No Red Roses

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 utterly 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.

"Yes, I went to school with Natalie," Marc admitted stiffly.

"Tamara, you look absolutely fantastic!"

Tamara turned with scarcely disguised relief at Janie Sutherland's exclamation. Her young sales assistant was looking very attractive herself in a spring green gown that set off her glossy brown hair to perfection. She didn't wait for Tamara's response before rushing on eagerly. "I suppose Celia couldn't wait to tell you about the social lion she's acquired in the family. She's going to be absolutely ghastly to be around now that she has a superstar like Rex Brody to flaunt. Not that she was any prize before."

"Superstar?" Tamara asked, puzzled again. "Rex Brody?"

Janie's eyes widened in incredulous surprise. "You're not telling me you've never heard of him?" she asked. "Good heavens, the man is world famous! I know you're a classical music fan, but you must have heard about Rex Brody. He was the hottest singer in America before he quit performing four years ago to concentrate on composing. Since then he's won a Tony for the best Broadway musical and an Oscar for the best original song for a motion picture. You must have seen him last year on television when he accepted the Academy Award."

"We don't have a television set. Aunt Elizabeth won't have one in the house," Tamara said absently. So that was why Brody had that air of arrogant self-assurance. If he was as famous as Janie indicated, it was no wonder he felt he could just walk in and take whatever he wanted.

"I've heard Brody's score for Lost Dream," Marc said thoughtfully. "It's an exceptional piece of work."

Tamara looked at him in disbelief. Marc hated pop music with a passion. In fact, it was their mutual love of the classics that had brought him and Tamara together.

"That's not the only exceptional piece of work," Janie drawled, winking. "The man practically oozes sex appeal. When he announced he was returning to performing and going on tour, his concerts were sold out all over the country six hours after the tickets went on sale. He's supposed to appear in New York day after tomorrow and I've read that the scalpers are already asking two hundred dollars a ticket."

"Very impressive," Tamara said with a coolness she was far from feeling. Every word Janie was uttering was increasing the feelings of trepidation and anxiety that had beset her since Brody had left her earlier. Aunt Elizabeth's situation was far worse than she'd imagined: Brody had power and prestige.

"I'm surprised Celia didn't tell you about him," Janie said, obviously curious. "She's certainly been boasting about him to all and sundry. Everyone in the room is waiting with bated breath for the great man to arrive."

"It's not very courteous of him to be late for his aunt's anniversary party," Marc said with a disapproving frown.

"According to Celia, he had some very important business to take care of and only arrived back at ye old family mansion a short while ago," Janie said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "If he hadn't just arrived in town today, I'd be tempted to wonder if there was a woman involved."

Tamara could feel the heat rush to her cheeks at Janie's accidental verbal score. She could imagine the gossip that would have ensued if anyone had observed that scene in Aunt Elizabeth's living room.

"Are you sure you're feeling well, my dear?" Marc asked worriedly. "You're really quite flushed."

"I feel absolutely wonderful," she lied. "It's just a trifle warm in here." She took a quick and overlarge swallow of her drink and gave him a dazzling smile.

Rex Brody didn't make his appearance for another forty-five minutes, and in that time Tamara had consumed two more martinis. Unaccustomed as she was to liquor, she found the drinks had the beneficial effect of loosening the cold knot of tension in her breast and replacing it with a bittersweet recklessness.

She was dancing with Marc when she heard a stir and then a low rustle of whispering that ran through the room like wind through a wheat field. She didn't even have to look toward the door to realize what had caused the stir. When she did glance over Marc's shoulder, she could only glimpse Brody's raven head because of the crush of people that had surged forward to surround him.

She was conscious of a feeling of relief when she realized she wouldn't have to confront him immediately. From the look of the crowd around him, it would be impossible for him to break free for some time.

"Pardon me, Marc, may I cut in?" The voice was deep and mocking, and Tamara jerked her head up in surprise.

"Hello, Todd," she said coolly, as Marc politely relinquished her and left the dance floor. She was glad now she'd had those martinis. Todd Jamison, Celia Bettencourt's fiancée, was looking down at her with an openly hungry look that was mixed with active dislike. As they began to dance, Tamara noted how attractive Todd's tall, athletic form was in evening clothes. His carefully styled blond hair and classical features, together with that intriguing cleft in his chin, had always been devastatingly appealing to women. It was no wonder he was spoiled. His good looks and his father's money had always gotten Todd exactly what he wanted.

No, not always. He hadn't gotten what he wanted that night at O'Malley's Roadhouse, and his malice had marred Tamara's relationships in all the years since.

"Lord, you're gorgeous tonight," he breathed hoarsely, as they moved slowly around the floor. "You're like a flame burning out of control in that gown."

