Tender Deception (23 page)

“I was going to tell you!” Vickie cried out.

His powerful shoulders shrugged in answer. “Like I said, Vickie, when? On my son’s twenty-first birthday? Or perhaps when he was inducted into the army?”

“I was going to tell you this week,” she said miserably, wanting to run to him or into the night but knowing both would be futile. “I—I couldn’t tell you before the wedding. I couldn’t take a chance.”

“A chance?” he railed incredulously. “A chance on what?”

“On your marrying me because of Mark…”

“Oh, Lord, what an excuse! I had already asked you!”

“Yes…but…but…oh, never mind!” Didn’t he know how terrified she had been? How uncertain? How pathetically in love? Obviously not. She raised her chin. “How did you find out?”

“A little matter of a birth certificate.”

Vickie gasped, and stood again in anger. “You bastard! You went snooping through my house—”

“I think I suggested you sit!” Brant interrupted savagely, capturing her in a fierce embrace that brought them both breathlessly to the couch. Brant extended his length over hers and pinioned her arms above her head as she uselessly struggled against him. His expression was harsh and fathomless; he didn’t attempt to talk again until she went limp against him. “I wasn’t snooping, Mrs. Wicker, merely unpacking. I didn’t realize you hadn’t intended the top bureau drawer for me. And I must have been blind as a bat before, but since you had lied about his age, I simply didn’t see. Just out of idle curiosity though, how many people know that I have a son?”

“Two,” Vickie muttered through clenched teeth.

“Who?”

“My brother and Monte.”

“And how do they know?” Brant enunciated crisply.

Vickie stared at him blankly for several seconds, weighing her answer. She had told Monte because he had been concerned and she had suddenly found herself desperately needing to talk…to release tension. She had told Edward rather than allow him to guess the truth at an inopportune time. But either way,
she
had
told
them both, and she hadn’t been able to tell Brant. The answers sounded pathetically weak in her own mind.

“I believe I stated the question clearly,” Brant grated.

God, she wondered, still not speaking, still not blinking. He was angry now, and might become so much angrier. Perhaps she should lie again…tell him that they had guessed.

“Vickie! I’m waiting for an answer!”

His vise around her wrists tightened convulsively and Vickie gasped, blurting out the truth. “I told them!” The lies had gotten her into this position to begin with. Another, she realized vaguely when the words were out, would weave another web and build more tension, and, besides, what difference could it make now?

“You told Monte, and you told your brother.” Brant stated her admission incredulously. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“Yes.” She said it simply, too despondent to attempt an explanation. She had had her reasons, terrible fears, but now with the relentless intensity of his furious face above hers he was never going to understand, never going to try to understand.

“You didn’t tell me,” he repeated almost tonelessly. “Why bother? I’m only the father,” he murmured sarcastically. “Have all these confessions to the wrong people been recent?”

She sighed and chewed at her bottom lip. “Yes, since you’ve been back.”

“God, I really was a fool,” Brant berated himself with a brittle laugh that brushed her ear with warm breath. “The last to know, they say…” His eyes bored into hers, blue fire. “That child is going to carry my name, Vickie, and not by adoption. We’ll take every conceivable blood test and hire every lawyer in the country if that’s what it takes. You’ve kept him from me for over two years, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let you do so again.”

“No!” she screamed in panic. Her worst nightmares were coming true. He was going to leave her, and he was going to try to take Mark. “No!” she screamed again, her voice rising shrilly in the silent night.

Brant tensed as if he had been shot. “Shut up!” he commanded Vickie harshly. God, how could she still deny him? He had given her his love, his trust, his soul, his life. She was his wife. His anger was pain, and each word she coolly spoke twisted a knife farther into him.

And still he wanted her. She was irrevocably his, even as she railed against him. He could feel the soft firmness of her form beneath him, her harried breathing brought her breasts crushing to his chest, her stiff defiance melded her hips to his. Her eyes flashed like gray storms while her lips parted to deny him once again.

