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said with dry exasperation, “Othello is going to have a wretched time of it.”
    “Of course,” he replied complacently. “Othello was a wretched fellow.” Both of his brows rose with pretended pathos and resignation. “He too was looking for the truth.”
    “And it was always right in front of him!” Vickie bit back. “And poor Desdemona was the wretched one. Maligned for minding her own business!”
    “Only because Othello loved her so much.”
    Their sparring was making her very nervous, so nervous that she feared another slip. The sooner lunch ended the better. She drained her wineglass with indifference. “You are not Othello. I am not Desdemona, and”—she raised an eloquent brow—“thank heavens, no one is in love with anyone.” With her caustic composure steadily fraying, she looked around the room for their waitress.
    “Oh, but I am a little bit in love with you.”
    Vickie’s startled gaze whipped back to Brant. His eyes were unreadable, indigo pools, telling her only the one thing she already knew. She was dealing with a powerful man, relentlessly determined to have his own way. He never faltered in pursuit; he wouldn’t do so now. But she could never be a one-night fling for him again. She couldn’t take the ultimate truth again. She couldn’t endure learning a second time that no part of his heart really belonged to her. And she couldn’t ever chance his discovering he had a son. In a wild moment of panic she wondered if there would be anything he could do. With his fame and fortune, was it possible that he could prove Mark was his? Take him away or demand partial custody? Hover in her life forever?
    No, she assured herself, there was nothing Brant could do. But the thought did nothing for her. The possibility of his figuring out the truth was still terrifying. She was going to have to start lying like the devil.
    “Tell me,” she demanded with dry cynicism, “is this one of your new Hollywood practices? Falling a little bit in love with all your leading ladies? Is that part of your success?”
    “No,” he replied easily, handing his credit card to the waitress, who had ignored Vickie but practically tripped over her own feet in her haste to scamper to Brant’s summons. When the girl was gone, Brant hunched his shoulders conspiratorially over the table, bringing their power-radiating breadth uncomfortably close. He didn’t touch Vickie, but she felt as if he held her within the blue sea of his eyes. It was a chilling, fascinating prison, one that locked her against her will, against her well-performed nonchalance.
    “I fall in love only with raven-haired beauties. The ones with mysterious gray eyes and deep dark secrets. The ones I always loved a little.”
    “Really, Brant,” Vickie protested huskily. “My memory isn’t all that bad. You were ‘in love’ with Lenore.”
    “Ah, so you remember Lenore. Is that why you’re playing cold fish?”
    “No,” Vickie lied smoothly. “I was dating Langley myself at the time. We-er-we were married shortly after you left.”
    “What happened?” Brant asked softly.
    “He died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    The compassion emanating from Brant was real. Vickie bit her lip, appalled at herself for stating such a horrible fabrication.
    “I tried to see you, you know,” Brant said abruptly.
    “Oh, Brant, please!” Vickie groaned, leaning back in her seat to put distance between them. “I know. You apologized. There was nothing to apologize for. I felt bad for you that night, I came to be with you of my own free will. We went to bed. You went on with your life, I went on with mine.”
    “But not quite the same,” he said severely, and she eyed him with stubborn silence as he continued. “Vickie, the memory of that night is a strong one for me. It has haunted me ever since. Don’t keep trying to tell me it was nothing to you. Your sheet trick was clever, but I wasn’t all that drunk. You were a virgin that night—”
    “Brant!”