No Red Roses

by Iris Johansen

  Perhaps there's a little butterfly in the most sedate of us, she mused, as she once more started toward the greenhouse. We hide in our little cocoons until it's time to shrug off the protective confines and try our wings. Going with Brody on his tour might be considered a bit reckless for a fledgling butterfly like herself, but she suddenly knew there was no ques­tion that she would do it. The challenge he'd thrown at her was just too tempting to resist. Why shouldn't she begin her new, more colorful existence with a brief, dizzying flight that would break her free once and for ail from her cocoon? Yes, she would defi­nitely go with Brody and let that wild eagle show the butterfly how to fly.

  She certainly should have no qualms about making use of him after his blackmail attempt. But it probably would be much wiser not to let Brody know she actually wanted to go with him now. Yes, she'd let him think he'd bulldozed the poor little small-town girl into going with him. It would fortify her position and she guessed she might need that strength with a man as forceful as Brody.

  There was a smile of infinite satisfaction on her lips as she opened the door of the greenhouse.

  Some time later Tamara looked up absently from the pot of bay leaf she was transplanting into larger pots as the door was thrown open. Rex Brody stood in the open doorway with a frown of angry impatience on his face. When he caught sight of Tamara on her knees, contentedly working with her plants, the impatience turned to positive fury.

  He kicked the door shut with his foot before strid­ing forward to tower above her intimidatingly. "Do you realize I've been ringing your bell and banging on your door for the past ten minutes?" he grated between clenched teeth. "Since there was a car parked in the driveway I was afraid something had happened to you, so I let myself in. I search all over this Victorian monster of a house, and I finally find you playing in the dirt like a seven-year-old!"

  She stared up at him belligerently, striving not to notice how the black jeans hugged with loving detail the solid line of his thighs. His blue shirt was open at the throat, revealing the start of the springy dark hair on his muscular chest. "I didn't hear you ring," she said defensively.

  "I'm aware of that. How could you hear me when you were out here making mud pies?" he said caustically. "Why in hell weren't you inside waiting for me?"

  Tamara slowly picked up a towel and wiped her muddy hands on it, wishing it were his immaculate chambray shirt. "I'm not in the habit of sitting in the front parlor waiting meekly for visitors like a Victorian miss," she said coldly. "And I'm not mak­ing mud pies. I happen to be working. I didn't no­tice the time, or I wouldn't have been so discourteous as to keep you waiting."

  He looked impatiently at the gold watch on his wrist. "I'll give you just thirty minutes to get cleaned up and finish packing," he growled. "As it is”, we won't get into New York until late afternoon."

  "Are you crazy?" she asked indignantly. "I have no intention of going anywhere today. I have arrange­ments to make, and I can't waltz off with you with­out discussing things with my aunt. I may have agreed to your terms but you can't expect me to simply pick up and leave. You'll just have to give me your itinerary and I'll join you when it's convenient."

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. She could feel the waves of anger that were radiating through his motionless body, and when his eyes flicked open, they were blazing with dark fire. "I'd advise you not to goad me today, Tamara," he said, enunciating very precisely. "I was mad as hell at you before I even arrived here, and this little game of hide-and-seek hasn't improved my temper. In addi­tion to my less than indulgent mood, I'm in a hurry, damn it!"

  "It's hardly my fault you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," she said, glowering at him. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from blaming me for your own bad temper."

  "The hell it wasn't your fault," he said roughly. "After I left you last night, I went back to the party and had a little chat with Todd Jamison."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "I'm amazed that he was capable of discussion," she said. "He could barely stand up when I last saw him."

  "He was not only capable, he was positively verbose," he said darkly. "Once he got started, I couldn't shut him up. He wasn't just lyrical about your 'talents,' he was quite explicit."

  Tamara could feel the warm color dye her cheeks scarlet and she dropped her gaze, her long lashes dark shadows on the curve of her cheeks. "That must have given you a kinky little thrill," she said scornfully, lifting her eyes again to glare at him.

