Tender Deception (7 page)

The restaurant he brought her to was one she had never been to before, and not exactly a hole in the wall. It was on the beach, an atmospheric, thatched-roof, dark and cleverly decorated spot. Although expensive, as she realized on perusal of the menu, the dining room was comfortable and casual, intimate with a friendly warmth. Brant ordered a bottle of vintage wine before Vickie could stop him, and he overrode her order for a simple shrimp cocktail, insisting she try the Alaskan king crab legs, the house specialty.

His polite, faultless conversation continued until the wine arrived and the waitress went off to her other duties. Then he leaned forward, his eyes a hard, dark glitter in the glow of the single candle upon the table, and asked, “Okay, Miss Langley”—his voice was edged with derision—“would you mind telling me just what the problem is?”

His attack took her totally unawares and she stared at him blankly, her fingers slowly tightening around the stem of her crystal wineglass. “Problem?” she echoed, annoyed to hear a quiver in her voice. Taking a deep breath, she steadied her tone. “I don’t have any problem, Mr. Wicker, and if I did—not meaning to be rude—I doubt if I would feel inclined to discuss it with you.”

“There is a problem. You do have a problem,” he said grimly. “I assure you, it will only get worse if we don’t come to an understanding.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine while studying her frozen face with an astute intensity.

She returned his scrutiny, her unwilling eyes drawn to his as if they were magnetized. If she had thought that there would be any Hollywood pretty-boy laxity to Brant, she had been sadly mistaken. He was the same man he had been, but three rough years older. Time had taken them both through worlds of rough lessons; if anything, he had matured now to a frightening, dominant virility that had nothing to do with his “star” status. The eyes that stared into hers were unmasked—dark, forceful, and determined with unconcealed annoyance, impatience, and anger.

“Well?” he prodded her with a deceiving softness.

“Brant.” Vickie said with a sigh, folding her hands before her and watching her own fingers. “I know you are accustomed to having people fawning all over you. They like you sight unseen. This may strike you as inconceivable, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I personally don’t care for you. Still, I don’t see where that presents a tremendous problem. We have to work together, yes, but in our business we often have to work closely with people we don’t particularly care for. We are both professionals. There will be no problems as far as the theater is concerned.” Her speech was softly spoken, but arrogantly adamant. Not daring to face him, she kept her eyes on her own hands and waited for an explosion. She knew his cobalt stare was still relentlessly on her, she could sense it beyond a doubt, just as she could sense his very presence, his scent, his nearness. She knew his facial expression hadn’t altered a hair.

“I don’t believe you,” he said calmly.

So much for the expected explosion. Vickie glanced back up at his words, astounded. They had been stated as simple fact.

“What don’t you believe?” she asked, perplexed and irritated. He should have been angry, really angry, ready to wash his hands of her completely. “I assure you, Brant, that we can work together.”

“That I don’t doubt for an instant,” he replied, cutting off his own speech as their food arrived and he thanked the young waitress, who recognized him with jittery awe and had difficulty keeping her mouth closed. After she had again disappeared into the kitchen, probably to tell the rest of the staff that the Brant Wicker was sitting in her station, he leaned forward once more and this time gripped Vickie’s chin firmly so that she couldn’t lower her eyes. “I don’t believe that you don’t like me.”

“Of all the insufferable conceit!” Vickie blared out.

“Not conceit,” he denied calmly, releasing his hold on her chin to pick up his cocktail fork and dig into the crab. “I believe there are lots of people in the world who may not particularly care for me. They may blatantly dislike me. What I don’t believe is that you’re one of them.”

Vickie’s own fork froze in the air with a morsel of tender white crab dangling from it as she stared at him, speechless. What was the matter with the man? She had been rude and blunt enough to lend credence to her words. “I—I suggest you start believing!” she said curtly, as unnerved as she had ever been three years ago. “It’s true!” Except the statement rang false and hollow to her own ears.

He smiled unexpectantly, easing the grimness of his angular features. “It isn’t true. I told you, I do have a good memory sometimes, and, Vickie, I remember we were more than friends. We didn’t part as enemies. So what I don’t understand is why we can’t be friends now.”

“What difference does it make?” she flashed irritably.

“A lot, to me.”

“Why?” Vickie demanded with exasperation, toying with her food.

