“Then you don’t mind if I make a play for him.”
Caught off-guard, Vickie froze with her sponge held on the bridge of her nose. Mind? She would mind terribly, she admitted to herself as her heart seemed to take a sudden plunge to her stomach. Frightened as she was of Brant in more ways than one, she knew with a strange ferocity that she would rather be burned by his fire again than watch him in the arms of another woman. She was sure that he had taken lovers in the three years since his departure, but she had never had to see them; they were vague forms of the past. In the last few days while he pursued her, she had convinced herself she didn’t want to be caught. But neither did she want him caught, especially by Terry.
“Mind?” Gritting her teeth into a smile, she met Terry’s eyes blandly. “Terry, I couldn’t stop you from making a play for anyone, could I, whether I minded or not. So”—her eyes narrowed ever so slightly—“go right ahead. Make whatever play you like.”
Terry laughed and swept her thick brown hair into a ponytail. “That’s true, honey, I will play where I like. But I did want to know where you stood. I’d hate to think that I was the one to keep our little Ice Maiden from thawing.”
Vickie rose abruptly, meeting Terry’s sweetly devious eyes straight on. “You worry about you, Terry. I’ll worry about me.”
Terry shrugged and looked back into her own mirror. Vickie wriggled into her costume and left the dressing room, knowing that she was followed by Terry’s speculative eyes.
Monte’s dinner theater was built like a large, irregular U; the stage, dressing rooms, and dining room occupying the center, the kitchen and food preparation areas to the right, and the costume and stagecraft shops to the left. Taking the latter turn, Vickie decided her hurried makeup session had left her time to check on her son. Entering the huge room that served as the main scene shop, she discovered Mark sitting happily with a paintbrush and an old, out-of-use flat. Brant, looking more like a backwoods logger than famous actor in his worn jeans, Weejuns, and now paintstained flannel shirt, was helping Smoky, Monte’s crusty old designer, to saw a stack of lumber into appropriate lengths.
Smoky gave her his absentminded smile and disappeared into the back. Brant switched off his power saw and grinned. “That was a quick change.”
Vickie shrugged. “Simple costume, simple makeup. How’s it going?” Vickie asked.
“Fine.” Brant inclined his head toward Mark, who hadn’t noticed his mother. “As you can see.” He tugged lightly on one of her pigtails. “Go on, get out of here and have a good show. I promise to take him home soon. Oh, I’ll probably stop by my place for a few things. And borrow your shower.” He grimaced. “A day of rehearsal and now a fine spray of sawdust. I’m feeling rather rank!”
“Sure,” Vickie agreed, covered with a sudden feeling of warmth. It was the same strange warmth she had felt when they were doing the dishes together—a sense of pleasant domesticity she didn’t really want to recognize. But as silly as it was, she liked the idea of Brant in her shower. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she said quickly, turning away from him, embarrassed by her thoughts.
“No hurry,” he replied cheerfully.
Vickie started down the hall, and then impetuously turned back. Any reservations she had had about leaving Mark with Brant had been problems of her own mind. Brant, looking curiously more macho in his casual clothes than he ever had in a movie, was discussing the fly system for Othello with Smoky while still keeping a covert eye on Mark. With that golden lock of hair over an intense blue eye and the breadth of his shoulders emphasized as he crammed his hands into his pockets, his simple presence was hypnotizing, even from a distance. Damn! she told herself disgustedly. She really needed distance! And it was getting harder and harder to keep
Caught off-guard, Vickie froze with her sponge held on the bridge of her nose. Mind? She would mind terribly, she admitted to herself as her heart seemed to take a sudden plunge to her stomach. Frightened as she was of Brant in more ways than one, she knew with a strange ferocity that she would rather be burned by his fire again than watch him in the arms of another woman. She was sure that he had taken lovers in the three years since his departure, but she had never had to see them; they were vague forms of the past. In the last few days while he pursued her, she had convinced herself she didn’t want to be caught. But neither did she want him caught, especially by Terry.
“Mind?” Gritting her teeth into a smile, she met Terry’s eyes blandly. “Terry, I couldn’t stop you from making a play for anyone, could I, whether I minded or not. So”—her eyes narrowed ever so slightly—“go right ahead. Make whatever play you like.”
Terry laughed and swept her thick brown hair into a ponytail. “That’s true, honey, I will play where I like. But I did want to know where you stood. I’d hate to think that I was the one to keep our little Ice Maiden from thawing.”
Vickie rose abruptly, meeting Terry’s sweetly devious eyes straight on. “You worry about you, Terry. I’ll worry about me.”
Terry shrugged and looked back into her own mirror. Vickie wriggled into her costume and left the dressing room, knowing that she was followed by Terry’s speculative eyes.
Monte’s dinner theater was built like a large, irregular U; the stage, dressing rooms, and dining room occupying the center, the kitchen and food preparation areas to the right, and the costume and stagecraft shops to the left. Taking the latter turn, Vickie decided her hurried makeup session had left her time to check on her son. Entering the huge room that served as the main scene shop, she discovered Mark sitting happily with a paintbrush and an old, out-of-use flat. Brant, looking more like a backwoods logger than famous actor in his worn jeans, Weejuns, and now paintstained flannel shirt, was helping Smoky, Monte’s crusty old designer, to saw a stack of lumber into appropriate lengths.
Smoky gave her his absentminded smile and disappeared into the back. Brant switched off his power saw and grinned. “That was a quick change.”
Vickie shrugged. “Simple costume, simple makeup. How’s it going?” Vickie asked.
“Fine.” Brant inclined his head toward Mark, who hadn’t noticed his mother. “As you can see.” He tugged lightly on one of her pigtails. “Go on, get out of here and have a good show. I promise to take him home soon. Oh, I’ll probably stop by my place for a few things. And borrow your shower.” He grimaced. “A day of rehearsal and now a fine spray of sawdust. I’m feeling rather rank!”
“Sure,” Vickie agreed, covered with a sudden feeling of warmth. It was the same strange warmth she had felt when they were doing the dishes together—a sense of pleasant domesticity she didn’t really want to recognize. But as silly as it was, she liked the idea of Brant in her shower. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she said quickly, turning away from him, embarrassed by her thoughts.
“No hurry,” he replied cheerfully.
Vickie started down the hall, and then impetuously turned back. Any reservations she had had about leaving Mark with Brant had been problems of her own mind. Brant, looking curiously more macho in his casual clothes than he ever had in a movie, was discussing the fly system for Othello with Smoky while still keeping a covert eye on Mark. With that golden lock of hair over an intense blue eye and the breadth of his shoulders emphasized as he crammed his hands into his pockets, his simple presence was hypnotizing, even from a distance. Damn! she told herself disgustedly. She really needed distance! And it was getting harder and harder to keep
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