Tender Deception by Heather Graham Page A

discussions, his eyes were on her.
    “Good morning, Miss Langley,” he said gravely. His long arms, crooked at the elbow, were cast carelessly over the back of his chair. One jean-clad leg was crossed over the other casually. Part of his charisma, Vickie thought bitterly. No matter how far Brant went in his career he, could give the appearance of fitting in naturally anywhere.
    “Good morning,” she replied briefly, opening her script.
    “We missed you last night,” he continued, oblivious to her rebuff.
    “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to be curt. Her eyes rose unwittingly to his; something in his tone had compelled her to look at him. What she found in his intense cobalt gaze gave her shivers.
    Time was playing tricks; fate was lending a hand. Brant Wicker was interested in her. He was more than interested; he was openly curious about her. He was evidently out to charm her. His look—warm but faintly grim and decidedly determined—told her simply that he meant to succeed.
    “Okay,” Monte announced, making his appearance from the stage in a brisk manner. “Cut the chatter. Work time. Vickie, did you have coffee yet? Get some.” He stopped speaking for a moment as he took his chair to confer privately with Jim Ellery.
    Brant was chuckling. “May I get your coffee for you, Miss Langley? I’ve heard you’re never quite all here without it.”
    Vickie looked at him balefully, grinding her teeth. Apparently he had been discussing her with Monte, or the others, or both. She was famous for needing a cup of coffee to be completely lucid. He had been asking questions, and she didn’t want any of his courteous concern.
    “Thanks,” she said stiffly. “I can get my own.” Despite her resolve to be polite, her words carried the bite of rudeness. She winced; Bobby had heard her down at his end of the table and he was frowning, puzzled by her manner. She had to be careful.
    “No need,” Brant was replying pleasantly. “I’ll get it. Black, right?” There was just a slight edge of sandpaper to his voice, implying that he realized she was purposely snubbing him.
    “Right, thank you,” she murmured, lowering her eyes to her script.
    She thanked him again as he handed her a cup, avoiding his probing eyes. It was going to be harder than she thought to forget the past. It was going to be almost impossible with him sitting beside her. Three years might have never been. She could still remember the touch of the hands so close to hers, the heated strength of his thigh just inches away.
    Nevertheless, the reading went well. The entire cast was inspired by the presence of the leading man, even Vickie. As straightforward as this simple read-through was, Brant’s clear, low voice rang through the room with a sincere grasp of each and every of Shakespeare’s often misunderstood innuendos. The entire room was so still when Harry Blackwell, reading Lodovico, came to the final line, that the proverbial pin could have been heard dropping.
    “Good!” Monte declared, the first to speak. He scribbled on his script for several seconds before adding, “We’ll finish here for the day. Tomorrow, a rough blocking of act one. If you’re not in the act, you don’t have to show.”
    Vickie, surprised that they had again been given extra hours of freedom, stayed seated for a minute, as they all did. Her hesitation proved to be her downfall.
    “Well, Miss Langley,” Brant drawled, twisting to her with a sardonic smile. “You can’t have any emergency to rush off to now. Have some lunch with me.”
    “I can’t—” Vickie began.
    “Sure you can!” Monte interrupted, looking up from what Vickie had thought was intense concentration on his notes. What was he doing, feeding her to the lions with plate, napkin, and fork? “You don’t have to pick up Mark for two hours!”
    Vickie’s cheeks burned. “I know,” she protested quickly. “But I do have half a million other things to do and—”
    “You couldn’t possibly have