No Red Roses

One

With a sigh of relief, Tamara Ledford pulled into the driveway of the roomy old Victorian house where she'd lived all her twenty-three years. The gracious, turreted white frame house exuded an aura of mellow serenity that seemed to wrap her in a comforting embrace, and she badly needed that comfort at the moment. She jumped out of her old Toyota, slammed the door, and walked swiftly along the flower-bordered path and up the four stairs to the frosted glass- paneled front door.

She paused for a moment and drew a deep breath, trying to cool the anger and tension that had robbed her of her usual composure. There was no sense in disturbing Aunt Elizabeth over something as trivial as Celia Bettencourt's bitchiness. And, if she didn't calm down, her aunt would definitely notice how upset she was. Even if Aunt Elizabeth's "gift" wasn't fully operational at any given moment, like this one, she was always uncannily perceptive.

When Tamara opened the front door, she was immediately enveloped in a deliciously spicy aroma. Gingerbread, she identified with a sudden lift of her spirits, as she quickly made her way down the linoleum-covered hallway to the large old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the house.

Aunt Elizabeth was at the kitchen table spreading white sugar icing on the luscious sweet bread, and she looked up with a quick smile at Tamara's appearance. "Hello, dear. Aren't you home a little early?" she asked absently, as she turned the plate and dipped her spatula once more into the bowl of icing.

"A little. I came home early to dress for Mr. Bettencourt's party," Tamara replied, strolling over to the table and dropping into a gingham-cushioned ladder-back chair.

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten that was tonight," Elizabeth Ledford said vaguely. She looked up, her blue eyes suddenly sparkling. "What are you planning on wearing?"

"I haven't decided," Tamara said evasively, then knowing the suggestion that was coming, she went on hurriedly. "I see you have on your Madame Zara outfit." Her violet eyes twinkled. "Who have you been peering into your crystal ball for now?"

Her aunt looked down with serene satisfaction at her midnight blue caftan that was extravagantly embroidered with silver stars and crescent moons. She always claimed the rather bizarre outfit inspired her clients with confidence, despite her great-niece's constant teasing raillery. "Mildred Harris's Pekingese ran away last night. She was most upset."

Tamara dipped a finger into the mixing bowl and scooped a bit of icing off the side. She grimaced, as she slowly licked her finger. "I'd run away too, if I were as smothered with attention as that poor animal. Did you locate him?"

Her aunt shook her head reprovingly. "You should be a little more understanding, Tamara. That Pekingese is the only living creature that Mildred has to care about since her husband died. She can't help it if she goes a bit overboard at times. After all, she is getting older."

Tamara smothered a smile at that last remark. Elizabeth Ledford at seventy-three was at least six years older than Mildred Harris, but she never seemed to be conscious of the fact that she might be considered a senior citizen. She certainly didn't look anywhere near her age, Tamara thought idly. Aunt Elizabeth's slim, athletic body was as straight and lively as ever. Her face was as unlined and smooth as a woman of forty, and her sparkling blue eyes were constantly dancing with enthusiasm and humor. Though her hair was snow white, it curled in a riot of tight shiny curls around her face, increasing the aura of youthfulness.

"Sorry," Tamara said solemnly. "Did you find the Peke?"

"Of course," her aunt said serenely. "He got locked in the fruit cellar by mistake when Mildred was fetching some peach preserves. He didn't really run away. When I told Mildred where he was, she hurried right home to let him out."

"I wonder if she'll be able to coax him out. He's probably enjoying his vacation from that eternal fussing," Tamara said with a grin.

She never doubted for an instant that the dog would be exactly where Aunt Elizabeth said he would be. As a child she'd accepted as a matter of course that her aunt could see where she'd misplaced her doll or lost her favorite hair ribbon. Aunt Elizabeth had once explained to Tamara that she would break her arm in the next few days, but that she mustn't be frightened and would be quite well again in a few weeks. Tamara hadn't even been surprised when the rope on her swing had broken and she'd had to be rushed to the hospital with a fractured radius.

She'd thought all grownups possessed these powers until she'd started school and been rudely disillusioned. She'd discovered that Aunt Elizabeth was "different." When a bully called her aunt a witch, Tamara had socked him so hard his nose began to bleed copiously and he'd run crying to the teacher.

