Free Tender Deception by Heather Graham Page A

of the revelry natural to the cast. But he held their respect. He kept the troop together and had a talent for whipping them into shape when necessary. Monte, although a superb director, was too much of a nice guy. He was personally attached to each of his cast members. At times he’d yell, but then would become pliable in their hands.
    Chewing on the nub of her pencil, her legs stretched comfortably on the chair before her, Vickie decided the two men were a great pair. Monte was genius; Jim was discipline.
    Brant, she admitted grudgingly, was both in one. When he rehearsed, he was business. He didn’t miss a cue, he didn’t cause a minute’s waste of time. He accepted direction gracefully while still imbuing his character with the irrefutable uniqueness of his talent. Offstage, he would tease. He had already brought the entire cast and crew around to lighthearted acceptance. He was the star, the big man brought in for the season. But no one would ever know it. Which was nice, Vickie thought dryly. His down-to-earth humanity had been one of the things she had once loved him for…
    Except now, she was heartily resenting him. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to deal with an egotistical snob whom everyone else was having difficulty stomaching. She was the only one feigning polite welcome. But then she was the only one wishing Brant back in his Beverly Hills manor or Madison Avenue town house.
    And she was the only one who knew he was capable of being ruthlessly demanding and persistent. It was doubtful that anyone could underestimate him. Perpetually polite and especially pleasant to those who were nervous around him, Brant wore a tangible aura of determination. If his height and lean, muscled build did not quell a stout heart, the strong line of his profile and piercing intensity of his eyes would. With a quirk of amusement Vickie decided he was not a person she would like to run into in a dark alley at night.
    Monte, sitting beside her, stretched, groaned, and rubbed the back of his neck before casting a glance her way. “How was lunch?”
    The question startled her. She had been sitting next to him for the past two hours, watching the progression of the first two scenes—scenes in which Desdemona didn’t appear. He had spoken to her only occasionally, and then only to make a general comment or issue a rhetorical question that he would immediately answer himself.
    “Lunch was fine,” she told him, assuming a casual tone even as she attempted too late to hide a frown. She could still remember and bristle at the memory of Brant laughing at her when she haughtily informed him she was definitely not afraid of him.
    “What have you got against Brant?” Monte quizzed her pointedly.
    “Nothing!” Vickie protested. She shifted her legs and crossed one ankle over the other, comfortable in her jeans.
    “You’re bristling!” Monte chuckled. “I don’t believe it, and I love it. My little, untouchable Ice Maiden bristling!”
    “I am not bristling,” Vickie objected with a sigh. “I’m just not all that enamored of the man. And I’m not really sure why you brought him in for Othello. The dark man? The moor?” She laughed, pointing her pencil at Brant who was still onstage conversing with Bobby, who was playing Iago. “You couldn’t have found a man more fair if you would have scoured half the country.”
    Monte gave her his full, reproachful attention. “You’ve heard him,” he told her sternly. “His Shakespeare is untouchable. I’ve seen him do this particular play before with remarkable results. You know yourself what can be done with good stage makeup.” Shrugging, Monte continued with even a stronger note of rebuke. “Brant is an exceptional actor. He could walk on that stage in jeans and a T-shirt and by the time he walked off half the audience would be ready to swear he had been in period costume.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” Vickie said noncommittally.
    “Damn right, I’m