Tender Deception (3 page)

Nervously she rolled the sheets into a ball, doubting he could possibly awaken, but watching him warily nevertheless. She turned from him, her tears dried. She did not look back, and she did not cry again.

He awoke with the most godawful hangover he had ever had in his life. His head pounded with the ferocity of a thousand steel bands. His tongue felt dry and raspy, as if it had swollen to twice its normal size. Far worse than his physical pain was the ache and self-chastisement of memory. He reached for her, but she was gone. What had he done? He frowned, wincing as the motion increased the pounding in his head. Damn, it was all so vague. A mixture of beauty, of sweetness, of remorse. She had come to him, yes, but she was young, and he knew better.

No matter how delectable the fruit. No matter how tempting the offer. He knew the girl he had taken, and she had deserved so much more. So much more than a drunken bum wallowing in self-pity. In all of his twenty-nine years, he had never felt a greater sense of shame. He was going to have to find her, to make it up to her.

His frown softened as a smile curved his lips. It wouldn’t be hard. The memory of exquisite beauty and sweet ecstasy lingered along with the shame of his behavior. She wasn’t so terribly young. Many another man would have thought her quite ripe and mature…and now it seemed as if he would be around for a while. Maybe something precious had been right under his nose all along…

He groaned as he shifted on the bed, suddenly realizing that he had slept on a bare mattress. God, what had happened? What had he done? Pain blazoned through him again. He couldn’t remember if she had come to him completely willingly, or if…He couldn’t bear the thought, nor was he really sure. He remembered a piece of a rare heaven, so good, so shatteringly exciting that only a woman of experience should have been able to create it. But he had been so sure of her innocence, of her guileless honesty. Hell, he wasn’t going to solve any riddles today. He would seek her out, but not today. Today he was going to have to learn to live with himself again. He swore to make a thousand tomorrows sweet for her. He closed his eyes with determination, remorse, and a strange wonder. But even closing his eyes hurt.

The phone rang. He almost didn’t answer it. But he did, groggily, and snapped to attention when he heard his agent’s voice. Then his head began to swim with the glittering future he thought he had lost.

In his last days at the theater, she knew that he watched her, she knew that he tried to see her. She avoided him as she would the plague, but did it with a very careful nonchalance. And when he finally caught her on his last day in town, she was as cool as a mountain stream. She pretended to be hiding annoyance when he called her name.

“About the other night—” He began catching her arm.

“What about it?”

The boredom in her drawl set him back.

“I—uh—I wanted to apologize. I wanted to see—” He was going to say “you again,” but her brittle chuckle cut him off.

“Apologize? Whatever for? We’re both adults.” She shrugged with indifference. “It was nothing.”

“Wait a—”

“I’m sorry,” she smiled, pulling her arm away. “I can’t wait. I have a date waiting for me.”

He released her immediately, stunned and perplexed. “Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye,” she turned airily, and clipped her heels briskly across the floor.

But she couldn’t leave it at that. She had to turn around. She would probably never see him again, unless it was on a television screen, or in one of those fan magazines.

“Hey!” she called cheerily. He looked at her with the hard blue stare that was about to become famous.

“Good luck!” she called with a thumbs-up sign. “Break a leg in Hollywood!”

“Thanks.”

He watched her as she walked away, deciding he was no judge of human character. He didn’t mean a damn thing to her! Women were a mystery, he thought with a dry chuckle. But one day…he’d like to see that little raven-haired vixen again. Now he could go on to his new life with a clear conscience.

He whistled happily as he left the theater. All his memories could be good ones.

“A
LL RIGHT, LET’S CALL
it quits for today.”

Vickie closed her script and yawned. First readings were seldom very exciting, especially when the play was Shakespeare’s
Othello,
which she knew like the back of her hand, as she had used it for the basis of her senior thesis back at
FSU
. Running her expressive gray eyes over the rest of the cast, she decided that no one had been particularly up for any real work today. Her fellow thespians were also yawning, stretching, and fumbling with their gear.

The same voice growled, “Get with it by tonight, guys!”

