Tender Deception

by Heather Graham

  “Stop it, Victoria!” The sound of Brant’s voice grated harshly in her ear. “I come from Tampa. And marriage means the same thing to me as it does to you. Yes, we’ll have career problems. We’ll have lots of things to work out. But so does every couple. They make a commitment—one of love. And that means compromise and working the problems out together.”

  The irresistible urge to cry was seeping through Vickie. She kept her gray gaze out to sea and fought the tears that were slowly encroaching, like the incoming tide. A scratched recording echoed again and again through her mind—Brant’s matter-of-fact statement that he never lied.

  “I don’t know, Brant, I just don’t know,” she murmured.

  “I won’t pressure you,” he promised, adding with a teasing voice that didn’t reassure her when he added, “I intend to give you at least two weeks. Now, what about Mark?”

  “What about him?” Vickie gasped, feeling a world of darkness closing in around her.

  “What about his father? Will I be able to adopt him?”

  “Brant, please, you’re going way too fast! I, uh, I don’t know what I feel for you, I don’t know—”

  “I know,” he interrupted dismissively. “I’m planning ahead. What about Mark’s father?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He really is?” Brant’s words were not a question to her, but a musing to himself. “One day, Vickie, you’re going to tell me all about it. You were hurt badly, that’s obvious, and I want to share all those hurts with you. I want to bring them out in the open, air them, and let them fade.”

  Vickie’s most terrible urge was to laugh, not with amusement, but with dry, bitter agony. The more he offered, the more evident his sincerity became, the worse she felt. He was handing her the moon, but her fingers were too slippery to take it. Opportunities to bare the truth and her soul were coming to her on silver platters, and she watched them all drift by, shocked by the lies she automatically told. She should have told him when he asked, but without conscious thought she had spoken the words she had ingrained into her mind. And now the moment when she could have told the truth was gone, lost in the gray web of deception she seemed powerless to break.

  “I don’t know, Brant,” she heard herself saying again. “This is all too sudden…I need time.”

  “We have time,” he promised her, taking her fingers with a gentleness that seemed impossible for such powerful hands. He kissed each one, watching her eyes, moving his mouth with inherent sensuality over each, drawing a shiver from her as his teeth grazed the last one.

  He stood suddenly, and his voice was rich and husky. “We’ve got to get back; you have to pack and you have a show to do tonight.”

  Trancelike, Vickie rose with him.

  The sky was changing as they bade fond farewell to the Leoninis and walked down the planked path to the car. Pink streaks tapering to crimson threads wove their way beneath a sun now shadowed by clouds turned gray. The weather touched Vickie’s heart as an omen. Nothing could ever be simple and clear again. But then, despite all shields drawn, nothing had been clear for almost three years. It had just taken her until now to realize it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS WAS USUAL, THE show went off without a hitch. A tribute to willpower, Vickie decided. No matter what went on in the mind, it was possible to make the body function normally. She could talk, walk, and breathe and appear to be tranquil. If one acted tranquilly and serenely at ease long enough, one became so. It wasn’t really anything new. Three years ago she had forged a wall of resignation, and therefore tranquility. She had moved through life with a pleasant dignity because of that. Suddenly it seemed possible again. The answers had been within her reach all the time. Now she had to be sure Brant was serious. She would never be completely free of fear knowing Brant’s temper as she did. But the lie she retained and the admission forced out of her began to jell to her advantage. Brant knew she had never been married, yet he still bore no suspicions regarding Mark.

  It was actually perfect. She loved Brant; one day she would have to tell him about Mark. Explain everything that she had felt, everything that she had done. But how much better to tell him if they could build a life together! Their life would begin with deceit, but surely not a terrible one. Brant was already fond of Mark; presumably he would be thrilled to discover, eventually, that his adoptive son was his own.

