  “Why are we stopping?” Vickie asked a trifle breathlessly. She could see nothing of interest in the rows of empty tables.

  He grinned and pulled her closer. “I was thinking Shakespeare again.”

  “Oh?” It was a mere whisper; she wa
s thinking nothing but Brant, and anticipating a long hot bath together and exploring fingers on each other’s flesh.

  “Ummm,” he replied, spinning her to fit harmoniously against his form and assail her with a rough kiss that left nothing of his own desire hidden as their hips pressed magnetically together. “I have a suggestion for Monte’s next show,” he whispered when he released her. He switched off the lights and led her into the night that welcomed them for their homeward journey.

  “All’s Well That Ends Well.”

  Vickie laughed delightedly. “Most fitting, Mr. Wicker.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wicker, if I do say so myself.”

  EPILOGUE

  SHE WASN’T YOUNG AS she stood at the door that night, not young in the sense of complete innocence. She was at a beautiful age for a woman, approaching thirty, tall, lithe and shapely, confident in herself, happy with her world. She knew where she was going, she knew what she wanted, and above all, she had the confident assurance of loving, and knowing she was loved with equal fervor in return. She was a career woman, a mother, and most important, a wife.

  She was dressed in a stunning, sultry, silk sheath. Her hair was midway down her back, a fan of softness to put the feel of the silk to shame, styled in layers that flattered large gray eyes and a slender, arresting face that was both demure and worldly. She was cool, capable of handling herself, a picture of the ultimate dream of sophistication. But her gray eyes and full lips were friendly, smiling; she was known as being pleasant and gracious, totally unaffected. The things said and written about her pleased her, and yet they left her with wonder. It was so easy to be pleasant! She knew what many had learned and many still sought—that loving and sharing was the magic potion to making everything else wonderful, palatable, and even tragedy, bearable.

  She had come with the full intent to seduce. He was her dream, her life, her existence. And tonight she would be with him. It was, however, a special night.