No Red Roses, Page 2

  "You must be the local vamp I've been hearing about," he said curtly, his dark eyes glittering. "Well, I'm sure you'd be very good at it, honey, but I've other fish to fry tonight. I want to speak to Eliza­beth Ledford."

  Tamara's eyes widened at the remark before a flush of anger stained her cheeks scarlet. This had to be the rudest, most conceited, most arrogant id­iot she'd ever had the misfortune to meet. "My aunt is out for the evening," she said between clenched teeth. "Perhaps you could call her tomorrow for an appointment."

  "No way!" he growled, a frown of impatience dark­ening his face. "I have to get back to New York tomorrow, and I intend to settle this tonight. I’ll have to make do with you." He stepped aggressively into the hall, and Tamara was forced to move aside to avoid being swept out of his path. The nerve of the man!

  "I'm afraid I also have plans for the evening so you'll have to leave now," she said crisply. She wasn't about to be intimidated by this macho lout!

  His dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'd advise you to climb off that high horse. I'm mad as hell, and not in the mood for any of your histrionics, Cleopatra. You might find yourself occupying the same jail cell as your aunt if you're not careful."

  "Jail! You're absolutely insane. Will you please get out of here?"

  "When I do leave, it will be to go directly to the police. I don't think you'd want me to do that. I understand your great-aunt is a little old to be thrown into the holding tank, isn't she?" His voice was coolly ruthless, and Tamara felt a shiver of apprehen­sion cutting through the antagonism she felt for this man.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "Rex Brody," he answered tautly. "And you're Ta­mara Ledford, right?"

  "Right," she echoed. On reflection, all his remarks had betrayed an odd familiarity for a perfect stranger. "But how did you know that, Mr. Brody?"

  His lips twisted cynically. "I know all about you, babe. I've spent the last two hours being filled in on all the juicy details of your aunt's operation. I even know about your little affair with Walter Bettencourt."

  "My affair with—"

  "I've got to admit I can understand his being unfaithful to my aunt a little better now that I've seen you," he drawled, his eyes lingering on the silken thrust of her breasts in the low-cut gown. "From what I hear, you have the reputation for being very accommodating to half the male population of this horse-and-buggy town. He'd have to be a monk to resist an experienced little madam like you."

  "As I said before, you're completely crazy." Tamara's violet eyes were blazing. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Then perhaps we'd better discuss it," he suggested. "May I come in?"

  He was already in; she thought in annoyance, as Brody shut the door and strode through the arched doorway to the right of the entry hall.

  "Please do make yourself right at home, Mr. Brody," she said caustically, trailing behind him into the living room.

  "Very cozy," he said, ignoring her sarcasm. "All this hominess must be very soothing to your 'clients,' Miss Ledford." There was a caustic barb in the smooth silkiness of his voice and Tamara clenched her fists in fury. Her gaze followed his around the room, noticing as if for the first time the faded flowered carpet, the worn spot on the shabby blue couch, and the lace drapes, yellowing with age, at the windows. Why did this arrogant, obnoxious man only have to enter the room for her suddenly to find fault with the only home she'd ever known?

  The room was cozy, she thought defensively. What difference did it make that the furniture was old- fashioned and a bit shabby, and that lace doilies and family miniatures went out with high button shoes? It was all dear and familiar, and had the mellow graciousness of a faded but still beautiful old lady.

  "This is our home, Mr. Brody," she said archly. "My aunt and I aren't concerned if the decor isn't up to your exalted standards." She sat down on the couch and gestured resignedly. "You might as well sit down."

  He sat down on the couch beside her, looking bizarrely out of place in the gentle period surround­ings. "You're very much on the defensive, Miss Ledford," he drawled. "I meant no offense. In fact, I think your aunt is much more clever than Celia Bettencourt imagines."

  "Celia!" Tamara said sharply. "What does she have to do with this?"

  "Did you actually think you could pull such an obvious scam on Aunt Margaret without her stepdaughter tumbling to it?" he asked mockingly.

  "Scam?" Tamara repeated her violet eyes huge in her suddenly pale face. If Celia was involved in this crazy misunderstanding, then it foreboded serious trouble.

