been planning on doing them, because you didn’t know we’d be breaking early!” Monte said firmly. “Go on with Brant, Vick. Entertain our guest and take it a little easy yourself!”
There was no polite excuse. She couldn’t protest any further without appearing churlish. “A short lunch,” she agreed, trying to appear indifferent rather than rude. “I really do have things that definitely do need doing.” She managed an apologetic smile.
“A short lunch it will be,” Brant promised, grinning devilishly as he waved a friendly good-bye to the others and proprietarily escorted her from the room. When they walked out into the sunlight, he indicated a shiny blue Mercedes, propelled her to it, and unerringly opened the passenger door and ushered her in with his customary gallantry. She settled warily into the plush interior.
“Where to?” he asked as he folded his own length into the car and turned to her, his powerful hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, his cobalt gaze unfathomable.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
Brant switched on the ignition. “All right, Miss Langley, I’ll choose.” He deftly maneuvered the car from the parking lot and headed out on the highway. “If I remember correctly, and sometimes I do have a good memory, there’s a nice little steak and seafood place not far from here. A hole in the wall, but clean, and the food is terrific.”
Vickie turned her head to look out on the familiar scenery, convinced she was going to have to be as cold as possible. Brant seemed to be unaware that he was sitting next to an ice cube; he spoke occasionally as they drove, commenting on the growth of the city since he had last been here. Maintaining her vigil out the window, Vickie refrained from responding to his one-sided conversation, uttering a polite yes or no only when directly questioned. Hopefully he would eventually believe she found him boring, and even a composed ego couldn’t tolerate such an insult!
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
There was no polite excuse. She couldn’t protest any further without appearing churlish. “A short lunch,” she agreed, trying to appear indifferent rather than rude. “I really do have things that definitely do need doing.” She managed an apologetic smile.
“A short lunch it will be,” Brant promised, grinning devilishly as he waved a friendly good-bye to the others and proprietarily escorted her from the room. When they walked out into the sunlight, he indicated a shiny blue Mercedes, propelled her to it, and unerringly opened the passenger door and ushered her in with his customary gallantry. She settled warily into the plush interior.
“Where to?” he asked as he folded his own length into the car and turned to her, his powerful hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, his cobalt gaze unfathomable.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
Brant switched on the ignition. “All right, Miss Langley, I’ll choose.” He deftly maneuvered the car from the parking lot and headed out on the highway. “If I remember correctly, and sometimes I do have a good memory, there’s a nice little steak and seafood place not far from here. A hole in the wall, but clean, and the food is terrific.”
Vickie turned her head to look out on the familiar scenery, convinced she was going to have to be as cold as possible. Brant seemed to be unaware that he was sitting next to an ice cube; he spoke occasionally as they drove, commenting on the growth of the city since he had last been here. Maintaining her vigil out the window, Vickie refrained from responding to his one-sided conversation, uttering a polite yes or no only when directly questioned. Hopefully he would eventually believe she found him boring, and even a composed ego couldn’t tolerate such an insult!
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
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