  "You could say that." His lips twisted painfully as his gaze moved compulsively over the voluptuous curve of her breasts, clearly outlined in the faded lavender shirt. "I couldn't decide whether I wanted to wreak havoc on Jamison or you. I didn't get to sleep last night thinking of you in bed with that loud-mouthed bastard, letting him do all those things to you. I wanted to do everything with you that he'd done and more. I wanted to wipe your mind free of every other man who'd ever touched you."

  A wave of heat flowed over her, tuning her body to an exquisite sensitivity. He wasn't even touching her, yet the intensity of that look and the erotic picture his words evoked caused a strange, melting sensation in her loins. "How very chauvinistic of you," she said a little shakily, as she attempted to meet his dark gaze that was flickering now with desire as well as anger.

  He scowled. "Perhaps I am," he admitted. "I know I don't have any right to question your past. I've never been an angel myself where women were concerned. I shouldn't care how many men you've had." Then his face darkened and his hands knot­ted into fists. "But damn it, I do! I don't want to meet another man who's had you, and if you ever let anyone else so much as lay a finger on you, I'll probably tear him apart."

  She shivered as the absolute sincerity in his tone came home to her. Then she lifted her chin defiantly as she realized he was doing it again! Despite all her resolutions, Brody was manipulating her emotions and intimidating her just as he'd done last night.

  "I can't say I'm interested in either your sexual fantasies or your possessive delusions, Mr. Brody," she said icily. "And I certainly don't intend to indulge you by paying the slightest attention to any strictures you attempt to place on me. I run my life as I see fit."

  "Rex, damn it," he bit out. "And you'll be very interested in my sexual fantasies in the near future, I promise you." He drew a deep breath and ran his hand through his crisp dark hair. "But all that isn't important right now. I have to be in New York by late this afternoon, and you're coming with me. Now, let's get moving."

  "Perhaps you didn't hear me. I can't possibly leave today," Tamara said. "So I'd suggest you leave with­out me."

  "Of course you can leave today," Rex asserted arrogantly. "All you need is a little organization. Now—what do you have to do?"

  Tamara sighed resignedly and counted slowly to ten. She spoke with painstaking slowness as to a very young child. "I have to discuss my plans with my aunt. I have to pack. I have to give at least a week's notice to Mr. Bettencourt, and I have to find someone to care for my plants while I'm gone."

  He frowned impatiently. "I’ll help you pack. That shouldn't take long. You can call your aunt from New York and explain. You don't have to worry about Walter. I told him at breakfast I was taking you with me today."

  "Wasn't that a trifle presumptuous of you?" she asked angrily. "I owe the store at least a week's notice, and it was my place to speak to my employer."

  "I was hoping to spare you the awkwardness of what I assumed would be a painful situation." His voice was dangerously soft. "I'd forgotten how close you once were. Perhaps you wanted to bid him a fond farewell."

  "As you're quite sure I have the morals of an alley cat, you may find it difficult to believe I have other motivations in my relationships with men other than luring them into bed with me," she said caustically, rising to her feet. "I owe Mr. Bettencourt a great deal. It's only courteous to give him notice personally."

  Rex's lips twisted cynically. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. I go
t the distinct impression that Walter was quite relieved not to have to speak to you. I gather that Celia was almost hysterical last night after you stalked out of the ballroom like a disdainful princess. I think it will be much more comfortable for Walter this way."

  "I guess you're right," Tamara said, a trace of bleakness in her violet eyes. "Perhaps I'd better take you up on the offer of that boutique on Rodeo Drive. I don't imagine Rex Brody's latest mistress will be very welcome in Somerset."

  Rex frowned again. "The whole world doesn't re­volve around this little Peyton Place, you know. I promised I'd protect you."

  "The world might not, but Aunt Elizabeth's life certainly does. For that matter, so has mine for almost twenty-three years," she said.

  "I told you I'd make everything right for you."

  "There are times when you can't just wave a check­book and have everything fall into place."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said ironically. "I think I can demonstrate that I have a few more assets than the ones in my bank account." He gestured impatiently. "Now that we've disposed of your arguments, shall we start packing?"