  "Scam, bunko, con game. Whatever you care to call it, it's still highly illegal, Miss Ledford. I don't know how much your aunt has bilked Aunt Margaret out of in the last year on these phony psychic readings, but I want it returned double quick, do you understand?"

  Tamara's chin lifted disdainfully. "I gather you're Margaret Bettencourt's nephew, Mr. Brody?" He nod­ded curtly, and she continued with acid sweetness. "How unfortunate for her. Do you always jump to conclusions without verifying the facts? For your information, my aunt never accepts money for her readings. When she's asked for help, she gives it without charge."

  He nodded grimly. "I said she was clever, but not quite clever enough. She may not accept cash, but I think the police would agree that a pretty trin­ket would be valuable enough to constitute grand larceny." He gestured to a beautifully crafted Easter egg on the mantel. "I understand from Miss Betten­court that my aunt gave Elizabeth Ledford this art object two months ago. Do you deny it?"

  "Of course I don't deny it," Tamara said hotly. "Mrs. Bettencourt was very grateful to Aunt Elizabeth for her advice regarding some stock investments. She insisted on giving my aunt at least a token gift. It's quite lovely, but not at all valuable."

  "Some token," he said, his lips twisting cynically. "Are you telling me you don't know that's a Faberge egg, and it's worth a small fortune?"

  "A Faberge—" Tamara gasped, stunned. She shook her head dazedly. "You've got to be mistaken. Why would she give Aunt Elizabeth something so valu­able?"

  "Because my Aunt Margaret is basically a very naive woman," Brody said grimly. "She must have been a piece of cake for your aunt to manipulate. There's no telling how much she's managed to get out of her in the past year." His dark eyes were staring thoughtfully at Tamara's shocked face. "Well, I’ll be damned." He whistled. "You actually didn't know what your aunt was up to, did you?"

  Tamara squared her shoulders proudly. "Of course I didn't realize the value of Mrs. Bettencourt's gift, and neither did my aunt. She would never have accepted it if she'd known it was anything but a trinket. I'm quite sure she'll return it immediately when I tell her."

  "You're damn right she will," he said absently, still staring at her. There was an odd, flickering awareness in the depths of those dark eyes as his gaze moved from her face to her throat and then, in lingering assessment, to the full curve of her breasts. "Lord! you're a lovely creature!"

  Tamara could feel the color rise to her face, and her breath caught in her throat. What in the world was wrong with her, she wondered with a panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach. All her cool assur­ance and control were gone in the time it had taken Rex Brody to give her that one burning glance. Why did the man have such an effect on her? She could feel her breasts tingle in response to that intimate appraisal, as though he were stroking her with his hand instead of his eyes.

  She stood up abruptly and instinctively backed away from him. "Since we've agreed the egg will be returned to your aunt," she said a trifle breathlessly, "I believe that concludes our business, Mr. Brody."

  "Do you?" Brody leaned back on the couch, his gaze running over her lazily; each inch of her flesh seemed to burn and come to vibrant life beneath the insolent caress of his eyes. "You're wrong, Tamara. I don't think we've even started."

  He rose with liquid grace and crossed swiftly to where she stood. He was only inches away; she felt the heat emanating from his body and his shaving lotion reminde
d her vaguely of Russian Leather.

  "I can't allow your aunt to continue her activities, you know," he said huskily. She could see by the quickening pulse in his throat he was as disturbed by her nearness as she was by his. "But that shouldn't affect your financial arrangements to any great degree. I'm sure we can work something out." His hand reached out almost compulsively to caress lightly the crimson taffeta covering her breasts and she could feel her nipples harden in response.

  "What do you mean?" she asked throatily, her gaze fixed helplessly on his face. Was she going crazy? Why was she standing here allowing this stranger to caress her with an intimacy she'd never allowed any man?

  "You know what I mean," Brody said thickly. His dark eyes were blazing now and he drew a deep, steadying breath. "I mean that you turn me on. We've got some wild chemistry working, pretty lady." He frowned impatiently. "Do you want it spelled out? I intend to take very good care of you. You needn't worry about that. I'm a great deal richer than Bettencourt." His lips tightened. "And I'm a helluva lot younger. I promise you that you won't regret coming to me, Tamara."

