Tender Deception (10 page)

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.

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, but 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.