Tender Deception by Heather Graham Page B

teach him that!” Brant protested. “Mark, my name is Brant.” He made no effort to touch the little boy, but grinned at him invitingly.
    Mark continued to eye him warily, his bright little gaze popping to his mother and then back to Brant. “Brant,” he repeated, saying the name with surprising accuracy.
    “That’s right. Brant. Mr. Wicker is quite a mouthful, and quite unnecessary.”
    The car pulled back out on the street before Brant turned back to Vickie. “Where to now?”
    “Oh!” Vickie had been so involved in watching Brant’s reaction to Mark that she had forgotten he didn’t know where she lived. Mumbling her address, she buried her face in her son’s black curls.
    “How old is he?” Brant asked, and Vickie covertly watched for any sign of suspicion in his features. There was none, none that was discernible. It was a perfectly normal question to ask about a child. She was growing paranoid. No, she wasn’t growing paranoid. She had been paranoid since Brant had appeared.
    “Not quite two,” Vickie replied, calculating quickly in her head.
    “He’s a big boy.”
    “Yes, uh, his father was a large man.” Eager to change the subject, Vickie rushed on apologetically. “I’m sorry to have you driving around like this. I know you must have other things to do—”
    “No, not a thing in the world!” Brant interrupted. “I don’t mind picking Mark up at all. I like kids.”
    Vickie pulled her head up from Mark’s and openly stared at Brant. He hadn’t made his statement off-handedly as so many people did to be polite. He meant it. He sincerely liked children. And he must have spent time around them, because he hadn’t come on too strong at the first introduction to Mark. He sensed that children needed to come to adults in their own time.
    “Brant.”
    “Hmm?”
    “I—” She what? She knew she owed him an apology. “I’m sorry I was so rude. I really needed this ride, and I’m grateful you waited.”
    “Think nothing of it,” he returned easily, allowing his eyes to wander from the road to hers for a mischievous look. “Actually I’m finagling for a dinner invitation.”
    His open good-humor was impossible to resist. Vickie laughed, more at ease now that Brant had seen Mark, and, as she had previously assured herself without conviction, had not noticed a thing unusual about the child.
    “All right,” she told him with a hint of amusement. “You’ve got yourself a dinner invitation. Except you’re going to have to take pot luck.”
    “I’m crazy about pot luck,” he assured her gravely. “Is this it?”
    They had pulled in front of the modest, old, Spanish-style home that Vickie had purchased after taking the job at Monte’s. She was grateful that she had recently mown the lawn and trimmed the profusion of hibiscus and crotons that rimmed the house and the neatly tiled walk.
    “This is it.”
    Mark, glad to be home, bounded to the ground and scampered up the walk as Vickie more sedately got out of the car, fumbling for her keys in her bag.
    “Allow me,” Brant said, taking the keys from her fingers to dexterously open the front door. He paused as he followed Vickie in, his gaze sweeping over the room. Once again she was grateful she had a habit of straightening up before she left the house in the morning.
    “This is nice,” Brant said, assessing the room as he closed the door behind him and went over to sit nonchalantly on the cranberry-cushioned white wicker divan, his fingers locked behind his head.
    “Thanks,” Vickie replied, moving into the living room to cast her script and bag down on the oak coffee table. Now that she had him in her house, she felt strangely tongue-tied. Even Mark had deserted her, having ambled into his own room. “Can I get you anything, Brant?”
    “Not a thing.” He grinned satyrlike and patted the divan. “Sit down.”
    His words gave her an alarming sense of déjà-vu, but she agreeably complied, sitting at an angle so that she faced