  "Coming to you?" she repeated blankly. Then the color rushed to her face as she understood and was able at last to break the golden sensual threads that held her. The man was propositioning her as if she were a high-priced call girl! Well, why not, she thought bitterly. It was probably exactly what Celia had led him to believe she was. Understanding his reasons didn't modify her resentment toward him, however. Her violet eyes blazed. "Why should I come to you?" she asked recklessly. "Celia must have told you that I like variety in my lovers. Do you really think you could satisfy me?"

  Brady's eyes blazed back at her. "I'm damn well sure I can," he said deliberately. "And so are you. You want it as much as I do." His hands reached out to grasp her shoulders. "And you'll just have to for­get that penchant for variety; I'm going to be the only man in your bed from now on."

  "The hell you will!" Tamara cried. She whirled away from him, her breasts heaving with fury. She glared back at him over her shoulder, her head lifted proudly. "I'm not going to occupy your bed or any portion of your life, Rex Brody! How do you have the nerve to come marching in here trying to intimidate Aunt Elizabeth, and then expect me to jump into bed with you!"

  Her fury had no visible effect on Brody's cool demeanor. In fact, there was a glint of admiration mixed with amusement in his eyes. "I gather you're going to keep me in suspense for a while before you succumb to my fatal fascination," he said outra­geously. "Well, I've never been known for my patience, but you just may be worth waiting for, Tamara Ledford."

  "If you don't get out of here ..." she stated threateningly, turning back to face him.

  "Oh, I'm leaving," he said casually, strolling toward the door. He looked over his shoulder and winked mischievously "I've got to get back to Bettencourt's to change for the party. Ill see you there, babe."

  "Oh no you won't!" Tamara said. There was no way she was going to tolerate an evening of Rex Brody and Celia Bettencourt.

  He paused at the door, all laughter banished from his face. "Yes, I will," he said, a steely determination firming his lips. "Don't even think about missing it, Tamara. I want you there tonight, and I make a habit of getting what I want. I've let the matter of your great-aunt's little criminal sideline slide for the moment, but don't think I've forgotten it. I assure you I’ll remember it much more vividly and with considerably more activity if you're not at that party."

  Before she could answer, Brody turned and walked out the door.

  Two

  The Bettencourt mansion was ablaze with lights as Marc Hellman turned his car into the long, curving driveway and drove carefully to the pillared front entrance. They were met by a white-jacketed servant, who smilingly helped Tamara from the dark blue Buick before taking Marc's car keys and tossing them to another servant so he could park the car.

  Marc cupped Tamara's elbow protectively as they mounted the steps, and he bent his dark head to murmur quietly in her ear, "You're sure you want to go through with this? We could still send in a mes­sage with a servant. Walter surely wouldn't expect you to attend if he knew you were ill."

  Tamara smiled reassuringly. "No, really, I'll be per­fectly fine. Marc," she said. "It was just a headache. I'm much better now."

  Marc Hellman shook his head, his thin, clever face concerned. "I'm not at all sure of that. You were shaking and practically in tears when I picked you up, and even now you're still quite flushed."

  "Don't be silly, Marc, I'm perfectly well now," she said crossly, wishing he would stop fussing.

  At times Marc's almost avuncular protectiveness could be quite annoying.

  But a twinge of guilt pricked her at the worried frown on his face. He had arrived a scant five minutes after Brody had departed, and a plea of illness had been the first excuse she could think of to ac­count for her obvious distress. Throughout dinner at Somerset's leading hotel. Marc had been extremely solicitous, even though she'd made every effort to appear normal.

  She would dearly have loved to take Marc's sugges­tion that they miss the party, but she had a shrewd idea that the silken threat Brody had made before he'd left the house wasn't a bluff. For Aunt Elizabeth's sake she couldn't run the risk of his anger being directed at her, despite the indignation she felt. She'd just have to make another attempt to con­vince him Aunt Elizabeth had never had any inten­tion of accepting compensation for her services, and that this whole misunderstanding was utterly ridi­culous.