"I assure you I'm quite in control, Todd," she said icily, looking up at him. "Which is the only reason I'm dancing with you now. You knew I wouldn't want to cause a scene in the middle of the dance floor."

"You always were a bright girl, Tamara," he said, his lips tightening. "I knew you wouldn't be too crazy about dancing, with me, but I didn't give a damn." His arms tightened around her as he dragged her closer.

"You've got to be either drunk or crazy, Todd Jamison," she hissed straining to get away from him. "Let me go! I've had enough problems with that charming fiancée of yours today without your adding to them. Go dance with Celia, for heaven's sake!"

"I've had a few drinks," he admitted, burying his face in her hair. "You always smell like gardenias," he said thickly.

He'd had more than a few drinks, Tamara thought grimly. As monumentally self-centered as Todd was, he was usually more discreet in his advances. She should know; she'd been fending them off for years.

"Why don't you give up, Todd?" she said, trying to keep her voice even. "You know I can't stand you. I despise you more than anyone I've ever known. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Do you think I don't want to?" he asked bitterly.

"Sometimes I think I really hate you, but it doesn't seem to matter. I've wanted you so long that it's become like a sickness. Half the time I want to strangle you, and the other half I want to drag you off to bed."

"That's hardly new, is it, Todd?" she asked caustically. "Since when have you ever wanted to do anything else? You always did reach out to grab what you wanted, and you never gave a damn who you hurt. I learned that lesson a long time ago."

An angry flush stained Jamison's face and he frowned sulkily. "How many times do I have to apologize for that night? So I got a little carried away and got a little rough. I told you I've always been crazy about you. What could you expect when you led me on and then turned me down at the last minute?"

Despite her resolve to retain her composure, Tamara could feel a swift surge of rage electrify her. "I was sixteen years old and green as grass. I hadn't a clue about what it even meant to 'lead a boy on, she flared, her violet eyes flashing fire. "And if you call attempted rape 'a little rough,' I'm afraid I can't agree with the euphemism."

"Everyone at school knew what went on at O'Malley's," Jamison said belligerently. "Yet you agreed to go there that night without even an argument. Naturally I expected you to put out."

"I didn't know what kind of place it was, and you knew very well I didn't." Her lips curved in a bitter smile. "All I knew was that the wonderful, popular football hero, Todd Jamison, had asked me for a date." She shook her head wonderingly, her eyes sad as she looked back on that naive, starry-eyed teenager. "Green as grass."

There was a flare of hope in Todd's eyes. "You admit you had a yen for me once," he said eagerly. "I can teach you to feel like that again. Let me take you home tonight, Tamara."

Her eyes widened. "Do you really think I could forget everything you did to me?" she asked. "There's a remote possibility I may be able to forgive you for attacking me, but not for what you did afterward. Do you know what misery you caused me with all those lies? You nearly destroyed me, damn it!"'

"You hurt my pride," he defended, with the arrogant egotism of a spoiled child. "All the guys were hot for you, and when I told them you were going with me to O’Malley's, they were jealous as hell. I couldn't tell them you'd run out on me. They'd have laughed at me."

"So instead you made me out to be the hottest lay in town and certainly the most promiscuous," she said scornfully. "You must have been very convincing, Todd. I couldn't even go to the malt shop with a boy without him trying to drag me to the nearest motel. It became the thing for every boy I dated to claim he'd slept with me."

"And did they?" Jamison asked hoarsely, his arms tightening around her. "It used to drive me crazy listening to them bragging about all the things they'd done with you, and not knowing whether they'd really scored when I couldn't."

"You've got to be the most contemptible lowlife on the face of the earth," Tamara said. "Doesn't it even matter to you that you're engaged to Celia?"

He shook his head. "I told you that you were almost an obsession with me," he said huskily. "If you crooked your little finger, I'd drop her in a minute and come running. Do you know that I dream about you at night?"

"I can imagine what kind of dreams," she said disgustedly. "Well, don't be in any hurry to sacrifice that Jamison-Bettencourt merger, Todd. It will be a cold day in July when I encourage you to do anything but leave me alone."

There was a touch of cockiness in Jamison's smile as he drawled insolently, "If I'm patient enough, I'll get what I want. You won't hold out forever, Tamara.

Anyone can tell by just looking at you what a hot number you are. Do you think anyone's been fooled by that demure air you put on? They still remember those stories you're so eager to live down. You should hear them talk about you in the locker room at the country club. Every man in town knows you're just playing it cool until you nab Marc Hellman." He pulled her still closer. "You'll get tired of Hellman. And when you do, I’ll be there waiting."

Before she could reply to this outrageous statement, the music ended. She broke away from Todd's hold and stalked away feeling as if she were aflame with rage.

"Tamara?"