Vickie gave her director, Monte Clayton, a guilty smile. They were all acting like a group of disgruntled first-year drama students. Monte Clayton’s Dinner Theatre was one of the finest in the eastern United States, possibly even the country. They were not a star-oriented ensemble, but a troop of dedicated, hand-picked actors and actresses who had worked together day and night for years. They constantly strove to bring their best work to a public long attuned to knowing that an evening at Monte’s was well worth the price of the ticket—the food and performances were consistently excellent.

Vickie glanced at her wristwatch, surprised to see that they had broken up early. She was not due to pick Mark up from nursery school for almost two hours. Grinning, she decided to badger Monte for a while to see if he would give in and tell her the name of their mystery guest artist who would be playing Othello to her Desdemona.

Monte often gave in to her. She was only dimly aware that she was his most respected and admired actress, and that that was the reason. Whatever homage was paid her she accepted with a quiet grace that also made her a personal favorite of the other cast members. Despite the fact that she was a private person and seldom aired her own problems, she was the one to whom the others brought their day-to-day troubles.

Amidst friendly calls of “See ya later,” and “Catch ya tonight,” Vickie flung her bag over her shoulder and moved toward the stage, where Monte was scribbling ideas that had come to him during the reading. He looked up with surprise as Vickie approached him, and his eyes narrowed with a wary twinkle. On a cheerfully firm note he remarked, “You can stop right there, Miss Victoria Langley. I see that shade of feminine connivery in in your eyes, and I am not giving you a hint about our guest artist until I make the announcement tonight to the entire cast.”

“Monte!” Vickie declared in a hurt tone. “I’m not here to pry! I have some extra time, and I thought you might buy me a cup of coffee.”

Monte gazed at her sternly for a moment before releasing a resigned sigh. “Sure, love!” he chuckled. “I wish I could believe you were after the pleasure of my company. But that’s okay, I like you trying to cajole me, even if the motives are devious.” Rising with a sprightly jump, he pointed to a front row table. “Have a seat, Vick. I’ll go ‘buy’ the coffee.”

Vickie smiled, headed for the table and tossed her bag on one chair while sliding into the other. She opened her script and glanced idly over it, then tossed it on top of her bag. She would have her lines down pat within the next few days, wanting to have the tediousness of that chore out of the way early so that she could concentrate on the character. At the moment though, she was in no great hurry. Glancing around the room with tender affection, she scanned the hundred silent tables and the darkened stage presently set for the evening’s performance of
Godspell
. She had been with Monte for two years now—two good years that had given her a pleasant and comfortable livelihood and kept her happy and eternally busy. She had little time for anything but the theater and her toddler son, Mark, and that was the way she wanted it. Her social life extended to her family and friendships with the other troop members, and that was the way she wanted it. She really had no time for men, which was fine with her.

She grinned, thinking of the group’s nickname for her—Ice Maiden. Like many a performer, Vickie was shy offstage, and, admittedly, just not interested in any serious dating. She enjoyed friendly outings with an occasional admirer who pursued her, but having been burned once, she was too wise to get involved with any man. Victoria Langley, illustrious leading lady of the theater, was still basically Vickie Dalton of the small town of Bradenton. She had never grown bitter, but she had developed a frame of hard steel.

Without warning, her glance around the room brought back one unpleasant memory, one so well-buried she was shocked that it had entered her mind. Foolish! she admonished herself, and yet a feeling of uneasiness persisted. Annoyed, she calmly reminded herself that what had been, was done, finished; it had no bearing on the present or future. Life always went on, and for her it went on well.

“Why the sad eyes?” Monte demanded as he returned with two cups of steaming black coffee. Setting them down, he swung a wiry leg over a chair and joined her.

“Sad?” she repeated, focusing luminous gray eyes on him, then switching back to a smile. “I’m not sad at all. I was just thinking about this place and all it has done for me.”

Monte’s thin features broke into a wide grin. “When I look at you now, it is hard to remember that when I first met you, you were nothing but a gangly no-account kid hanging around the stage doors.” His grin slipped a little. Vickie had been one of the numerous college kids who always came his way, willing to do anything to slip a foot into the door of a professional theater.

