Tender Deception (25 page)

“All’s Well That Ends Well.”

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

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

S
HE 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.

He opened the bedroom door, a puzzled expression mingling with that wonderful male appreciation he never failed to give her. If they lived to be eighty, and if she were wrinkled like a prune from head to toe, her beauty faded to all other eyes, he would still give her that look. She smiled. When his golden hair had turned pure white and age had crinkled his face to a thousand lines, he would still be magnificent to her.

He kissed her forehead and allowed his eyes to roam from the top of her well-groomed head to the tip of her elegantly shod toe. “You look gorgeous beyond description.” He flattered her lavishly, his eyes warmly amused and devilish. “But why are you knocking at your own door?”

Vickie chuckled and spinned into the bedroom, returning the assessment, feeling a quiver of anticipation assail her. Brant was one man who could really wear a tuxedo. He was masculine and rugged, yet elegant and beautiful in the sheer physical sense of the word. “I dressed in Mark’s room,” she said with a slow smile, spinning again, this time a graceful movement that brought her into his arms. “Does the dress remind you of anything?”

“My love,” Brant teased, welcoming her into his embrace, “I have never been accused of a faulty memory.” Her head was tilted up at him and he smiled into her eyes tenderly. “I remember very clearly the night a little raven-haired waif appeared at my door in blue silk to pull me up when I was down. It’s a very special, precious memory. But why tonight?”

Vickie sighed with mock exasperation. “Brant! It’s clear to see you’ve become an old married man—no romance! And your memory is faulty! This is our anniversary!”

Brant frowned. “We were married in July and I remember it’s our anniversary each year without fail!”

“Not that anniversary!” Vickie whispered, still marveling at the feel and scent of him as she burrowed into his broad chest, the rough material of his jacket a caress to her cheek. “It was exactly seven years ago tonight that that little waif appeared at your door!”

“So it was,” Brant chuckled, threading his fingers through the black hair that fluffed like angel’s wings on his lapel. “But my darling wife, my romantic one, why are we celebrating tonight when we have neglected to do so in the past?”

“Wellll…” Vickie drew away from him to meet his eyes. “For one, we’re back in Sarasota.” It was a special night because they were being honored at Monte’s by the governor of the state for a theater arts festival. “And two, the stage is set. Monte will be there, and Bobby and Terry. There’s going to be a cast party, which we will have to attend, but only briefly! And three…” A slight blush rose to Vickie’s cheeks, making Brant marvel at his wife in return. She had handled success and the viper pit that was part of Hollywood and fame without ever changing her sweet inner self or losing that trace of innocence that proclaimed her completely his.

“Go on,” he encouraged softly. “What’s three?”

“I read an article in one of those fan magazines today,” she grinned. “It said we were expecting a child, and at first I laughed, but the more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it! Mark is six now, if he’s ever going to have a brother or sister…”

Brant laughed delightedly and pulled her back into his arms. “I think we should oblige whatever magazine that was. But are you sure? Your career is skyrocketing.”

“Yes,” Vickie said demurely, “I’m sure no one will forget me after only nine months. Besides, with your help, I’ll never need to worry about work!”

“Good point!” Brant agreed, and Vickie gasped as she felt his hands on her back and heard the whistle of her zipper as it was released. In a deft, split-second movement, Brant slid the sheath from her shoulders and it fell to the floor in a soft puff at her feet.

“Brant!” Vickie squirmed as her flesh crushed deliriously to him. “I didn’t mean right this second—”

“You sound like an old married lady!” Brant whispered, his voice a warm rush of air that caressed the lobe of her ear. “No romance.” His fingers played a seductive tune down the hollow of her spine that both tantalized her and divested her of her slip. “Our son is with his uncle—”

“The awards banquet!” Vickie interrupted weakly.

“—is still an hour away,” he finished for her.