“Because,” he said softly, “I remember all that you can be. A Victoria as honest and open as the morning sun. A woman full of feeling, vibrancy, and compassion.” As he spoke, his hand moved across the table to cover hers and envelop it in warmth and a gentle, rugged strength.

Flushing, Vickie pulled her hand away. He didn’t stop her. She took a long swallow of her wine before remembering that white wine had precipitated her downfall with him once before. Setting the glass down firmly, she quietly began. “Mr. Wicker—”

“What is this Mr. Wicker bit?” he interrupted irritably. His eyes glittered into hers with an edge of mockery as he dropped civility for insinuation. “Don’t you think such formality is a little ridiculous?”

“No, I don’t,” she replied coolly.

“You know my name; I’ve heard you use it nicely.”

“All right, Brant,” Vickie hissed, challenging him with stormy gray eyes. “You’re talking about three years ago. A night that didn’t mean a damn thing to either of us. Now you’ve sailed back in here, and I should be willing to pick up where you left off, except there’s nothing to be picked up. If you’re looking for a few hot dates while in town now, try Terry.”

“Good Lord, woman!” he ejaculated angrily. “I am not looking for a few hot dates. I’ve had enough so-called ‘hot dates’ to last ten lifetimes. I’m not looking for anything. I want to know why you’re avoiding me and what the hell I could have done to you.”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Vickie stated tonelessly, actually meaning what she said. He hadn’t done anything to her; she had done it all to herself. But he had been the unwitting accomplice in the greatest humiliation and trauma of her life. That she couldn’t explain. “Brant, I’m just not a starry-eyed kid anymore. I don’t want to be your summer entertainment. To be blunt, I simply have no desire to jump back in bed with you.”

“I don’t recall asking you to,” he said with an arched brow.

“Then why don’t you just leave me alone?” she wailed, frustrated and annoyed by his sardonic response.

“I have no intention of leaving you alone,” he grinned, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth before biting calmly into a clump of butter-drenched crab. He chewed and swallowed, watching her speculatively before adding, “I’ve thought of you frequently during the last three years. And I think I know you better than you give me credit for. I’m going to hound you mercilessly until I discover just why you’re behaving like a spoiled brat toward me.”

“That’s a discovery you’ll never make!” Vickie lashed out in cold defense, realizing with horror what she had said only after the incriminating words were out of her mouth.

“Ah-hah!” Brant exclaimed, delving back into his crab. “The truth leaks out!”

“Will you stop,” Vickie grumbled. “There is no truth.” She feigned a great interest in the rim of her wineglass. Damn! She couldn’t allow herself to fall into his goading, persistent traps. “There is no truth,” she repeated. “My life is hectic, that’s all. I don’t have time to run around worrying about you.”

“I see. You don’t have time to be civil.”

“Okay, Brant,” Vickie acknowledged. “I haven’t been particularly civil. Haven’t you heard of people having bad days?”

“Sure, but that isn’t the case now, is it?” He took her hand again before she could withdraw it, sending a tingling sensation through her arm, which ended as a trembling shiver throughout her body. Feeling the shiver, he grinned. “Listen, Victoria,” he said in that soft voice of his that served only to underline grim determination. “I’m not an idiot. I know something is wrong. I’ve seen you pretty cool, but this is different. Waspish arrogance is not you. But I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t pry—for the time being at least—if you’ll make an attempt to act like Vickie around me.”

“Brant!” she declared, trying to break the magnetic spell of his eyes. “I’m not Mary Poppins!”

“I know that!” he laughed, a finger tracing the outer edges of the hand he held.

“I don’t want to be your lover!” she snapped.

“Only time will tell the truth to that,” he mused, nonplussed.

“Please…” Vickie grated out, irritated that his touch seemed to make her breathless. “Do us both a favor, and forget about me. I’ll be just charming while we’re at the theater.”

“Othello forget Desdemona?” he teased in mock horror, his hand tightening around hers. His statement was a guarantee, a promise. It even sounded like a threat.

Vickie finally pulled her eyes from his to sip at her wine and take a deep breath. “Well, then,” she said with dry exasperation, “Othello is going to have a wretched time of it.”