He hadn’t thought much of her, just another young girl, all saucer eyes and dark black hair, who disappeared at the end of a summer season. Then, a year later, he had discovered her again, playing a tear-jerking and incredible Juliet on a Charleston stage. After the play he found her backstage and immediately offered her a permanent, well-paying job with him, no questions asked.

The skinny kid had matured into a brilliant and hard-working actress, now shapely with a mane of long, gleaming hair. She wasn’t exactly beautiful; her nose was a trifle too tilted, and the gray eyes, with thick inky black lashes, were still too big for her fragile bone structure. But she arrested one’s attention with sheer vivacity. Many a greater beauty could sit in a room, but all eyes would turn to Victoria, and hearts would thud at her soft-spoken, gracious manner. Like my own! Monte thought wistfully. He, the cool director, had fallen head over heels in love with her, only to be crushed when she nicely informed him that if he had anything in mind other than a professional relationship, she would leave.

Swallowing his ego, pride, and desire, he had insisted she stay. The years had proved him wise. Unwilling to give her love, Vickie gave him her tireless energy. She expended her multifaceted resources faultlessly for the theater and him, pitching in with a good-natured cheer to help in any circumstance. She earned the regard of the crew and the restaurant employees as well as the cast—building, painting, sewing costumes, and cleaning tables if needed—a sterling example for anyone associated with Monte’s. Although it was clear she would never be his wife or lover, she was his friend, a valued one.

Vickie widened her smile and remarked, “I was such a stage-struck kid! And I grew up lucky. I got to live my dreams. I remember…” Her voice trailed off suddenly as that unbidden memory replaced the one she had been about to relate. Damn! she told herself, thoroughly disgusted and annoyed. What was the matter with her today? Taking a sip of her coffee and lowering murky lashes over her eyes to hide them, she determinedly pushed the discomfort back where it belonged—out of her mind!

“Remember what?” Monte asked, eyeing her quizzically.

“Oh, nothing. Well, lots of things, really!” She resolutely laughed. “Remember when we did
The Heiress
and Patty Shaffer lost her contact lens in the tea set?”

Monte threw back his graying head and practically roared with laughter. “Unfortunately I do! How about the night Harry Blackwell was making his dramatic exit in Blood Wedding and the door fell in on him?”

As they chuckled over each disastrous absurdity, Vickie totally forgot her uneasiness. Her natural exuberance brushed it aside, and she felt smug with her life. It was a good one, and she loved it. She even forgot her original reason for cornering Monte as they talked. Finally she realized she had fiddled away far more time than she had intended, and unless she got going, she would be late in picking up Mark.

Jumping hastily to her feet, she wailed, “Darn your hide, Monte. I had meant to cajole that name from you, and you made me forget all about it. Now I have to go!” She gave him a beseeching look, arching her brows. “Come on, Monte, how about giving me a clue at least?”

“No way!” he responded with a firm grin. “Not this time. You are going to be enthralled along with everyone else!”

“Turkey!” she snorted teasingly. “Okay,” she sighed in a martyrlike tone. “Make me suffer!”

“It won’t be for long,” Monte promised. “I’ll tell you everything after tonight’s show. Might as well”—he shrugged—“he’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Just as you say, boss man, see you tonight!” Vickie swung her bag over her shoulder, grabbed her script, and kissed his weathered cheek.

“I’m glad to hear you remember I’m the boss!” he chuckled gruffly.

Wrinkling her nose at him, Vickie waved and walked out the doors, blinking beneath the glare of the blinding sunlight. It was going to be a hot summer. It wasn’t the first of June yet, and already they were hitting temperature readings in the nineties. But she was a Floridian, accustomed to the heat, and an avid fan of the endless white beaches of her native state—a happy, often barefoot waif on the sands.

Settling into the driver’s seat of her sturdy old Volvo, she hummed a tune for the night’s show.
Godspell
was fun to do. She would be sorry when its run ended, although she truly loved to do Shakespeare, especially with a director like Monte. He brought so much to a play, listening to and respecting the opinions of his players. Of course, though, his word was final.