She whirled to face Marc Hellman, her face stormy, her violet, eyes shooting sparks. Gazing challengingly into his thin face, she asked tersely, "Marc, what do you see when you look at me?"

He stared at her blankly. "I beg your pardon?" He frowned worriedly. "Tamara, I think I'd better take you home. You've been quite unlike yourself this evening."

She laughed recklessly. "Really? Perhaps I should rephrase the question. What kind of person do you think I am, Marc?"

"Why…"He gestured helplessly.” You’re intelligent, dignified, and gentle. You have a quiet charm and are very discriminating." He shook his head. "Why are you behaving this way, my dear?"

She stared at him in sad amazement. She had thought that Marc knew her better than anyone in Somerset, yet the person he had described was no closer to her own personality than Todd's assessment. Did everyone see only what they wanted to see? She suddenly felt terribly alone.

"Perhaps because the woman you've just described has all the characteristics of a victim," she replied huskily. "And I find I'm tired of acting a part to you to gain approval from people who couldn't care less about who I really am. I've been trying to conform to Somerset's idea of what a lady should be since I was sixteen. I've been as discreet and colorless as a little brown wren for years, but I'm still looked upon as some kind of scarlet woman."

"You're speaking wildly, Tamara," Marc said in a firm, fatherly voice.

She shook her head, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

The emotional shocks that had followed one upon the other had shattered the cocoon Tamara had woven around her feelings, and she was flooded with a wild euphoria that made her peculiarly light-headed. Not that the three cocktails she'd consumed earlier hadn't contributed to that state, she thought ruefully. Whatever the cause, it resulted in the banishing of her inhibitions and she found the new Tamara Ledford to be bitterly amusing.

If no amount of discretion was going to change anyone's opinion of her, why should she attempt the impossible? Why not enjoy herself and give everyone what they expected of her? Since they thought of her as some sort of Femme Fatale, then she'd show them just how vampish she could be if she put her mind to it.

She found it ridiculously easy. All it took was a slow, seductive smile or an alluring sidelong glance and her partners responded as if she'd pushed the ignition button on a rocket. She soon had a small court of eager males around her, vying for her favors. She was aware of the whispers and coldly disapproving glances she was receiving from the other women in the room, but that didn't really matter until she looked up to meet the eyes of Celia Bettencourt.

The blonde was standing only a few yards away. She was holding Todd Jamison's arm with possessive intimacy, but her attention was fixed with malevolence on Tamara and her circle of admirers. Her voice was light but meant to carry clearly to the people in her immediate vicinity. "Isn't it amusing to see the little bastard try her hand at social climbing? But then who could blame her after living all her life with that crazy old witch of an aunt?"

At the blatant insult, rage shot through Tamara like a lightning bolt. She'd taken just about enough from Celia for one day. There was a look of embarrassed shock on the faces of most of the crowd surrounding them. The rudeness had been too obvious for even Celia's most devoted sycophants to accept. It was clear Tamara was meant to be hurt and humiliated by the comment, and that only served to increase the tide of anger flowing through her. She might have tried to ignore an insult to herself, but there was no way she was going to take Celia's sniping at Aunt Elizabeth without retaliation.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze moved thoughtfully to Todd Jamison. Judging by the flush on his face and the slight sway of his body as he returned her look hungrily, he'd clearly been imbibing heavily since she'd seen him last. For a moment she hesitated. What she was about to do went much against the grain, and she almost surrendered the idea at its birth. Then Celia followed her remark with a burst of scornful laughter.

What had Todd said earlier? Oh yes, that he would come to her if she so much as crooked her little finger. Well, he was about to be put to the test, she thought grimly.

She smiled, putting every bit of voltage and appeal she possessed into it. Then,’ raising her hand, she languidly beckoned Jamison to come to her. At first she thought he was ignoring the gesture. He didn't move and there was a dazed, blank expression on his face. Then he brushed Celia's hand from his arm as if she didn't exist and started eagerly forward.

"Todd!" Celia's exclamation was charged with incredulity and outrage, but he acted as if he hadn't heard her. He was so soused he probably hadn't, Tamara thought wryly.

Then suddenly there was a sound from Celia that was a cross between a snarl and a shriek as she rushed forward, pushing Todd Jamison out of her way, to halt before Tamara. She was breathing hard, her doll-like face suddenly not pretty at all, her eyes glazed with fury.

"Damn you!" she hissed, and her hand swung out to connect with a sharp crack on Tamara's cheek.

For an instant Tamara couldn't believe it had happened. Even Celia wouldn't cause such a scene at her father's anniversary celebration! But she'd done it, as was evidenced by the sudden, shocked silence of the guests.

"If you'll excuse me, please," Tamara said formally. She raised her chin proudly and with a slow, regal dignity glided through the silent crowd to the French doors that led to the terrace.