“Of course,” he replied complacently. “Othello was a wretched fellow.” Both of his brows rose with pretended pathos and resignation. “He too was looking for the truth.”

“And it was always right in front of him!” Vickie bit back. “And poor Desdemona was the wretched one. Maligned for minding her own business!”

“Only because Othello loved her so much.”

Their sparring was making her very nervous, so nervous that she feared another slip. The sooner lunch ended the better. She drained her wineglass with indifference. “You are not Othello. I am not Desdemona, and”—she raised an eloquent brow—“thank heavens, no one is in love with anyone.” With her caustic composure steadily fraying, she looked around the room for their waitress.

“Oh, but I am a little bit in love with you.”

Vickie’s startled gaze whipped back to Brant. His eyes were unreadable, indigo pools, telling her only the one thing she already knew. She was dealing with a powerful man, relentlessly determined to have his own way. He never faltered in pursuit; he wouldn’t do so now. But she could never be a one-night fling for him again. She couldn’t take the ultimate truth again. She couldn’t endure learning a second time that no part of his heart really belonged to her. And she couldn’t ever chance his discovering he had a son. In a wild moment of panic she wondered if there would be anything he could do. With his fame and fortune, was it possible that he could prove Mark was his? Take him away or demand partial custody? Hover in her life forever?

No, she assured herself, there was nothing Brant could do. But the thought did nothing for her. The possibility of his figuring out the truth was still terrifying. She was going to have to start lying like the devil.

“Tell me,” she demanded with dry cynicism, “is this one of your new Hollywood practices? Falling a little bit in love with all your leading ladies? Is that part of your success?”

“No,” he replied easily, handing his credit card to the waitress, who had ignored Vickie but practically tripped over her own feet in her haste to scamper to Brant’s summons. When the girl was gone, Brant hunched his shoulders conspiratorially over the table, bringing their power-radiating breadth uncomfortably close. He didn’t touch Vickie, but she felt as if he held her within the blue sea of his eyes. It was a chilling, fascinating prison, one that locked her against her will, against her well-performed nonchalance.

“I fall in love only with raven-haired beauties. The ones with mysterious gray eyes and deep dark secrets. The ones I always loved a little.”

“Really, Brant,” Vickie protested huskily. “My memory isn’t all that bad. You were ‘in love’ with Lenore.”

“Ah, so you remember Lenore. Is that why you’re playing cold fish?”

“No,” Vickie lied smoothly. “I was dating Langley myself at the time. We-er-we were married shortly after you left.”

“What happened?” Brant asked softly.

“He died.”

“I’m sorry.”

The compassion emanating from Brant was real. Vickie bit her lip, appalled at herself for stating such a horrible fabrication.

“I tried to see you, you know,” Brant said abruptly.

“Oh, Brant, please!” Vickie groaned, leaning back in her seat to put distance between them. “I know. You apologized. There was nothing to apologize for. I felt bad for you that night, I came to be with you of my own free will. We went to bed. You went on with your life, I went on with mine.”

“But not quite the same,” he said severely, and she eyed him with stubborn silence as he continued. “Vickie, the memory of that night is a strong one for me. It has haunted me ever since. Don’t keep trying to tell me it was nothing to you. Your sheet trick was clever, but I wasn’t all that drunk. You were a virgin that night—”

“Brant!” Vickie fought the flush that rose to her cheeks. “I don’t even remember!”

“The hell you don’t!” he growled forcefully, and the hard set to his well-defined chin kept her from protesting afresh.

She glanced uneasily around before leaning toward him, the hardness in her stare equaling his. “I repeat,” she stated heatedly. “What difference does any of this make now? You keep talking about three irrelevant years ago! I’ve been married since. I’ve had a child. You’ve had your numerous affairs. We are working together now, and that’s all. I don’t like to discuss the past!”

“I’m discussing the past so that we can get to the future,” Brant said, strumming forceful fingers upon the table. “Me-thinks, my lady, that thou doth protest too much,” he quoted lightly. “And I also think you’re one hell of a liar.”

“Brant—”

“No, Vickie.” He cut her off firmly, his eyes blazing despite his low tone. “I came back here for Monte, but I came back for another reason too. You, my dear Miss Langley. In all my consequent ‘affairs’ as you call them, I’ve been looking for something. Something real, something honest. Something we could have had.”