Authors: Heather Graham
As if from a great distance, she heard her own voice incredibly indifferent. “All right, if that’s what you want to do. I believe the drive is several hours.”
Brant grimaced. “It’s not all that bad. If we can leave the theater by midnight, we’ll reach the beach house by three.”
Vickie started as she found the saucer being patiently tugged from her hand and the running spigot being turned off. “I really do think that that thing is clean—sterile enough for a newborn,” Brant said dryly. “Why in hell are you so frightened of me?”
Denial rose immediately to her lips. “I’m not frightened of you.”
But she was, more so than ever with him hovering over her. She was tall, but the top of her head merely came to his chin, his aggressive masculinity an aura that engulfed her. And the look in his eyes—tender, compassionate, protectively curious—was far more frightening than even his anger. God help me, she thought, tilting her head proudly, don’t let him push now because I don’t think I can handle it.
But Brant didn’t push. “Okay,” he said agreeably, putting both hands on her slender shoulders and firmly leading her out of the kitchen, “you’re not afraid of me. Good. Then go get dressed.”
“For what?” Vickie asked, noting suddenly that he was wearing a superbly tailored lightweight leisure suit that enhanced the clean lines of his trim, broad-shouldered build.
“We’re going to lunch.”
“But we’re leaving tonight!”
“So? If I’m planning on marrying you shortly, I have to get in a few dates first.”
Annoyed, Vickie planted her feet firmly on the ground and faced him. “I wish you would quit that,” she stated more harshly than she had intended.
“Quit what?”
“Joking like that—”
“I’m not joking.”
And one look at his grim-jawed determination quickly convinced her that he wasn’t joking.
“Brant—” she began with a strangled sound.
He placed a strong hand in the air, stopping her speech as if he had power over her vocal cords. “Stop. I’ll go a little easier. I have to keep reminding myself that although I’ve known for almost three years that I was going to marry you, this is new to you.”
“Brant, I can never marry you!” Vickie gasped with dismay.
“There are no nevers, Vickie,” he said calmly, smiling as he approached her and reached to raise her chin. “Now”—he spun her astonished, pliable form around and prodded her toward the bedroom—“go find something to set off that stunning figure and face. I’m taking you to meet a friend of mine, and I know he’s going to be green with envy.”
Vickie tried uselessly to mouth words, but none came to her lips. It was impossible to argue with Brant anyway; he ignored what he didn’t want to hear and easily overrode his opponent.
When she reached her bedroom, she didn’t have to think. Her femininity took over. Brant wanted to impress a friend, and she couldn’t help but do her best to assist him, she told herself, swiftly searching her closet, looking for something light and casual but enticing.
A few minutes later she was critically evaluating her reflection. The dress was perfect. It was white, setting off the black sheen of her hair and the golden summer tan that covered her. The silk skirt flowed when she walked; both bodice and back were revealing but modest. A wide gold belt cinched her waistline, emphasizing its slenderness.
With a last stroke of a brush through her loose hair, Vickie closed a door in her mind. She could never marry Brant. The web of deception she had played would destroy them. But she had to be with him. She had to play this game to the end.
He was intensely engrossed in the morning paper when she emerged from her room, so engrossed that he didn’t hear her light footfalls. Vickie moved behind his chair and placed a hand tentatively on his shoulder, shying away when he deftly caught it with his own without looking up. He smiled into the paper, then with amazing dexterity swung her around so that the paper disappeared and she gracefully fell to his lap simultaneously. Flushing, Vickie found herself chuckling at the pleased mischief in his eyes.
“I could have sworn you didn’t hear me!” she murmured.
“I didn’t,” he agreed, the devilish leer of his eyes heart-stopping. “But I would have known that delicious scent a mile away.”
Vickie was not surprised when his lips lowered over hers. She savored the sweet anticipation of their meeting. She circled willing arms around his neck, playing her fingers down its corded length, wallowing in the strength that held her, immersed in the flow of heat. Being loved by Brant was being dazzled by the sunlight and caressed by the moon all in one. The touch of his rough fingers was astoundingly earthy and sensual, yet it held the edge of starlit magic, a sheer physical magnetism that compelled her to another plane.
