Tender Deception (6 page)

His demand sounded in her ears again and she stuttered, “A-a costume. I was sewing a c-costume.” Having found her voice, she found courage. “What are you doing here?”

“Brooding,” he replied, blunt and brief. At the hurt look in her soulful gray eyes he softened. “Sorry, little girl, I shouldn’t take this out on you.” Sliding onto his side and resting his head on the hand of a crooked arm, he explained: “I had a bit of an argument with Monte, and I’m having to realize he was right. I’m cooling off so I can go apologize.”

Nothing had registered in Vickie’s mind except that her idol had called her a little girl. She had to set the record straight.

“I’m not a child,” she exclaimed in indignant reply.

“No?”

“No, I’m a college graduate.”

“Whew!” he whistled. “Forgive me!” The teasing twinkle she so loved was returning to his eyes. “You’re a real old hag!”

Vickie blushed and lowered her head. “No, I’m not!” she murmured, raising her head to meet his eyes with a flash of defiance in her own. “But I’m also
not
a child.”

“No?” His voice held a strange note as he raked his amused blue gaze down her body. “Maybe not, come here and we’ll see.”

Her feet seemed glued to the floor. His brows rose mockingly and she knew he still teased her even as he watched her speculatively. “What’s the matter, little girl?” he chuckled.

That decided her. She had the vague suspicion that he was comparing her to the tempestuous Lenore she had heard he dated, and she was determined that he would find her to be far more worthy of his attentions than that siren. Tilting her head high, she moved slowly toward the stage, vaulting the edge with a graceful leap. She sat beside him, crossing her beautiful legs provocatively and looking deep into his eyes.

She could still the quivers that raced through her; she could hold her head high…be enticing. She was going to be an actress and could hide the fear that threatened to tug her from the stage and send her flying into the night.

He had meant to tease, to brush her lips, to promise solemnly she would be a beautiful woman one day before sending her on her way. But when his arms came around her, he found himself dragging her lengthwise beside him, claiming her lips in a caressing kiss which, begun as a joke, quickly became something else as a fire kindled in both of them—Brant, the man who had dated only mature women, his own age or older, women attuned to flirtations, and Vickie, the girl who so far knew little except the pursuit of elusive and hazy dreams…

His weight shifted over hers; his powerful hands began a delightful exploration, slipping beneath the material of her blouse and searching her bare skin with tantalizing finesse. His thoughts meshed and mingled with his desires.

She was not that young; she was very much a woman. Her innocent response belied a deep sensuality, now budding beneath his practiced touch. Her flesh was alive, warm, beautiful, enticing.

But it was wrong. He had an understanding with Lenore, who thought no more of making love than she did of taking a walk. And somehow he knew this girl was different. Each experience for her would be special. She would give and take and cherish—and trust. He wasn’t the man for her. She deserved a young man of her own, one who could give with total commitment before taking. He broke from her, his breathing harsh and ragged.

Vickie looked into his darkened eyes, confused. She had forgotten everything in the pleasure of his arms. Now his look was angry again, and all she knew was that she ached, painfully, mentally and physically. She didn’t want to moralize; she simply longed to have him meld her body to his sinewed one once more, longed to understand and broaden the marvelous new sensations that he awakened to a rage within her. But he had withdrawn, irrevocably.

“What’s wrong?” she asked hesitantly, suddenly feeling very awkward beneath his dark gaze.

“Nothing,” he muttered hoarsely. He made a feeble attempt at one of his careless grins. “It’s just that, well, you’re right. You’re not a little girl at all.” Uncrossing his legs, he rose and reached a hand down to her. “Come on, Vickie, I’ll take you home.”

Vickie bolted up in her bed, shaken by her dreams. A feverish feeling had left her shivering; beads of perspiration had broken across her forehead. Hindsight was cruel, she thought, groaning aloud. How could she have been so pathetically naive?

She had been alone with Brant only twice—the one night at the theater, which had precipitated the second: her going to his house. Never had he instigated the dalliance. It had been she, fueling a fire with no regard for the consequences.

