celebrate the first anniversary of his marriage to his attractive wife, Margaret. A widower for fifteen years, it had been a nine-day wonder when Bettencourt had attended a convention in New York last May and returned two weeks later with a bride. He obviously was crazy about her, and Tamara could readily understand the reason. Margaret Bettencourt was a charming and intelligent woman who still possessed a glowing attractiveness. Tamara had met her several times when she'd come to the house for consultations with Aunt Elizabeth, and found her both gracious and kind.
'I wonder if there would be room for me in Mildred Harris's fruit cellar? I feel a little like running away myself.' Tamara sighed again. 'Have a good time, love.' She blew her aunt a kiss and hurried out of the kitchen.
Three hours later, Tamara reluctantly put away her spade and trowel, checked the thermostat and humidifier, and turned out the lights in the greenhouse. As usual, the hours spent working so happily in her herb garden had flown by, and she was tempted to spend the evening contentedly puttering with her plants rather than attending that dratted party. She'd always had a passion for horticulture, and she'd had her own herb garden from the time she was six. As a birthday present when Tamara was twenty-one, her aunt had insisted on having a small greenhouse built in the backyard so she could enjoy her hobby year round. It was Tamara's pride and joy, and she spent every free moment there.
Oh well, Marc Hellman was escorting her to the party and she couldn't just stand him up. She'd have to go and try to make the best of it. Marc wasn't the kind of man who would understand any impulsive change of plan. His keen legal mind was respected by everyone in town, but he was so methodical and so pedantic.
As she passed through the kitchen, she noticed it had a pristine emptiness. Aunt Elizabeth must have already left for her church social, she thought absently. However, when she reached her room, she discovered that her great-aunt had left her a note that caused Tamara to shake her head ruefully.
The note was pinned to a crimson taffeta gown that lay like a brilliant poinsettia on the earth-colored coverlet on her bed. It was short and lovingly coercive:
Darling,
I know you want to look your very best tonight, so I pressed this gown for you.
Have a lovely time!
E.
Aunt Elizabeth passionately hated Tamara's wardrobe, which she described as dull and mouselike. She'd given Tamara this lovely creation last Christmas, and had been most disappointed when she had never worn it.
Tamara reached out a tentative hand and stroked the smooth, rustling material thoughtfully. Why not? It would please her aunt, and she was tired of the grays and browns that were the staple colors of her wardrobe. She certainly needed something to raise her morale if she were to get through the evening with her temper intact.
An hour later, her eyes widened slightly as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The gown was blazing crimson and almost medieval in cut, with long, tight sleeves and a fitted bodice, and the long skirt fell to the floor in graceful folds. The neckline was low and square-cut, showing a generous amount of cleavage, though it was probably quite modest compared to some of the gowns that would be on display tonight.
The gown took on its wicked provocation from Tamara herself. The combination of golden satin skin and a slim, curvaceous figure made all the difference.
The passionate curve of her lips, and the slightly slanted, wide-set violet eyes framed in extravagantly long lashes, lent her face a stormy sexuality that made her remember her aunt's simile of this afternoon. She'd said she looked like a king's mistress and that was certainly true tonight. She'd been trying to underplay that sultry, sexual quality for years, ever since that ghastly night at O’Malley's Roadhouse. Yet strangely, tonight she derived a certain amount of pleasure from seeing that brilliant bird of paradise in the mirror.
She quickly combed her long, silky black curls, then pulled her hair forward to nestle provocatively against the curve of her ripe breast. A glance at the clock on her bedside table verified that she still had forty-five minutes until Marc was due to arrive. She would go downstairs and wait.
She was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell buzzed stridently. Frowning in puzzlement, she continued slowly down the stairs, her eyes fixed on the shadowy outline behind the translucent panels of the front door. It couldn't be Marc. He firmly believed it was just as rude to be early as late, and would arrive at eight o'clock on the dot.
Besides, that masculine shadow had an odd electric quality that was totally unfamiliar to her. The shadow moved abruptly and suddenly the bell was ringing again. The visitor pushed on the bell with a rough impatience, causing Tamara's lips to tighten in displeasure as she hurried down the last few steps and across the hall. Whoever the visitor was, he could use a lesson in manners. She threw open the door.
'You certainly took your time about it, damn it!'
Tamara felt her mouth drop open in shock. The man standing before her was the most blatantly virile male she'd ever seen. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, a little under six feet, and every inch of his muscular body exuded an almost tangible sexual vitality. She'd sensed that electricity just from his shadowy silhouette, but it was nothing compared to the dynamic effect of his actual presence. Crisp dark hair, worn slightly long, framed features that were more fascinating than good-looking, she thought dazedly, except for that beautifully sensual mouth and the flashing dark eyes gazing at her with distinct displeasure.
The realization of this displeasure abruptly snapped her back to her usual cool sanity. Tamara wasn't used to that particular expression on the face of men who'd just seen her for the first time. She was more accustomed to their looks of dazed admiration than the open contempt of this arrogant and extremely rude man.
'May I help you?' she asked. Upon closer inspection, she was sure he'd come to the wrong house. She certainly had never seen him before, and it was unlikely her aunt was acquainted with a man like him. His biscuit-colored suit was obviously exorbitantly expensive and far too trendy for one of Aunt Elizabeth's conservative friends. His yellow linen shirt was left unbuttoned to reveal a strong bronze throat encircled by a fine gold chain.
'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?'