Her flesh was keenly sensitized to his, and she no longer attempted any form of denial. Her lips parted to his command; her tongue eagerly sought his. She could barely breathe as their embrace seemed to continue into eternity, nor did she care. As their mouths met in demanding exploration, they touched wildly, savoring each other’s touch, and as Brant became newly familiar with the curves that boldly beckoned him through the soft touch of fabric, Vickie brought tenderly searching fingers over the rough tweed of his jacket, hypnotized by the feel and scent of him, and by the radiating energy of his being. She never felt so entirely alive as when she touched him, and felt his touch upon her. The flesh of her throat quavered as he lightly stroked it, as he held her, as the sensitive deep valley between her breasts where his moist kiss wandered shuddered, creating in its wake a tide that engulfed with molten fire.
She could refuse him nothing. Time and space had stood still to become a golden field of all-consuming, sensuous pleasure, pleasure heightened by the sweet anticipation of long-denied, greater joys to come. Floating, spinning, mindless, Vickie lost herself in the dual pounding of their hearts, in the weakening, dizzying gaspings that were her best effort at breathing.
Suddenly she found herself on her feet, set aside, as Brant rose beside her, startlingly angry. Quickly masking the hurt in her eyes, Vickie spun away from him, bewildered, straining for a sense of dignity.
“We’d better get going,” was all that Brant had to say in way of explanation, his voice husky but curiously harsh.
They were in the car and halfway over the causeway before either of them spoke again, and surprisingly it was Vickie, her tone admirably impersonal and flatly clinical.
“I don’t understand you, Brant. Supposedly you want me enough to marry me, and then when you can obviously have anything—”
He turned to her briefly with a frown, making an untouchable granite of his severe features. “You don’t understand. I do want you, but I want you wanting me every bit as fervently—and consciously. Not just physically. Not just for the moment. I want you to know before I walk into a room that it’s me that you want. I don’t want you ever to think you came to me in an instant of madness—and it has nothing to do with marrying you. I want to marry you no matter what.”
Harsh laughter bubbled in Vickie’s throat, laughter that she bitterly contained. She had wanted Brant for three years, three years when despite all resolution she had been plagued by dreams that he would walk back into her life. These dreams had seemed impossible, had made all else impossible. But Vickie and Brant were on different wave lengths. Again, arguing was futile.
There was a hint of rain in the air, drawing a sharp but pleasing scent of salt from the bay. Cumulus clouds, puffed and magical, billowed high over the water, not yet containing the gray of the storm that would surely come by evening. The causeway was taking them out to the gulf islands, and Vickie forced herself to turn her mind to the immediate future.
“Where are we going?” she asked softly.
If Brant noticed her complete change of subject and tone, he gave no sign. His eyes following the expanse of the bridge were a frosty, unreadable blue.
“To the best Italian restaurant this side of Verona,” he told her lightly. “Owned and operated by an old friend, fraternity brother, and Marine pal of mine. You should like him.” Brant cast her a glance which was now amused. “He’s one of your biggest fans.”
“Mine!”
“Um. He sees every show at Monte’s. He’s sent me each interview with you in it for the last two years.”
“I don’t believe you!” Vickie charged, laughing, only to sober quickly at Brant’s immediate reply: “I never lie.”
Somewhat resentfully, she was sure he never did. Was there any safe avenue of conversation between them?
“What’s your friend’s name?” she inquired quickly.
“Frank, Frank Leonini. I spent as much time growing up in his house as I did in my own. You might say you’re meeting part of the family.”
He flashed her a dazzling smile, and suddenly Vickie relaxed He had just set the tone for the afternoon. There would be no questions, no pressure. It was just a date, a get-to-know-you date. And she was looking forward to the meal, her spirits soaring as high as the cumulus clouds.
A few moments later they drove down a mile of white beach, then abruptly turned down a pine trail. At its end, set high on a dune, was a rustic wooden structure with carved script declaring
MAMA LEONINI’S
.
The building was charming, secluded in the pine glen. Brant smiled at Vickie’s obvious pleasure as he escorted her over a planked path that bridged a tiny stream alive with various vines and orchids and tropical fish. “Wait till you see where we’re eating!” he advised her.
The interior, did, if anything, outshine the charming exterior. The food could be horrible, she decided, and people would still come to sit in this atmosphere.