And now he was back, apparently with a surprising memory of what she thought he might have forgotten. It was doubtful that he remembered the stolen kiss of her waking dream—he had certainly shared a thousand such kisses. But he surely did remember the night she came to his house, and it was evident already he didn’t intend to let her forget.

She had never really blamed him. Her decision to keep her secret a secret had been based on several factors, the main one complimentary to him. He might have wanted to marry her and she couldn’t have, knowing that he cared nothing for her. Furthermore, his whole career was before him. He had become a success almost overnight. It would have been too ridiculous to put through a call to Hollywood and say, “Hey, Brant, we really don’t know each other that well, but I’m the friend you consider to be a sweet little girl. Well, anyway, you know that night I said was nothing. I’m afraid there’s something after all…” Who in their right mind would have believed her?

No, what she had done had been for the best. Her way had been the only way. And she had done so well, she had no regrets. She adored her son and she loved her life in the theater.

Except now. Brant was back. She had been fine as long as he was living in the Hollywood dream world. But he wasn’t an elusive memory. He was flesh and blood, and in Sarasota, Florida. Every day for the next three months he would be talking to her, touching her.

And she would want him again, but in three years she had grown too old to play with fire. She could tell by his eyes last night that he no longer considered her a child. She had also grown old enough to be fair game. Lord, she moaned silently. How was she going to cope? She couldn’t run around acting like a spoiled, spiteful child. But she had to keep a distance.

Annoyed with her fear and confusion, Vickie jumped out of bed and into the shower. It was early, she thought wryly, but at least she wouldn’t spend the morning rushing! By the time she finished scrubbing her skin, she felt she had the answers.

Polite and aloof. She could manage that. Again, her way would be the only way, especially when she still had feelings for him. Oh, not the puppy love of three years ago. But he was still and always would be her knight in shining armor no matter how mature or how capable she was, or how wonderful the life she had chosen was.

Block out the past, she told herself firmly, be polite and aloof. The summer could go smoothly. Besides, she was assuming a lot in imagining Brant was interested in her now. Terry was available, and the city was alive with attractive young women.

Yet her mind would not turn off as she dropped Mark at his school and finally parked at the theater. Pausing to brace herself mentally for the morning to come, she unconsciously checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Had she changed much physically? Three years was not actually that great a span of time. Did one change externally as a result of internal changes?

To an extent. Her face had narrowed, increasing the height of her cheekbones and giving her a look of greater sophistication. The raven hair, which she had worn fairly short before, now waved down her spine. Monte liked her with long hair; it was useful for many of her roles, easily hidden when not.

Her nose hadn’t changed any, but its imperious little tilt had its uses. It could give her the image of cool regality, an image she planned to rely on now.

The dining room, lit by the full glare of the houselights, was abuzz with conversation as she entered. Two tables were drawn together and the cast were sitting around them, sipping coffee, munching on danishes, and chatting. Vickie picked out Brant’s blond head quickly and with dismay. The seat beside him was empty, obviously left for her. Monte would be to her right.

Squaring her shoulders, she sidled through the other tables and made her way to the group, chirping a pleasant “Good morning” that extended to everyone. The group answered her in a ragged chorus before returning to their individual conversations, except for Brant, and although he was being included in other discussions, his eyes were on her.

“Good morning, Miss Langley,” he said gravely. His long arms, crooked at the elbow, were cast carelessly over the back of his chair. One jean-clad leg was crossed over the other casually. Part of his charisma, Vickie thought bitterly. No matter how far Brant went in his career he, could give the appearance of fitting in naturally anywhere.

“Good morning,” she replied briefly, opening her script.

“We missed you last night,” he continued, oblivious to her rebuff.

“Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to be curt. Her eyes rose unwittingly to his; something in his tone had compelled her to look at him. What she found in his intense cobalt gaze gave her shivers.

Time was playing tricks; fate was lending a hand. Brant Wicker was interested in her. He was more than interested; he was openly curious about her. He was evidently out to charm her. His look—warm but faintly grim and decidedly determined—told her simply that he meant to succeed.

