Tender Deception by Heather Graham

hoping he wouldn’t.
    He was sitting on the divan, rolling a small ball back and forth to Mark, who sat delightedly a few feet away on the floor. Vickie silently began to set the various platters on the table. “Can I do anything?” Brant inquired coldly.
    “No,” Vickie murmured. “Ah, yes,” she added. “You can pour the wine.”
    The silence between them was stiff and ominous as they finished setting the table together. Only Mark chattered on, pleased that his new friend seemed to be staying. Brant heaved him high into the air before situating him in his booster chair, the dark glower of his fair features receding as the little boy whooped with laughter.
    “He’s young to sit at such an elegant table so nicely,” Brant commented as he pulled back Vickie’s chair for her to sit.
    He was young, Vickie thought proudly, ready to break the ice that Brant had begun to chisel. “He’s an only child,” she explained modestly. “He goes many places with me, and he’s been dining out in restaurants since he was an infant.” She didn’t add that she had simply been lucky with Mark. He was innately fastidious; he ate neatly and kept his toys in order.
    From Mark they went on to discuss the theater, Brant complimenting Monte’s current production of Godspell , then moving on to talk about their upcoming work in Othello. Dinner passed swiftly and comfortably, with Brant insisting afterward that he help with the dishes. Vickie was keenly aware of him beside her as they performed their after-dinner domestic tasks together, but he made no further attempt to touch her, nor were any of his comments even remotely personal. It seemed they had reached a stalemate.
    They had eaten dinner early, so there was plenty of time left for coffee. Vickie insisted Brant retreat into the living room while she prepared the coffee, telling him he had been more than a helpful guest.
    “Damn!” she exclaimed suddenly as she brought the coffee out to the living room to join him. “I forgot about my car!”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Brant told her, picking up his cup. “I’ll take a look at it when we go back to the theater. Believe it or not,” he told her wryly, “I am somewhat of a mechanic. And if I can’t find the problem, I’ll have it towed to a garage.”
    “Thanks,” Vickie murmured, sipping her own coffee as she wondered what Brant’s public would think. So far the big “star” had acted as chauffeur, entertained a toddler, washed dishes, and sat to dinner at an ordinary table. Now he was going to play grease monkey.
    She was startled when the phone rang. Excusing herself, she was dismayed to find upon answering that the caller was Mrs. Gimball.
    “Vickie, dear,” the lady began with abject remorse, “I do hate to call you like this, but there’s simply no help for it! I was so stupid! I just scalded my left hand pouring tea and I’m afraid I have to go to the hospital to have it treated. I hate to leave you in such a spot—”
    “Mrs. Gimball!” Vickie protested vehemently, knowing full well her dependable sitter would never call to cancel unless it were a true emergency. “Don’t you dare sit there apologizing to me! You go and get that taken care of right away!”
    “I hope you can work something out.” Mrs. Gimball fretted. “I’m so sorry—”
    “Please, stop worrying,” Vickie begged. “And get on to the hospital. That burn must be killing you right now. Can you drive? Shall I come and get you?” Vickie was aware she didn’t have her own car, but she was certain Brant would not object to such a mission.
    “No, no,” Mrs. Gimball assured her quickly. “My son is coming to get me. You worry about yourself and that little boy.”
    Slowly replacing the receiver after hurried good-byes, Vickie sagged against the wall. What else could happen today? Nibbling at a long, bronze nail, she worried over what to do about Mark. Her parents would happily watch him, but they were in Bradenton. Her