  Vickie could even admit the truth and assure Edward with a clear conscience that she would indeed tell Brant one day. He would understand. There was more to her decision to hold back than just the uneasy fear of reaction. She couldn’t tell Brant now for the same reason she didn’t three years ago. He might begin insisting on marriage for the sake of the child, an arrangement that was sure to be a disaster.

  She had lived too long and gone through too much to settle for anything less in marriage than the total bond of a one-to-one commitment she had always dreamed of. A till-death-do-us-part commitment based on love.

  Her dream was becoming a reachable star, as long as Brant was serious, and not living out summer fantasies of long ago.

  Tonight she didn’t care. Scrubbing her face clean of stage makeup and applying just a glimmer of lipstick and a swift wand of mascara, Vickie grew recklessly exuberant. She was taking a chance, but she dryly assured herself that all life was a chance. She was gambling the high wall of safety it had taken long to build, but the possible rewards defied her dreams and imagination.

  “You seem disgustingly cheerful,” Terry told her idly, breaking her inner concentration. The brunette perched languidly against the dressing table. “Did you decide to go up to the panhandle tomorrow?”

  “Umm. I’ll be there,” Vickie replied evasively.

  “How nice,” Terry said, but catching her gaze in the mirror, Vickie was sure Terry considered her proposed presence as anything but nice. Apparently Terry was still carrying her own torch for Brant.

  Unable to forget the trouble Terry was capable of causing and still not sure of Brant’s immunity, Vickie smiled sweetly. “I’m sure it will be a very nice little vacation. Excuse me, will you.” Still holding her smile bright, she swept around Terry. Later the brunette would discover she had left with Brant, and she could fume all she liked.

  Chuckling slightly as she entered the empty hallway, Vickie chastised herself for the smug and, yes, malicious, satisfaction she was feeling. But she was only human, and Terry was a born troublemaker as well as a born beauty. Supposed bonds of friendship were as fragile as silk if they stood in her way.

  Her smile was still delicately curved into her lips as she reached the parking lot and sought out Brant. He was so easy to find, a silhouette as tall and sturdy as an oak in the darkness, his hair a golden beam of guiding light as he lounged against the Mercedes, waiting. For her. His eyes, following her from the indolent shade of thick honey lashes, welcomed her with devilish appreciation, their blue as warm as a summer’s day. With her new reckless take-a-chance mood, Vickie walked straight to him, stood on tiptoe, and brushed his lips with a feather-light kiss of promise.

  “Ummm…” he murmured, cocking a speculative brow as she lowered to her heels, still smiling enigmatically. “To what do I owe this magnificent change of heart?”

  “Never a change of heart,” Vickie told him in a grave whisper, her tone wistful. “I think you collected my heart with a string of others on the day I first saw you.”

  Her abrupt change to candor was stunning to Brant, but he forced himself to usher her calmly into the car without saying a word. He wanted to tread carefully and not tamper with the return of a love he once discovered and nurtured too late.

  But something had changed. Vickie was relaxed. And she was more stunning than ever. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in endless black waves that were streaked with a gloss of blue—a night ocean, alive beneath the moon. The thin veil of frost was gone from her gray eyes that met his clearly with the starlit eternity of deepest space. And she warmed to his touch without the slightest flinch.

/>   Brant eased the car out of the parking lot and drove silently until they had left the city limits of Sarasota behind and came upon the coastal road. Then he glanced across the car at Vickie. “If I have your heart,” he told her wickedly, “how about scooting over here and lending me a shoulder?”

  Vickie complied, wondering for just a moment if she had given too much away. No, her statement had been a teasing one, easily said. Brant Wicker knew he collected hearts on a string and tonight was a date, an exploration, nothing more. More would be in the future. But her guard was down; she was a healthy, normal, mature young woman out with a man she loved. But she was older now, savvy, careful, and totally aware of the consequences. And also totally receptive to the strong arm that rested behind her shoulder, she told herself dryly.

