Tender Deception (8 page)

“Don’t!” Vickie objected fiercely. “Talk about liars! You walked out of here with nothing on your mind but your star-studded future! You’re inventing things that didn’t exist! You’re all talk, and I’m just too old to fall for it.”

“Wrong!”

The ogling waitress brought the credit card and form to the table and Brant and Vickie both fell silent as he signed in a large distinct flourish. Preoccupied, Brant still gave the girl a polite smile, obligingly signing the autographs she requested with a pleasant banter. Lulled by his tone, Vickie began to believe their too personal conversation would be over.

But when the waitress had gone, he turned back to her with none of his grim fervor lost. “Wrong, Vickie. I’m not talk—you know damned well I never was.”

“You’re a Hollywood star,” she sniffed derisively.

“I’m a man,” he corrected her quietly. “The same man I was before. I happen to be an actor, which makes it rather incongruous that an actress should scorn my livelihood.”

Vickie inclined her head skeptically. “Sorry.”

Rising, Brant assisted her from her chair. She was forced into greater awareness of his dominating physique. An involuntary shiver rippled down her spine, and she felt her breathing grow ragged.

“Come, my lady,” he chuckled, his voice deep and throaty in her ear, “and I’ll shortly relieve you of my proximity.”

She graced him with a very baleful glare that caused his grin to deepen devilishly. “I’ll relieve you of my proximity for the time, that is,” he promised with amused solemnity. “You are going to be seeing a lot of me.”

“Really? Your confidence is amazing.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t suggest a wager against me. I want you, my sweet leading lady, and I intend to get you.”

The door to the restaurant swung shut behind them and Vickie turned to him bitterly as they strolled for the Mercedes.

“I thought you weren’t going to ask me to bed.”

“I haven’t—yet. We’re going to start with basics.”

“You’ll excuse me,” she retorted, raising an arched brow as he ushered her into the passenger seat, “if I don’t happen to be around for your basics, since I’ve stated I’m not interested in the finale.”

His annoying, knowing grin never left his face. His blue eyes raked over her form in a probing, assessing gaze.

“You’ll be around. We both know it. The only one you’re lying to is yourself. Why, I don’t know. But I think I’ve already solved half of my dilemma. You’re afraid of me. Now, the question is why.”

“S
CENE THREE—FIVE MINUTES.”

Jim was a damned good stage manager, Vickie mused idly as she watched him call his command. A no-nonsense person, he seldom smiled or joined in any of the revelry natural to the cast. But he held their respect. He kept the troop together and had a talent for whipping them into shape when necessary. Monte, although a superb director, was too much of a nice guy. He was personally attached to each of his cast members. At times he’d yell, but then would become pliable in their hands.

Chewing on the nub of her pencil, her legs stretched comfortably on the chair before her, Vickie decided the two men were a great pair. Monte was genius; Jim was discipline.

Brant, she admitted grudgingly, was both in one. When he rehearsed, he was business. He didn’t miss a cue, he didn’t cause a minute’s waste of time. He accepted direction gracefully while still imbuing his character with the irrefutable uniqueness of his talent. Offstage, he would tease. He had already brought the entire cast and crew around to lighthearted acceptance. He was the star, the big man brought in for the season. But no one would ever know it. Which was nice, Vickie thought dryly. His down-to-earth humanity had been one of the things she had once loved him for…

Except now, she was heartily resenting him. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to deal with an egotistical snob whom everyone else was having difficulty stomaching. She was the only one feigning polite welcome. But then she was the only one wishing Brant back in his Beverly Hills manor or Madison Avenue town house.

And she was the only one who knew he was capable of being ruthlessly demanding and persistent. It was doubtful that anyone could underestimate him. Perpetually polite and especially pleasant to those who were nervous around him, Brant wore a tangible aura of determination. If his height and lean, muscled build did not quell a stout heart, the strong line of his profile and piercing intensity of his eyes would. With a quirk of amusement Vickie decided he was not a person she would like to run into in a dark alley at night.

Monte, sitting beside her, stretched, groaned, and rubbed the back of his neck before casting a glance her way. “How was lunch?”