  She preceded Marc quickly through the front door, leaving her cloak with the servant in attendance in the front entrance hall, and moved swiftly to the left where Walter, Margaret, and Celia Bettencourt formed a receiving line to greet their guests.

  Walter smiled with genuine pleasure as he took her hand in his. "Tamara, how good it is to have you here, my dear. You're looking positively radiant tonight. You should wear red more often."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bettencourt," Tamara replied warmly. "You're looking very dashing yourself." She spoke only the truth. Walter Bettencourt was in his early fifties, but his vigorous, athletic body was fit and lean and his features had a blunt cragginess that was very attractive. "And Mrs. Bettencourt looks absolutely ravishing," she added.

  Occupied for the moment with greeting another guest, Margaret Bettencourt didn't hear the compliment, but her husband beamed proudly at his at­tractive brunette wife in her peach silk gown. "She certainly does. How do you suppose a staid old busi­nessman like me got so lucky?"

  Just then Margaret Bettencourt looked up and smiled with a warm kindness that lit her charming face. "I'm so glad you've come, Tamara," she said. There was a flush of color on her cheeks and her gentle gray eyes were glowing with excitement. "There's someone I want you to meet."

  Walter Bettencourt slipped an arm about his wife's slim waist and said with an indulgent chuckle, "That's what she's been saying to everyone. Per­sonally, I think this nephew of yours is just a myth. You've been telling me about the man since the day I met you and I've yet even to see this paragon."

  His wife cast him an affectionately reproving glance. "I explained that Rex has been in London for the past sixteen months. You would have met him early this evening if he hadn't suddenly been called away on business."

  Some business, Tamara thought grimly. Attempt­ing to harass a helpless old woman! "I don't believe I've ever heard you speak of a nephew, Mrs. Betten­court," she murmured.

  Margaret Bettencourt made a wry face. "I guess it's become a way of life over the years to keep a low profile where Rex is concerned. The poor boy has so little privacy I've always been a bit overprotective, I'm afraid."

  "That's an understatement if I ever heard one," Walter Bettencourt said, his eyes twinkling. "You didn't even tell Celia that we have a celebrity in the family until today."

  "Celebrity?" Tamara frowned in puzzlement. Mar­garet Bettencourt began to explain when Celia's dul­cet voice chimed into the conversation.

  "Tamara, darling, how utt
erly fabulous you look. What an interesting gown." Celia's smile was saccha­rine sweet.

  For interesting read bizarre, Tamara thought dryly, as the pencil slim blonde scanned the crimson gown with barely concealed envy in her limpid brown eyes. Celia herself was gowned with svelte sophistication in a black strapless dress that hugged her slender figure with frank boldness. Her ash blond hair was piled high in a fashionable crown of curls on top of her head, and her elaborately applied makeup gave her delicate features a doll-like prettiness.

  "Thank you, Celia," Tamara replied quietly. "How very kind of you."

  "I was just telling Tamara she should wear bright colors more often, Celia," her father said heartily. "Doesn't she look stunning?"

  "Yes, quite stunning," Celia echoed hollowly. She turned abruptly to Marc Hellman, who'd been quietly complimenting his hostess, and smiled brilliantly. "How are you, Marc?"

  At least Celia was behaving with a surface civility, Tamara noted with relief. Perhaps she'd expended all her troublemaking potential for one day with that last imbroglio she'd provoked by her malicious tale-bearing to Brody.

  It was another few seconds before they could break away and Tamara breathed a sigh of relief when Marc, a hand beneath her elbow, gently propelled her across the crowded ballroom to a quiet corner. He deftly commandeered two drinks from a passing waiter.

  "Quite a crowd," he commented casually, as he looked around the large room appraisingly. "I don't believe Walter has thrown a party of this size since Natalie died."

  "You knew his first wife?" Tamara asked, surprised. Then she bit her lower lip vexedly as Marc's face tightened in annoyance. Of course he would have known Natalie Bettencourt. Her employer couldn't be more than five years older than Marc. She was continually forgetting how much older Marc was than she, but she was aware how sensitive he was on the subject. He certainly didn't look anywhere near the forty-seven he was. His dark hair was only lightly frosted with gray at the temples and an almost fa­natic devotion to tennis kept his tall, slim figure firm and muscular.