into hers were unmasked—dark, forceful, and determined with unconcealed annoyance, impatience, and anger.
“Well?” he prodded her with a deceiving softness.
“Brant.” Vickie said with a sigh, folding her hands before her and watching her own fingers. “I know you are accustomed to having people fawning all over you. They like you sight unseen. This may strike you as inconceivable, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I personally don’t care for you. Still, I don’t see where that presents a tremendous problem. We have to work together, yes, but in our business we often have to work closely with people we don’t particularly care for. We are both professionals. There will be no problems as far as the theater is concerned.” Her speech was softly spoken, but arrogantly adamant. Not daring to face him, she kept her eyes on her own hands and waited for an explosion. She knew his cobalt stare was still relentlessly on her, she could sense it beyond a doubt, just as she could sense his very presence, his scent, his nearness. She knew his facial expression hadn’t altered a hair.
“I don’t believe you,” he said calmly.
So much for the expected explosion. Vickie glanced back up at his words, astounded. They had been stated as simple fact.
“What don’t you believe?” she asked, perplexed and irritated. He should have been angry, really angry, ready to wash his hands of her completely. “I assure you, Brant, that we can work together.”
“That I don’t doubt for an instant,” he replied, cutting off his own speech as their food arrived and he thanked the young waitress, who recognized him with jittery awe and had difficulty keeping her mouth closed. After she had again disappeared into the kitchen, probably to tell the rest of the staff that the Brant Wicker was sitting in her station, he leaned forward once more and this time gripped Vickie’s chin firmly so that she couldn’t lower her eyes. “I don’t believe that you don’t like me.”
“Of all the insufferable conceit!” Vickie blared out.
“Not conceit,” he denied calmly, releasing his hold on her chin to pick up his cocktail fork and dig into the crab. “I believe there are lots of people in the world who may not particularly care for me. They may blatantly dislike me. What I don’t believe is that you’re one of them.”
Vickie’s own fork froze in the air with a morsel of tender white crab dangling from it as she stared at him, speechless. What was the matter with the man? She had been rude and blunt enough to lend credence to her words. “I—I suggest you start believing!” she said curtly, as unnerved as she had ever been three years ago. “It’s true!” Except the statement rang false and hollow to her own ears.
He smiled unexpectantly, easing the grimness of his angular features. “It isn’t true. I told you, I do have a good memory sometimes, and, Vickie, I remember we were more than friends. We didn’t part as enemies. So what I don’t understand is why we can’t be friends now.”
“What difference does it make?” she flashed irritably.
“A lot, to me.”
“Why?” Vickie demanded with exasperation, toying with her food.
“Because,” he said softly, “I remember all that you can be. A Victoria as honest and open as the morning sun. A woman full of feeling, vibrancy, and compassion.” As he spoke, his hand moved across the table to cover hers and envelop it in warmth and a gentle, rugged strength.
Flushing, Vickie pulled her hand away. He didn’t stop her. She took a long swallow of her wine before remembering that white wine had precipitated her downfall with him once before. Setting the glass down firmly, she quietly began. “Mr. Wicker—”
“What is this Mr. Wicker bit?” he interrupted irritably. His eyes glittered into hers with an edge of mockery as he dropped civility for insinuation. “Don’t you think such formality is a little ridiculous?”
“No, I don’t,” she replied
“Well?” he prodded her with a deceiving softness.
“Brant.” Vickie said with a sigh, folding her hands before her and watching her own fingers. “I know you are accustomed to having people fawning all over you. They like you sight unseen. This may strike you as inconceivable, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I personally don’t care for you. Still, I don’t see where that presents a tremendous problem. We have to work together, yes, but in our business we often have to work closely with people we don’t particularly care for. We are both professionals. There will be no problems as far as the theater is concerned.” Her speech was softly spoken, but arrogantly adamant. Not daring to face him, she kept her eyes on her own hands and waited for an explosion. She knew his cobalt stare was still relentlessly on her, she could sense it beyond a doubt, just as she could sense his very presence, his scent, his nearness. She knew his facial expression hadn’t altered a hair.
“I don’t believe you,” he said calmly.
So much for the expected explosion. Vickie glanced back up at his words, astounded. They had been stated as simple fact.
“What don’t you believe?” she asked, perplexed and irritated. He should have been angry, really angry, ready to wash his hands of her completely. “I assure you, Brant, that we can work together.”
“That I don’t doubt for an instant,” he replied, cutting off his own speech as their food arrived and he thanked the young waitress, who recognized him with jittery awe and had difficulty keeping her mouth closed. After she had again disappeared into the kitchen, probably to tell the rest of the staff that the Brant Wicker was sitting in her station, he leaned forward once more and this time gripped Vickie’s chin firmly so that she couldn’t lower her eyes. “I don’t believe that you don’t like me.”
“Of all the insufferable conceit!” Vickie blared out.
“Not conceit,” he denied calmly, releasing his hold on her chin to pick up his cocktail fork and dig into the crab. “I believe there are lots of people in the world who may not particularly care for me. They may blatantly dislike me. What I don’t believe is that you’re one of them.”
Vickie’s own fork froze in the air with a morsel of tender white crab dangling from it as she stared at him, speechless. What was the matter with the man? She had been rude and blunt enough to lend credence to her words. “I—I suggest you start believing!” she said curtly, as unnerved as she had ever been three years ago. “It’s true!” Except the statement rang false and hollow to her own ears.
He smiled unexpectantly, easing the grimness of his angular features. “It isn’t true. I told you, I do have a good memory sometimes, and, Vickie, I remember we were more than friends. We didn’t part as enemies. So what I don’t understand is why we can’t be friends now.”
“What difference does it make?” she flashed irritably.
“A lot, to me.”
“Why?” Vickie demanded with exasperation, toying with her food.
“Because,” he said softly, “I remember all that you can be. A Victoria as honest and open as the morning sun. A woman full of feeling, vibrancy, and compassion.” As he spoke, his hand moved across the table to cover hers and envelop it in warmth and a gentle, rugged strength.
Flushing, Vickie pulled her hand away. He didn’t stop her. She took a long swallow of her wine before remembering that white wine had precipitated her downfall with him once before. Setting the glass down firmly, she quietly began. “Mr. Wicker—”
“What is this Mr. Wicker bit?” he interrupted irritably. His eyes glittered into hers with an edge of mockery as he dropped civility for insinuation. “Don’t you think such formality is a little ridiculous?”
“No, I don’t,” she replied
Similar Books