  She shook her head decisively. "Even if I agreed with your rather arbitrary disposal of my other objections, I still have no one to care for my plants."

  He gave the interior of the greenhouse a cursory glance. "Surely your aunt could water your flowers for you," he said carelessly.

  "Plants," she corrected firmly. "And they require a good deal more attention than watering. I've spent two years developing and nurturing some of these strains, and I'm not about to forfeit all my work by putting someone in charge who has little or no knowl­edge of horticulture. You’ll have to wait until I can hire a competent person. What can a week matter?"

  "It matters," Rex said grimly. "Let me get this straight. You won't come with me because you haven't got someone to babysit a bunch of plants?"

  "I'm delighted I've finally gotten through to you," Tamara said with a demure satisfaction she didn't bother to conceal. "That's exactly what I mean. So you’ll just have to do without me until I'm free, won't you?"

  "Like hell I will!" he said explosively. He turned and strode out of the greenhouse, slamming the door behind him with a violence that caused the glass panels to vibrate.

  Tamara flinched involuntarily. It seemed the force­ful Mr. Brody wasn't at all pleased on the odd occasion when he didn't get his own way. Well, he'd just have to become accustomed to it, because she was through jumping whenever he snapped his fingers. There was a serene smile on her face as she once more picked up her trowel and began to work.

  Four

  Tamara worked contentedly at her gardening for the remainder of the day, resolutely blocking out the thought of anything that even remotely reminded her of either Rex or the upsetting events of the last twenty-four hours. In fact, she was so successful that it came as a tiny shock when Aunt Elizabeth called her for the evening meal, and she realized it was nearly sundown. She quickly checked the ther­mostat on the wall and hurried out of the green­house and across the backyard to the house.

  Aunt Elizabeth, looking trim and youthful in blue jeans and a neat white blouse, was at the stove stirring a concoction that smelled gloriously appetizing.

  Tamara gave her a fleeting kiss on the back of her neck as she went by. "I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes, love."

  "No hurry. It's only soup and sandwiches tonight. I knew you'd need to shower so I called you a bit early."

  It may have been only soup and sandwiches but when Tamara sat down at the kitchen table opposite her aunt some thirty minutes later, the meal looked mouthwateringly delicious. Crusty, golden homemade bread, thinly sliced ham and roast beef, and Aunt Elizabeth's vegetable soup which was always sheer ambrosia.

  "Absolutely fabulous," Tamara said enthusiastically as she helped herself to sliced tomatoes from the blue willow platter.

  "Hunger makes the best sauce," Aunt Elizabeth quoted, then she frowned. "I see you didn't touch the tuna salad."

  "I forgot," Tamara murmured guiltily.

  "You always do." Her aunt sighed. "You'd starve to death if there weren't someone around to remind you to eat."

  "Well, you are around," Tamara said, grinning. "And you can't say I'm not a healthy specimen. Did you enjoy yourself at Reverend Potter's?"

  "Oh yes, it was very pleasant," Aunt Elizabeth said vaguely, still gazing at Tamara with a frown. "I do hope that young man makes sure you eat properly."

  Tamara's hand, in the act of reaching for the ladle of the soup tureen, froze for a brief instant in midair before completing the action with careful precision. "Young man?" she asked casually, lowering her lashes to veil her eyes. "What young man?"

  "Why, the one with the music, dear," her aunt said matter-of-factly. She lifted her spoon to her lips and tasted the soup, and a pleased smile lit her face. "I tried a dash of paprika in this recipe tonight. I believe it gives the soup a nice lift."

  Tamara sighed as she put the ladle back in the tureen and looked up to meet her aunt's serene gaze. At times there were definite disadvantages to living with an honest-and-true psychic. "Okay, Madame Zara, how much do you know?"

  "Oh, not very much, dear," Aunt Elizabeth said. "It wasn't a complete revelation, you know. It was more of a very muddled, fleeting impression. When are you going away?"