He smiled suddenly, a grim smile that didn’t reach the ice of his eyes. Then his lips swooped down to muffle the sounds from her. His kiss was a bittersweet combination of tenderness and savagery, love and agonized anger. She attempted to twist her head, but he held her still, commanding response as he plundered the depths of her mouth and availed his hands of the curve beneath him. A familiar heat began to pound through him.

Abruptly, he wrenched himself from her, striding swiftly for the door in his haste to hide the unsteadiness of his stance and gait. He had to get away from her. God, he was about to rape his own wife! A wife who had lied to him, betrayed him, denied him. Who now cried innocence while still denying him. Wasn’t she? She was dead silent now; she hadn’t moved. But she still intended to keep him from his own son…

A shudder rippled through him and he bit down hard with his teeth and rolled his hands into tight fists. He stood like a ramrod. “Sorry about that,” he said with cool indifference. “I thought I should remind you that you are still my wife.”

In a haze of pain and longing, Vickie knew only that he was standing by the door. He was leaving.

She closed her eyes, willing no tears to flow. “Fine,” she said flatly. “I’m still your wife. Go on. Go wherever you were going.”

She heard the door slam.

V
ICKIE AWOKE SLOWLY THE
next morning, stiff and cramped. For a moment she wondered why; her dreams had been sweet, she had nestled with her new husband through the night. No, she hadn’t. Brant had walked out, and sometime after he had left, she had risen to drag herself into Mark’s room. She was cramped because she had fallen asleep with half of her body draped over her son’s bed. He still slept, a lock of raven hair swept over his brow.

Vickie stood and tried to stretch the kinks from her body, hoping against hope that she would move out into the living room or kitchen and find Brant busily doing something. Hoping that he had returned later…

But of course he wasn’t there. He would have never returned and left her half on the floor. She had to face facts—he wasn’t returning.

She was grateful for the responsibility of motherhood that morning; it kept her from falling apart. It made it imperative that she function, shower, dress, care for her son, all without resorting to hysteria or a deluge of tears.

And because of Mark, she made it to the theater dry-eyed, refusing to allow herself the luxury of worrying about the future, or what would happen next. Brant didn’t make idle threats. He would drag her into every court of the land.

The excitement in the theater upon her arrival temporarily swept the tumult of her personal disasters from her mind. The reviews were in, and the least exalting of them called the production “a brilliant masterpiece.” Monte, high on a cloud of glory, was giving the cast members time to read the papers while they consumed coffee and doughnuts. Vickie picked up the nearest one and began to read. The bulk of the praise went to Monte and Brant, but she and Bobby had also been singled out for exceptional praise. The
Sun-Times
reporter proclaimed her “an actress of infinite depth, talent, and beauty,” who “created a character of ethereal charisma who stole the heart.” Nice, Vickie thought, silently thanking the writer for his words. Her ego could use the boost.

Her skin prickled and she felt herself flush. Brant was behind her. His spicy masculine scent was warning of his presence long before his hand touched her shoulder.

She whirled away furiously, remembering the words that had passed between them, the miserable night she had spent, and how he had forcefully inflamed her body, bruising her lips, reducing her to quivers and longing, only to walk out into the night. And not return.

“Don’t jump from me like a damned rabbit!” he hissed, mindful of being overheard. “I want to talk to you.”

Vickie assessed his features quickly for any sign of forgiveness, hoping against hope. But she could see nothing in his implacable eyes or grim tight lips.

The blue that measured her in return was opaque, challenging, frightening.

“You did enough talking last night,” she snapped scathingly, sickeningly aware that she was widening the breach between them to dangerous bounds. She didn’t seem to be able to help herself, but she didn’t want to hear his words. If he still loved her, he would have come home last night.

What he wanted to talk about was Mark, and sharing him in the future. And she didn’t want to hear it…not now…not while her heart was still being torn piece by piece into little shreds.

“You are going to listen to me, Miss Langley,” he insisted, reaching for her arm with another of his binding grips. “I realize that discussion and honesty are not your cup of tea, but there is the future to be settled—”

“Hey!” Bobby cheerfully interrupted, such a whirlwind of exhilaration he didn’t feel the tension between the couple he accosted. “Have you read the Jacksonville paper yet? This guy sounds like he’s ready to call New York and insist we get every Tony Award out!” He paused suddenly, studying Vickie’s white face. “Lord, Vick, you really had better read it. You look like you could use some good news.”