The question startled her. She had been sitting next to him for the past two hours, watching the progression of the first two scenes—scenes in which Desdemona didn’t appear. He had spoken to her only occasionally, and then only to make a general comment or issue a rhetorical question that he would immediately answer himself.

“Lunch was fine,” she told him, assuming a casual tone even as she attempted too late to hide a frown. She could still remember and bristle at the memory of Brant laughing at her when she haughtily informed him she was definitely not afraid of him.

“What have you got against Brant?” Monte quizzed her pointedly.

“Nothing!” Vickie protested. She shifted her legs and crossed one ankle over the other, comfortable in her jeans.

“You’re bristling!” Monte chuckled. “I don’t believe it, and I love it. My little, untouchable Ice Maiden bristling!”

“I am not bristling,” Vickie objected with a sigh. “I’m just not all that enamored of the man. And I’m not really sure why you brought him in for Othello. The dark man? The moor?” She laughed, pointing her pencil at Brant who was still onstage conversing with Bobby, who was playing Iago. “You couldn’t have found a man more fair if you would have scoured half the country.”

Monte gave her his full, reproachful attention. “You’ve heard him,” he told her sternly. “His Shakespeare is untouchable. I’ve seen him do this particular play before with remarkable results. You know yourself what can be done with good stage makeup.” Shrugging, Monte continued with even a stronger note of rebuke. “Brant is an exceptional actor. He could walk on that stage in jeans and a T-shirt and by the time he walked off half the audience would be ready to swear he had been in period costume.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Vickie said noncommittally.

“Damn right, I’m right!” Monte agreed. “And as a favor to me, I’d like you to act a little more decently. I was lucky to get him. He only came here as a personal favor. You know I couldn’t possibly pay the salary he could be receiving elsewhere.”

“Well,” Vickie said curtly, “he should have come as a personal favor to you. There wouldn’t have been a Brant Wicker if it weren’t for you.”

Monte waved a thin hand in the air dismissively. “That’s where you’re wrong, Vick, and I think you know it. Brant would have gotten a break somewhere else. He never needed much luck; he had talent.”

Vickie said nothing in reply. She was being churlish, and she knew it. She couldn’t deny Brant’s acting ability, and she winced at herself as she argued against him. Had they never met, she would have been thrilled with the prospect of sharing the stage with him. She deplored her own attitude and made a mental note to keep her personal feelings entirely to herself. It was sad to pride oneself on professional ethics and sophisticated work habits and then turn around and sound like a spiteful ingénue.

“Onstage. Scene three!” Jim called.

“You heard my main man,” Monte said, smiling at her wryly. There were times when Jim even told Monte what to do.

“Yes, and I’m rushing to obey!” Vickie chuckled. Springing to her feet with script and pencil in hand, she started for the stage.

“Victoria.” Monte stopped her quietly.

She stopped at once and glanced back at him curiously.

“I meant what I said. Please be decent to Brant.” Seeing the stubborn set to her chin, he added softly, “Please. I’m not threatening you, you know that. Just be nice and decent for me.”

“Monte!” Vickie chuckled, a mischievous twinkle flickering in her eyes. “When am I ever indecent?” Sobering, she added, “I’m sorry, Monte. You’re right, Brant is exceptional; we’re lucky to have him. And I shall be charming and entirely decent!”

She spun gracefully around and bound for the stage, accepting a hand from Bobby to leap up to the planking.

Monte’s voice took on its professional “directorial” tone. “Duke, senators, upstage right at the table. Messenger, Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Desdemona, offstage left. Go!”

Blocking was slow and tedious. It was a time when the actors were free to speak, make suggestions, voice complaints, and clarify misunderstandings of any lines. Vickie, who didn’t enter until halfway through the scene, when she was called upon to declare her love for her new husband before her father and the duke, sat on the planked floor for thirty minutes before she heard her own cue, the final line of a speech by her father.

Her part of the scene went well. Only moments later, the duke, the senator, and others made their exits. Then came Othello’s final line entreating her to come with him: “Come Desdemona, I have but an hour of love, of worldly matters and direction, to spend with thee. We must obey the time.”

“Put your arm around her waist,” Monte directed Brant. “Vickie, you do the same, but slowly as you watch him, having the action last while you walk offstage.”