  "In about a week," Tamara answered cautiously. She'd decided there was no way she was going to burden her aunt with the entire story that led to her acceptance of Rex's proposal and she'd constructed a half-truth she hoped was fairly plausible. "I decided I'd like to try something new, so I resigned from Bettencourt's and I'm going to take a tempo­rary clerical position touring with an entertainer. It will only last a month and then I'll return and consider my other career options." She smiled brightly. "I have a little money in the bank. Perhaps I'll just take a few months off and work on my book."

  "A week? I received the impression that it would be much sooner than that," Aunt Elizabeth said, frowning. Then her face cleared and she added, "Oh well, perhaps I was mistaken. What's the young man's name, dear?"

  "Rex Brody," Tamara answered. "He's Margaret Bettencourt's nephew and evidently very well known. It will only be for a short while and I’ll be perfectly safe. You mustn't worry, darling."

  "Oh, I'm not worried," her aunt assured her tranquilly. "I have nothing but good vibrations about this move of yours, dear." A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. "Though there was some disturbance about the blood."

  "Blood?"

  "Oh, it was all quite mixed-up. There's nothing to worry about I'm sure," Aunt Elizabeth said comfort­ingly. "It was just a bit puzzling. I'm certain all the details will come in much clearer next time."

  Tamara hoped ruefully that some of the details would remain permanently blurred. How could any­one hope to practice even a well-meant deception when her aunt knew more than she did about her own future?

  "I’ll call you as soon as we arrive in each city," Tamara said gently. "You won't be too lonely, love?" It was the first time they'd ever been separated and Tamara was already feeling a bit misty about the parting.

  Her aunt shook her curly white head briskly. "I'll miss you, of course, dear, but I don't believe I’ll be lonely." Her blue eyes twinkled. "You're very lucky, you know, Tamara. There's such music in that young man!"

  "Music?" Tamara asked, puzzled. "Yes, I believe that he's a very accomplished musician. Janie tells me he's quite a famous composer as well." She shrugged. "I really wouldn't know. He's in the pop field, and I don't really care for that type of music."

  "That wasn't the music I was referring to, dear," her aunt said absently. Then before Tamara could question this bewildering statement, her aunt ordered firmly, "Now eat your supper, Tamara. Your soup is getting cold."

  Tamara obediently picked up her spoon and applied herself to her meal. From past experience she knew that if her aunt didn't wish to continue a conversation, there would be no moving her. Besides, she was determined to let
nothing worry her during this next week. For the first time in years she was free to do exactly as she wished, with none of the responsibilities of her career to worry her. She fully intended to enjoy the respite she'd almost forcibly wrested from Rex.

  And who knew what Rex's attitude would be after only a few days with her in his fast-moving world? She would be such an alien! She looked musingly around the kitchen with its polished pine cabinets and the red ginghain curtains at the window. It was all so simple and homey, and it must be as far removed as another planet from Rex's luxurious sur­roundings in New York. Back in his own world,

  populated with the alluring, sophisticated women he was accustomed to, he would probably forget about this temporary aberration over her. She might not even hear from him again once he realized how very far apart they were in every way that really mattered. Of course he was gone for good!

  Why did that realization bring this curious flatness? The trip with Rex was merely going to be an interesting interlude before she began her own per­sonal renaissance. It couldn't be disappointment she was feeling, she assured herself quickly. It was just that since Rex's appearance on her horizon, she'd been thrown into a tumult of new sensations and experiences. The very "newness" of the feelings was exciting, so of course it was natural she should feel a trifle confused now that his whirlwind personality was removed from her immediate orbit. In a day or two, when her life was once more on its smooth, orderly track, she was sure she wouldn't give the arrogant Rex Brody another thought.

  It was almost noon the next day when the door of her greenhouse swung open explosively and Tamara looked up in amazement to see Rex Brody, dressed in rust-colored jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, stride into the room. Except for the change of clothes, he might never have left, for he still wore the frown of angry impatience that had been on his face when he'd slammed out of the greenhouse twenty-four hours before.

  "Do you spend all your time out here?" he demanded, as he crossed to where she was kneeling. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her to her feet.