  Fearing that she had taken a step further than she intended, Vickie began to make light conversation, discussing anything that came to her mind. But despite her efforts, each line of dialogue turned to something deeper. A clinical conversation on the pros and cons of living in New York City led her to silently wonder if she could find work in New York if Brant returned to Broadway. Could she be a success with such tremendous competition? Could two careers be harmonious? Would he expect her to give hers up? No, it wasn’t going to be New York. Not right away. Brant had mentioned doing a movie.

  Somewhere along the line the incredible happened. Despite the whirling tempest of her mind, Vickie fell asleep on Brant’s shoulder. She awoke with a start to find the night still black and the hum of the car quiet. She hastily shifted her head to look up, and found Brant silently watching her, his features a stern mask of austerity in the green illumination of the dash.

  “We’re here,” he said softly.

  “This is it?” Vickie inquired, struggling from the lassitude of sleep and experiencing a moment of self-incrimination. Step right up, said the spider to the fly. And the fly was in the web of its own accord.

  “This is it,” Brant replied, his voice edged with amusement.

  “Well,” Vickie said briskly, sliding to let herself out of the car. “Let’s see this palace of Monte’s.”

  “Ah, yes, Monte’s pleasure palace,” Brant mused behind her, deliberately sinister. “By all means, let’s view it quickly.”

  Feeling none too confident with his breath at her back, Vickie threw off a careless shrug and hurried up the hedged tile path to the redwood building that awaited them. Even in the pale light of moon and stars she could see that the “cottage” was exquisite. It rose from sand and dunes in a split-level, eye-pleasing symmetry, like an oasis in the desert.

  “Would you like the key?” Brant inquired politely as she paused blankly at the door.

  “Thanks,” Vickie replied wryly, standing back for him to open it and turn on the lamps.

  They both paused in the entryway. To the left, stairs wound majestically to a balcony that overlooked the fur-carpeted living room and offered a view of numerous doors—presumably the bedrooms. At the rear of the living room to the right, taking the entire back wall, were sliding doors of glass, giving a view of the Gulf that was breathtaking. The palms lining the beach were scarcely moving, nor did the water appear to be more than benevolent—sheer, shimmering glass like the doors that framed it.

  “Monte does have taste!” Vickie murmured, teetering on the brink of a cold sweat of fear despite the humidity. Nonsense, she told herself, taking a breath to saunter up the inviting staircase. They were two adults; she had made no commitments as yet. Except in her own mind. Brant would force nothing from her.

  Arguments raced on in her mind so loudly that she barely heard Brant’s answer. “Yes, the man has taste.”

  “I’m going to pick out a room for myself,” Vickie called gaily, leaning over the balcony.

  Brant tilted his chin to look up at her, his eyes narrow slits of mirthful blue fire. “You do that, Juliet,” he teased. “Or is it Rapunzel?” he asked as her raven hair floated over the carved bannister. Saluting her with a deviltry that assured her he was reading her mind, Brant backed toward the front door. “I’ll go get the luggage.”

  Vickie meandered through the various bedrooms, averting her eyes from the beds. The beachhouse was furnished in the most elegant of contemporary styles. Chrome, glass, and shag carpeting were everywhere, as was wicker and thick, inviting cushions.

  Vickie decided on the last room she entered, one facing the beach, and painted a light, sunshine yellow, complemented by earth tones in the decor. Moving to the high, draped window, she could see the water in the glow of the moon. Without realizing it, she curled her hands around the cloth of the rust-colored drapes.

  “What is this, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?” Brant inquired from the doorway.

  Self-consciously, Vickie dropped the drapes. “Did you find something you like?” she asked coolly.

  “Umm,” he replied with an assured grin that made her want to slap him. “Right next door.” He set her suitcase on the foot of the bed. “Have you got a bathing suit in this thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, get it on.”

  “Now? It must be at least three A.M.!”

  “Actually,” Brant said, leaving her with the grinning arrogance that his order would be obeyed, “it’s closer to four.”

  “You’re crazy!” Vickie called after him. “I’m not going swimming now!”