Brant did not move his arm as they reached the wing. “You can let go now,” Vickie said dryly.

He complied with a grin. “Pity. Although who knows? By the time we reach act five, I may be happy to smother you.”

“I guess I’m lucky this is just a play,” she replied sweetly. Damn! So much for decency, but there was something about his look and touch that goaded her, no matter how earnest her intentions were to be pleasant.

“I guess you are,” Brant smiled, his voice subdued, belying his true thoughts. His blue gaze swept her briefly. “Excuse me, I promised to watch the end of the scene for Bobby.”

He turned on his heels and left her with the silent agility of a cat to take a seat near Monte and focus on the speeches of Iago and Roderigo that ended the act. Vickie remained behind the drawn curtain and sank weakly to the floor, furious to find herself shaking. She couldn’t go on like this, being affected by every encounter with him. They were acting, but his possessive hand on her hip had sent shivers racing down her spine. But he had walked away from her. That was what she wanted. He had said he intended to have her, yet today he was almost ignoring her.

Good. She was beginning to feel an irresistible tug to respond, to savor his touch whenever it fell her way. Oh, no! she wailed silently to herself. Not again. Never again. No matter what he said about his feelings, about being “a little bit in love,” she knew him! His love was an expansive thing. He was going to leave again, as he had before. And he would be “a little bit in love” a dozen times.

No. She would never set herself up for another fall. It was a good thing, a marvelous thing, that he had dropped all pretense and chosen to ignore her.

They ran the full act once more, surprisingly smoothly, before Monte told them all they could leave after he had given them each a few personal notes and instructions. Quickly heading for the door, Vickie was stopped by Brant’s all-encompassing call. “Hey! Has anybody seen my script?”

Sighing, Vickie stopped walking and returned to the tables where they had scattered their belongings. They were an ensemble; if one member had a problem, all helped to solve it so Connie, Bobby, and Terry were crawling around the tables.

“How about backstage?” Vickie asked Brant.

He shrugged. “Good idea. Thanks.”

She nervously followed him back to the left wing, where he did find the script on the podium. “Found it!” His voice rang out. “Thanks, everyone!”

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Vickie murmured politely, remembering her resolution.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he corrected her.

Startled, she glanced at him warily, wondering what he now intended to contrive. But he wore that expression of amusement that never failed to irritate her. He knew her thoughts.

“Prickly, aren’t you?” he drawled, his stillness denoting a leashed energy that was all the more potent and vital. “I come at night,” he told her, chuckling, “to help Smoky in the scene shop. Not to attack unwilling actresses.”

“I hardly thought you intended to attack me,” Vickie replied airily. “Good-bye.”

She knew he watched her as she walked away, and she knew he still grinned with that knowing amusement. The hell with him, she decided.

Chin held high, she walked briskly through the empty dining room out to the Volvo, supremely agitated and thoroughly furious with herself for being upset in the first place. What the hell was happening to her? Brant was just a man, and she knew how to deal with men.

Still, she practically ripped the car door from its hinges. Gritting her teeth, she decided it was better to take her frustrations out on the steel of the car than to expose them as she had with Monte. Sticking her key into the ignition with a vengeance, she was further irritated to find the old Volvo refusing to start. And in her reckless irritation she quickly flooded the engine.

Unbelieving, she kept at the car, knowing she should leave it alone, but unable to do so. Finally she pulled the key from the starter with disgust. She crawled out of the car, and sure she was alone, kicked a wheel viciously.

Chastising herself as she admitted defeat, she looked around the parking lot hastily for a ride. Bobby’s white Cutlass was just pulling out to the highway and she raced after it, slowing when she realized he was too far away and would never see her. Even as she waved her arms frantically, the Cutlass became swallowed up in the afternoon traffic. Disgusted, Vickie walked back to the Volvo, bitterly wondering why her day was going so badly. Everyone was gone.

Except Brant. He was leaning against the Volvo, his frame imposing against the compact car, his arms casually crossed as a subtle half grin lit his face. His golden hair rippled in the slight breeze, that one unruly piece softly draped over his forehead. “Having a problem?” he inquired.