Vickie didn’t get a chance to reply, nor did Brant. Terry sidled up to them next, casually casting an arm around Brant’s shoulder as she picked up on Bobby’s remark with a saccharine smile. “Poor Vickie! Didn’t you sleep well? You really do look ghastly!”

Vickie did her very best to return the sickly sweet smile. “I feel absolutely ghastly,” she muttered, quickly jerking her wrist from Brant’s grasp. “I’m afraid I might be coming down with something. I’m going home. Tell Monte to call me when he can with any of his last-minute changes or instructions, will you?” Not waiting for assent from anyone, she turned and fled, aware that Brant would probably come after her, but determined to elude him or die in the process. Without looking back, she whipped open the Volvo door and slammed it hastily behind her as soon as she was seated, immediately hitting the locks.

Brant did follow her. He shouted and banged on the glass with a force she feared would shatter the window, but she ignored him and put the car into gear, revving the engine. Practically stripping the gears, she jerked the shift into first.

It might be foolish to run from things that had to be faced, but at the moment, she simply couldn’t face Brant Wicker. She needed a little more time to lick reopened wounds before raising the shield of indifference she would need for the confrontation that would come. Time to build an implacable strength.

Brant followed her to the house, but by that time she had barricaded herself in. He had his own set of keys, of course, but she had bolts and chains in place. She could hear him cursing; she could hear the shrill of the doorbell as he leaned against it relentlessly. But the nightmare in her mind was louder. He didn’t want her anymore, but as she had always feared, he did want their son. He had walked out on her, but now he wanted to discuss Mark calmly. She was no longer safe behind the wall of his ignorance. Nor could she keep Mark from him any longer. It would be wrong for the child, and she knew it. She accepted it. She just couldn’t deal with it until she had somehow glued together the tattered remnants of her heart.

The shrilling of the bell finally ceased. Vickie took two aspirin and bathed her face in cold water. She laid down until she could stop herself from shivering, her fingers from trembling. Then she called Monte—practice again!—and apologized coolly for missing the critique session that he considered so important before the real opening night whether they had received high praise from the press or not.

Vickie had never missed a day before. Not a show, not a rehearsal, not a critique. She explained that she had felt desperately ill, but was fine now. It was the truth, she told herself, or would be by the time she had to report back for the show. Monte sounded concerned, but not suspicious. Apparently Brant had said nothing to him.

Vickie spent the rest of the morning rehearsing her own private final scene, the meeting with Brant that she could not run from after the show. She would have to be dignified and not burst into tears, she would have to convince him she would play no more games but allow him to see his son—on her terms for the good of the child. He was too young to be uprooted, even for a month or so in the summer.

Brant would have to come to Sarasota specified times, times when Vickie could disappear and Edward could be there with his nephew to greet Brant.

She left the house tentatively when it was time to pick up Mark, afraid that Brant was waiting for her. But he was nowhere in sight. Nor was he at the school. Nor did he attempt to call her, or come to the house again.

He had probably decided the hell with his futile efforts. He knew he would be able to corner her at the theater. The complete break could come tonight, and again she would feel as if part of her body had been severed. But at least now she was better prepared. Her star had been within reach, but she had gambled and lost. It had moved farther and farther from her grasp, and the insurmountable problem she had tried to ignore had exploded in her face. So much for dreams. They died along the wasteland of reality.

Eventually it was time to return to the theater. Vickie drove in with her eyes bone dry and her back as straight as one of Smoky’s plywood flats. She even called cheery greetings to the others as she made her way to the dressing room, careful to keep her vision from falling directly on Brant, not wanting him to accost her before the show. But Brant ignored her. From trying to pound down her door like a madman, he had made a complete turnabout. His role was now one of an indifference as staunch as her own. She caught his eye just once, fleetingly. And he smiled, a grim smile, a smile full of purpose.