  The bedroom door, which had been closing, reopened, and Brant’s blond head reappeared. “Sure you are!” he said nicely. His grin hardened a fraction. “With or without a suit. See you in a minute.”

  Luckily the door shut before her mouth fell open. She had heard Brant speak with that sword-edged civility before. It meant he was determined to have his way, and to take any steps to achieve it.

  Prudence overrode her instinct to tell him she simply wasn’t going swimming; he was welcome to be shark bait himself if he wished. The picture of Brant dressing her in her brief bikini was less than dignified. The imagining was so undignified that she was changed in less than the allotted minute and waited on the balcony with a white terry robe tied over her bathing suit.

  Brant emerged from his door just seconds after she, clad only in cutoffs, a towel slung carelessly around his neck. He showed no sign of surprise at Vickie’s quick appearance, and as his eyes swept over her in a fraction of a second, she found herself returning the gesture and admitting to herself as her eyes took him in that he was a superb specimen of humanity. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on his body; his every movement was a play of perfectly toned muscle. He was a performer, she told herself. His body was his tool. Like any instrument, it had to be cared for.

  “Shall we raid the refrigerator first?” Brant suggested.

  Vickie quirked an eloquent brow. “Is there going to be something in it to raid?”

  “Oh, I assume,” Brant murmured, fixing a hand on the small of her back to lead her down the stairs. “I’m willing to bet on a fruity, impeccably dry white wine and a fine assortment of cheeses. Perhaps some apples. A little forbidden fruit always comes in handy.”

  The refrigerator contained much more than the items Brant had mentioned. It was stocked to serve an army.

  “How did Monte manage all this?” Vickie mused, accepting the bottle of wine and crystal glasses Brant forced into her hands. Brant didn’t answer. He kept his head stuck in the refrigerator, searching for a Saran-wrapped tray.

  “Monte didn’t manage all this!” Vickie charged with crisp harshness as suspicion became as clear as glass. “You did!”

  The refrigerator clicked shut. “Guilty.” Brant stared at her with no trace of apology.

  “And this house?” she asked icily.

  He shrugged. “Mine.”

  “This is a rather elaborate set-up.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I will go swimming,” Vickie said coldly. “By myself, thank you.”

  Clinking the wine and glasses down on the Formica counter with such vehemence that the crystal threatened
to shatter, Vickie sailed out of the kitchen and stumbled to the back doors. So much for serious relationships! He had wanted her all right, and everything said and done from that point had all been part of a plot. She might have found the entire scenario amusing, and might have even ignored it and laughed it off, had the man been anyone but Brant.

  He caught her just as she fumbled with the rather complicated lock on the sliding doors. As if a wind had swept by her, she found herself twirling around, feeling no pain, but turned with the force of a tornado.

  “What the hell is this all about?” Brant demanded angrily. His back rested against the glass, his arms crossed over his chest. She could see the coarse curls on his chest rise and fall with the play of taut muscles as he breathed.

  “I don’t appreciate being played for a fool,” Vickie grated, digging her nails into the palms of her hand to stand before him without flinching, her chin thrust to a regal elevation.

  “What?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “All the plotting and planning—”

  “So what?”

  “So what?” Vickie repeated, shaking her head. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t seem to form words for an explanation. “Just let me out, will you please, Brant. I’d like to be alone.”

  “No. I’d like to hear what this latest problem of yours is.”

  She knew damned well he wasn’t going to budge. His eyes had never been icier, the line of his full lips more grim or tight. But she didn’t want him near her, touching her, right now. It was too easy to accept his brand of lies.

  “I told you when you came back to the theater to go after Terry,” she said, her voice containing a slight wince. If he touched Terry, she would go crazy, implode.

  “Hell,” Brant muttered disgustedly, his bewildered anger making his words harsh and cold as a stone wall. “At least Terry occasionally makes sense.”

  “I’m making sense, and you know it!”