Tamara had learned soon, though, that she couldn't fight all the kids who taunted her. So she'd come to behave with a cool reserve that had been her armor ever since. She'd cared much more passionately when the other children had hurled insults at Aunt Elizabeth than when they'd jeered at her for her illegitimacy. Aunt Elizabeth, in her infinite wisdom, had prepared her for the latter possibility. But because she'd lived with her own strange powers so long that they'd become second nature, it never occurred to her to warn Tamara against the venom of those who were frightened or skeptical of her gift. For years Tamara had been silently, yet fiercely resentful of the condemnation of her aunt by her peers, until she'd come to realize just how unusual a gift Elizabeth possessed.

Her aunt's blue eyes were keen as she looked up now and smiled gently. "Are you going to tell me now why you really came home early, dear?"

"I told you I had to dress…" Tamara's voice trailed off. "Well, it was partly true," she said sheepishly. She ran her hand through her shining blue-black hair and with a rueful shake of her head met her aunt's steady gaze. "I'm just being stupidly emotional over something I should have learned by now to ignore. Celia Bettencourt was a little too much to put up with today." Tamara made a face. "I wish to heaven her father had seen fit to place her in someone else's department to learn the ropes."

Her aunt turned the plate again and started icing the other side of the gingerbread. "It was perfectly natural for him to want her to learn from you," she said calmly. "Every father wants what's best for his children and he knows your Perfume and Herb Boutique is the best run department in his entire chain of department stores."

Tamara knew without vanity that her Aunt Elizabeth was correct in her judgment. Tamara had worked hard enough in the past five years to assure herself of the boutique's success. "I think we'd both be happier if he'd chosen someone else to train her in merchandising," she said gloomily. "We've never gotten along, even as children. And since she came back from finishing school in Switzerland, she's been absolutely impossible. She never misses a chance to take a verbal jab at me."

"Did it ever occur to you that she might be suffering as much as you?" Aunt Elizabeth suggested her expression thoughtful. "Jealousy can be a terribly disturbing emotion. It can burn you up inside."

"Jealousy?" Tamara looked at her in blank disbelief. "You've got to be kidding. Her father's the richest man in town and Celia is more than aware of how attractive she is."

"Is she?" her aunt asked. "I wonder. You'd be very potent competition for any woman, love." Her gaze ran over her great-niece in affectionate appraisal. "You're very beautiful, you know. You have that wonderfully wicked look I imagine a king's mistress might have." Her gaze returned to her cake. "Besides, you have something I rather think Celia would give a good deal to possess."

"And what is that?" Tamara asked.

"Walter Bettencourt's respect and admiration," her aunt answered quietly. "She knows her father not only trusts your business acumen, but has genuine affection for you. That's a pretty bitter pill to swallow when she probably realizes he doesn't give her the same respect."

"She's the apple of his eye," Tamara protested.

"As a daughter," her aunt said, her face compassionate. "Not as a friend. You have to earn friendship. Maybe that's something Celia doesn't realize yet. Perhaps she thinks you've stolen that from her."

"You're a very frustrating woman to be around, Elizabeth Ledford," Tamara said, her lips curving in a tender smile. "I fully expected to be soothed and cosseted, and you actually have me feeling sorry for the bitch." She scowled as she remembered the extremely trying day she'd just undergone. "And she is a bitch, Aunt Elizabeth."'

"I don't doubt it for a minute, dear," her aunt said serenely. "I just want you to come to understand why she's a bitch." She smiled. "And you don't really need cosseting, do you? It's the Celias of this world who need reassurance and sustenance. You're quite strong enough to face anything, Tamara."

Tamara stood up suddenly and leaned over to kiss her aunt's cheek. "You're pretty terrific! Do you know that, Madame Zara?" she asked huskily, and then before her aunt could answer, she was striding briskly toward the door. "I think I’ll change into my gardening clothes and work in the greenhouse before I get ready for the party. Marc won't be picking me up till eight to take me out to dinner." She raised a brow inquiringly. "Have you decided to attend the party?"

Her aunt shook her white curly head. "I don't think so. The vibrations are always so strong in that large a crowd that it invariably gives me a headache. Besides, there's a bingo tournament and a covered- dish supper at the church tonight."

"I'm tempted to skip the party myself." Tamara sighed, making a face. "If I hadn't promised Mr. Bettencourt I'd be there, I think I would skip it. I've had enough of Celia for one day and I can do without watching her play lady of the manor."

She would just have to avoid Celia this evening. It shouldn't be all that difficult. Walter Bettencourt had invited practically everyone in Somerset, New Hampshire, to 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?"

"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 reminded 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.