“Okay,” Monte announced, making his appearance from the stage in a brisk manner. “Cut the chatter. Work time. Vickie, did you have coffee yet? Get some.” He stopped speaking for a moment as he took his chair to confer privately with Jim Ellery.

Brant was chuckling. “May I get your coffee for you, Miss Langley? I’ve heard you’re never quite all here without it.”

Vickie looked at him balefully, grinding her teeth. Apparently he had been discussing her with Monte, or the others, or both. She was famous for needing a cup of coffee to be completely lucid. He had been asking questions, and she didn’t want any of his courteous concern.

“Thanks,” she said stiffly. “I can get my own.” Despite her resolve to be polite, her words carried the bite of rudeness. She winced; Bobby had heard her down at his end of the table and he was frowning, puzzled by her manner. She had to be careful.

“No need,” Brant was replying pleasantly. “I’ll get it. Black, right?” There was just a slight edge of sandpaper to his voice, implying that he realized she was purposely snubbing him.

“Right, thank you,” she murmured, lowering her eyes to her script.

She thanked him again as he handed her a cup, avoiding his probing eyes. It was going to be harder than she thought to forget the past. It was going to be almost impossible with him sitting beside her. Three years might have never been. She could still remember the touch of the hands so close to hers, the heated strength of his thigh just inches away.

Nevertheless, the reading went well. The entire cast was inspired by the presence of the leading man, even Vickie. As straightforward as this simple read-through was, Brant’s clear, low voice rang through the room with a sincere grasp of each and every of Shakespeare’s often misunderstood innuendos. The entire room was so still when Harry Blackwell, reading Lodovico, came to the final line, that the proverbial pin could have been heard dropping.

“Good!” Monte declared, the first to speak. He scribbled on his script for several seconds before adding, “We’ll finish here for the day. Tomorrow, a rough blocking of act one. If you’re not in the act, you don’t have to show.”

Vickie, surprised that they had again been given extra hours of freedom, stayed seated for a minute, as they all did. Her hesitation proved to be her downfall.

“Well, Miss Langley,” Brant drawled, twisting to her with a sardonic smile. “You can’t have any emergency to rush off to now. Have some lunch with me.”

“I can’t—” Vickie began.

“Sure you can!” Monte interrupted, looking up from what Vickie had thought was intense concentration on his notes. What was he doing, feeding her to the lions with plate, napkin, and fork? “You don’t have to pick up Mark for two hours!”

Vickie’s cheeks burned. “I know,” she protested quickly. “But I do have half a million other things to do and—”

“You couldn’t possibly have been planning on doing them, because you didn’t know we’d be breaking early!” Monte said firmly. “Go on with Brant, Vick. Entertain our guest and take it a little easy yourself!”

There was no polite excuse. She couldn’t protest any further without appearing churlish. “A short lunch,” she agreed, trying to appear indifferent rather than rude. “I really do have things that definitely do need doing.” She managed an apologetic smile.

“A short lunch it will be,” Brant promised, grinning devilishly as he waved a friendly good-bye to the others and proprietarily escorted her from the room. When they walked out into the sunlight, he indicated a shiny blue Mercedes, propelled her to it, and unerringly opened the passenger door and ushered her in with his customary gallantry. She settled warily into the plush interior.

“Where to?” he asked as he folded his own length into the car and turned to her, his powerful hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, his cobalt gaze unfathomable.

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

Brant switched on the ignition. “All right, Miss Langley, I’ll choose.” He deftly maneuvered the car from the parking lot and headed out on the highway. “If I remember correctly, and sometimes I do have a good memory, there’s a nice little steak and seafood place not far from here. A hole in the wall, but clean, and the food is terrific.”

Vickie turned her head to look out on the familiar scenery, convinced she was going to have to be as cold as possible. Brant seemed to be unaware that he was sitting next to an ice cube; he spoke occasionally as they drove, commenting on the growth of the city since he had last been here. Maintaining her vigil out the window, Vickie refrained from responding to his one-sided conversation, uttering a polite yes or no only when directly questioned. Hopefully he would eventually believe she found him boring, and even a composed ego couldn’t tolerate such an insult!