Tender Deception by Heather Graham

curtain and sank weakly to the floor, furious to find herself shaking. She couldn’t go on like this, being affected by every encounter with him. They were acting, but his possessive hand on her hip had sent shivers racing down her spine. But he had walked away from her. That was what she wanted. He had said he intended to have her, yet today he was almost ignoring her.
    Good. She was beginning to feel an irresistible tug to respond, to savor his touch whenever it fell her way. Oh, no! she wailed silently to herself. Not again. Never again. No matter what he said about his feelings, about being “a little bit in love,” she knew him! His love was an expansive thing. He was going to leave again, as he had before. And he would be “a little bit in love” a dozen times.
    No. She would never set herself up for another fall. It was a good thing, a marvelous thing, that he had dropped all pretense and chosen to ignore her.
    They ran the full act once more, surprisingly smoothly, before Monte told them all they could leave after he had given them each a few personal notes and instructions. Quickly heading for the door, Vickie was stopped by Brant’s all-encompassing call. “Hey! Has anybody seen my script?”
    Sighing, Vickie stopped walking and returned to the tables where they had scattered their belongings. They were an ensemble; if one member had a problem, all helped to solve it so Connie, Bobby, and Terry were crawling around the tables.
    “How about backstage?” Vickie asked Brant.
    He shrugged. “Good idea. Thanks.”
    She nervously followed him back to the left wing, where he did find the script on the podium. “Found it!” His voice rang out. “Thanks, everyone!”
    “Well, see you tomorrow,” Vickie murmured politely, remembering her resolution.
    “I’ll see you tonight,” he corrected her.
    Startled, she glanced at him warily, wondering what he now intended to contrive. But he wore that expression of amusement that never failed to irritate her. He knew her thoughts.
    “Prickly, aren’t you?” he drawled, his stillness denoting a leashed energy that was all the more potent and vital. “I come at night,” he told her, chuckling, “to help Smoky in the scene shop. Not to attack unwilling actresses.”
    “I hardly thought you intended to attack me,” Vickie replied airily. “Good-bye.”
    She knew he watched her as she walked away, and she knew he still grinned with that knowing amusement. The hell with him, she decided.
    Chin held high, she walked briskly through the empty dining room out to the Volvo, supremely agitated and thoroughly furious with herself for being upset in the first place. What the hell was happening to her? Brant was just a man, and she knew how to deal with men.
    Still, she practically ripped the car door from its hinges. Gritting her teeth, she decided it was better to take her frustrations out on the steel of the car than to expose them as she had with Monte. Sticking her key into the ignition with a vengeance, she was further irritated to find the old Volvo refusing to start. And in her reckless irritation she quickly flooded the engine.
    Unbelieving, she kept at the car, knowing she should leave it alone, but unable to do so. Finally she pulled the key from the starter with disgust. She crawled out of the car, and sure she was alone, kicked a wheel viciously.
    Chastising herself as she admitted defeat, she looked around the parking lot hastily for a ride. Bobby’s white Cutlass was just pulling out to the highway and she raced after it, slowing when she realized he was too far away and would never see her. Even as she waved her arms frantically, the Cutlass became swallowed up in the afternoon traffic. Disgusted, Vickie walked back to the Volvo, bitterly wondering why her day was going so badly. Everyone was gone.
    Except Brant. He was leaning against the Volvo, his frame imposing against the compact car, his arms casually crossed as a subtle half grin lit his face. His