A grotto had been created, a cavern of flowers, candles, breathtaking murals, and aromatic scents that titillated the nostrils. The setting was perfect for the plump lady with the dark hair and olive complexion who unabashedly descended upon them as soon as they entered, crying first, “Brant!” then spewing into rapid Italian that left Vickie with her head spinning just to listen.
Brant laughingly hugged the woman, begging, “Slow down, Mama! And meet Vickie.”
With cheery and openly curious eyes, Mama Leonini turned to Vickie with a wide, encompassing smile. “I’m sorry,
figlio mio,
but you understand”—she reached on tiptoe to tousle Brant’s hair as if he were a small, wayward child—“it has been so long! Vickie, is it? Welcome, welcome.” With her warm brown eyes sparkling merrily away, she turned back to Brant.
“Che bella,
eh?”
“Yes,” Brant chuckled, “Vickie is beautiful. Maybe I’d better not see Frankie!”
“Ach! My son!” Mama Leonini shook her head in lament and Vickie wasn’t sure if it was Brant or Frankie she referred to. Vickie didn’t have long to ponder the question. Mama Leonini slipped an arm conspiratorially through Vickie’s and led her past the tables of scattered diners, whispering, “Both these boys of mine—tall, strong and rugged! But do I have a grandchild to show for it? No! Not even a daughter-in-law to love!”
“I’m trying to change that,” Brant whispered from behind them. “But don’t push, Mama, this one is skittish.”
Vickie hadn’t had a chance to utter a word, and she wasn’t to get a chance for several minutes. She had been propelled out of the main dining room to an outdoor, covered terrace that overlooked the tranquil beach and a scattering of breeze-wafted palms. But like the main dining room, the terrace was as elegant as a Paris cafe on the Champs-Élysées. Tables and settings were in snowy white and bright red and candles flickered on the tables, not obliterated by the sun. And as Brant cordially seated Vickie in a plush velvet chair, she once more glanced up as a spew of Italian in a rich baritone vibrated into the clean air.
The voice had to be Frankie’s. He was as tall and broad as Brant, suavely good-looking, and as dark as Brant was light. As his mother had, he embraced Brant with no hesitation, then turned swiftly to Vickie, his dark eyes appreciative of her.
“Victoria!” he breathed, and his voice was a caress. He took her hand with tender gallantry. “Once again Brant wins out!” His statement was given with no rancor, yet it was endearingly sincere.
“You must be Frankie,” Vickie smiled, unable to do anything but enjoy the camaraderie of those around her. It was a family, a close-knit family, and she had been decreed a part of it.
“Yes, a heartbroken Frankie, I’m afraid!” he told her.
“Cut the dramatics,” Brant interposed with a false severity. “I’m supposed to be the actor, you know.”
“Hey, what dramatics?” Frankie complained, drawing his mother a chair and seating himself. With dark, enchanted eyes for Vickie only, he continued. “The girl of my dreams—and the blond hero here tells me he’s marrying her!”
Vickie opened her mouth to object, then let it fall shut. She wasn’t up to discrediting Brant in front of these marvelously enthusiastic people. Maybe it was more than that. She wanted to live the dream she had harbored so long. But it couldn’t last. Like a moth she was flitting ever closer to the flame, and she seemed to have no control.
And it really didn’t matter. Before she could collect her scattered thoughts, the conversation had moved on. Wine and cheese and fruit appeared on the table, served unobtrusively by black-jacketed waiters with pleasant white grins. Vickie had never been more thoroughly entertained. Although the talk was general, she learned more about Brant in that half hour than she could have anywhere else in a week. Frankie was full of stories, and he had a gift for telling them. She could well imagine the two of them as very young men, hell-raising their way through college, sobering in the jungles of Vietnam, floundering as they sought out careers.
“An actor!” Frankie proclaimed, shaking his head with disbelief. “And I laughed! I told Brant to stick with something that was dress shirts and ties!”
“I surely never imagined a restaurateur with the finest wine cellar in the South,” Brant retorted. “Damn! There was a time when this man didn’t know Chablis from Burgundy!”
“Eh! Enough, you two!” Mama Leonini chastised them both affectionately. “Frankie, come on. We have work in the kitchen.”