Vickie’s arms curled around his neck and her fingers twined into the golden fringe of hair at his nape. “So it is!” she said complacently, drawing his head to hers to lock his lips against her own with sweet invitation. Their embrace lasted a long time, lovers still in love, attuned to the needs of each other, wonderfully, openly, aware as a heat formed in each to combine and soar into a consuming flame.

“Our clothes!” Vickie mumbled feebly when they broke and her fevered fingers helped with the removal of his tuxedo, quivering as they came upon his bare flesh.

Brant chuckled, a throaty, deep sound in his chest. “We have an iron here somewhere…I believe…” He stepped over her silk sheath and abruptly swept her into his arms. “This is far more romantic for an old married couple, don’t you think?”

“Umm…” Vickie was swimming in sensation, on a celestial cloud of wonder. It was amazing, after all these years, but the touch of her husband could still send her soaring to the heavens.

“Brant,” she murmured as he brought her to the bed and sent her writhing with longing when his tongue taunted her peaking nipples. “I had this all planned…uh…out for later. I was…oooh, Brant…going to order Chinese food…and, uh, uh, the whole bit.”

His answer was muffled against the hollow of her hip. “We’ll do the whole bit later! We’re older now, you know. We may need a lot of practice to come up with a sister for Mark.”

“Oh,” Vickie agreed, her hands convulsively gripping Brant’s shoulders.

He moved over her and took her lips again, then smiled into her eyes, his devilish, riddled with desire, and also a stern warning.

“One thing, Mrs. Wicker.”

“Yes?” Vickie inquired, only halfway paying attention as she was feeling the crushing, demanding heat of his body against hers.

“You leave the bedsheets alone tonight and—” His arms tightened around her “—you don’t dare leave this room! You may be a star to the world, Mrs. Wicker, but Mr. Wicker will happily tan your famous hide!”

“Bad publicity,” Vickie teased.

“Victoria!”

Arching her body more closely than ever to his warmth, Vickie smiled. Her voice was a whisper of silk against his flesh. “I’ve no intention of leaving, Mr. Wicker, not ever again.”

“I love you, Vickie.”

What marvelous little words, haunting, tearing, exhilarating, adoring. All their meaning in a name. The right name, the right man, the right woman.

“I love you, Brant.”

Heather Graham (b. 1953) is one of the country’s most prominent authors of romance, suspense, and historical fiction. She has been writing bestselling books for nearly three decades, publishing more than 150 novels and selling more than seventy-five million copies worldwide.

Born in Florida to an Irish mother and a Scottish father, Graham attended college at the University of South Florida, where she majored in theater arts. She spent a few years making a living onstage as a back-up vocalist and dinner theater actor, but after the birth of her third child decided to seek work that would allow her to spend more time with her family.

After early efforts writing romance and horror stories, Graham sold her first novel,
When Next We Love
(1982). She went on to write nearly two dozen contemporary romance novels.

In 1989 Graham published
Sweet Savage Eden
, which initiated the Cameron family saga, an epic six-book series that sets romantic drama amid turbulent periods of American history, such as the Civil War. She revisited the nineteenth century in
Runaway
(1994), a story of passion, deception, and murder in Florida, which spawned five sequels of its own.

In the past decade, Graham has written romantic suspense novels such as
Tall, Dark, and Deadly
(1999),
Long, Lean, and Lethal
(2000), and
Dying to Have Her
(2001), as well as supernatural fiction. In 2003’s
Haunted
she created the Harrison Investigation service, a paranormal detective organization that she spun off into four Krewe of Hunters novels in 2011.

Graham lives in Florida, where she writes, scuba dives, and spends time with her husband and five children.

Graham (left) with her sister.

Graham with her family in New Orleans. Pictured left to right: Dennis Pozzessere; Zhenia Yeretskaya Pozzessere; Derek, Shayne, and Chynna Pozzessere; Heather Graham; Jason and Bryee-Annon Pozzessere; and Jeremy Gonzalez.

Graham at a photo shoot in Key West for the promotion of the Flynn Brothers trilogy.