Tamara took a sip of the aromatic coffee. "Yes, she would. Aunt Elizabeth is a purist where cooking is concerned," Tamara replied absently. "But isn't that a rather unusual thing to remember about a comparative stranger?"
"Is it?" Rex took a sip of his coffee before looking up, his face surprisingly serious. "But then I don't intend that you remain a stranger, Tamara. Before I'm through I'm going to know everything about you. I want to know what you love and what you hate and all the in-betweens. I want to know not only what pleases that gorgeous body, but what's hidden behind the mask on that very beautiful face." He reached over to tap her notebook with a forefinger. "For instance, I want to know about this. Is this the book your aunt mentioned you were writing?"
Tamara nodded, her lips curving wryly. "I hardly think you'd be interested in this particular subject. I'm well aware my interest in herbs is definitely esoteric in this day and age. Though, actually, the book also is going to be a sort of potpourri of all the fascinating little tidbits of information I've picked up along the way." Her face lit up with enthusiasm as she warmed to her subject. "The chapter I'm working on now is a complete dictionary of the language of flowers."
Rex grinned. "You mean like giving someone red roses denotes true love?"
'That's probably the best-known one," Tamara agreed with a smile. "But each flower has its own meaning, and some of them Eire far from complimentary. For example, if someone gives you a horseshoe leaf geranium it means you're stupid, and a hydrangea is a deliciously subtle way of calling you a boaster."
"Ouch!" Rex said with a comical grimace, his ebony eyes dancing. "I can see I'm going to have to pay more attention to the flowers my fans send to my dressing room. They may be trying to tell me something." His gaze fixed on her glowing face. "What other subjects are you going to broach in this masterpiece?"
"Well, I thought I'd throw in a few magical recipes," she said demurely, her violet eyes sparkling. "Like the preparation of an A-one love potion, and an ointment to rub on your broomstick to make it fly."
"Ah-ha, you are a witch! I knew when I saw you work on those poor cretins at the party that you were an enchantress. What love potion did you beguile them with, Morgan le Fay?"
"I seem to be steadily going down in your opinion," she protested. "First I was Guenevere and now I'm demoted to the wicked sorceress. In no time at all I'll be kicked out of Camelot."
Rex bowed with panache. "Not as long as I have my sword and mace to defend you, my lady."
"You're doing it again," she said crossly. "What do I have to do to convince you I'm not a throwback to another time?"
"Sorry," he said with an unrepentant grin. "You've got to admit not many modern young women can discuss knowledgeably the language of flowers or know how to brew up a love potion. Since I can't seem to think of you in any other context, I'm afraid you’ll just have to resign yourself to accepting me as your knight, pretty lady."
"My black knight, perhaps," she answered, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "Your actions toward me to date haven't been guided by any code of chivalry that I've ever read about."
"You haven't been reading the right books," he drawled. "I'm sure in-depth research would reveal those knights in armor were far from reluctant about carrying off a sexy wench across their saddle bow."
"Then I'm sure you'd have been right at home," she said dryly.
A red light suddenly lit up over the cockpit, and a melodious chime sounded.
"You've just been saved by the bell, sweetheart. That's the seat-belt signal. We're starting our descent." He dropped down into his seat and fastened his own seat belt. "Buckle up, honey."
Tamara absently obeyed his instructions after carefully returning her notebook to her bag. She leaned back in her seat, her gaze fixed in surreptitious fascination on Rex's bold profile. Why couldn't she maintain her usual cool air of reserve around the man, she wondered helplessly. One moment she was furiously annoyed and indignant. The next instant she found he'd somehow gotten under her guard and she was not only physically attracted to him, but mentally stimulated by him too. She couldn't deny that in the last thirty minutes he'd completely disarmed her with that puckish humor and his frank interest in her work.
What was even more worrisome was the vague, insidious pleasure she was beginning to feel in his affectionate protectiveness. Though she'd never lacked for love, thanks to Aunt Elizabeth, Tamara had been taught by both word and example to be strong and independent. This being the case, Rex's unshakable belief that she was a person to be meticulously cared for should have annoyed her. Instead she was finding it very comforting to know she could not only lean on his virile strength, but that she was actually expected to.
The more she learned of the myriad facets of Rex's personality, the more convinced she became that the superstar would prove to be infinitely dangerous. She could guard herself against the sheer sexual impact of his virility, but how could she prevent this strange surge of warm contentment that often flowed through her in his presence?
Five
The private airport where the Beechcraft landed was much larger and busier than the one outside Somerset, Tamara noted, as she watched two uniformed attendants roll metal stairs up to the cabin door.
A long, black, chauffeured limousine was parked several yards away. As Rex ushered her leisurely down the steps, the car's rear door opened and a large, burly man in his late forties climbed out. Though impeccably dressed in an obviously expensive, steel gray business suit, his bearing was that of a marine drill sergeant as he strode toward them. There was a frown of exasperation on his blunt jowly face.
Rex watched his approach with a sparkle of mischievous amusement in his dark eyes. He bent close to Tamara's ear and murmured, "Oops! Now I'm going to get it."
He "got it" almost immediately.
"For heaven's sake, why didn't you cut it really close?" the man erupted sarcastically as soon as he was within earshot. "You have a whole four hours before you go on, and you haven't even rehearsed for the past three days, damn it!"
"It's good to see you too, Scotty," Rex said solemnly, his lips twitching. Turning to Tamara, he said, "Tamara, this extremely surly individual is my manager, Scotty Oliver. This is Tamara Ledford, Scotty."
Scotty Oliver raked her with icy gray eyes. "I hope she was worth it. Rex," he said with insulting emphasis, his face still taut with annoyance. "There'll be critics there tonight who would just love to see the golden boy fall flat on his face. You haven't performed in concert for over three years, and you decide to spend the three days before the show screwing some small-town groupie."
Tamara could feel the hot, embarrassed color stain her cheeks as Rex's hand tightened protectively on her arm. His face darkened and his eyes flickered dangerously. "Cool it, Scotty," he said in a low voice. "You have a right to be upset, but keep it between us and leave Tamara out of it."
Scotty Oliver growled a very explicit obscenity, then turned and stalked furiously to the waiting limousine.
"Sorry about that," Rex murmured, a tiny frown wrinkling his brow. "Scotty's been with me since I was a nineteen-year-old kid with just a beat-up guitar and a gigantic ego. He still tends to think of me in those terms at times. But his bark is worse than his bite."
"And am I supposed to meekly accept his insults because he's an old buddy of yours?" Tamara hissed. "It's not enough that the general public will think I'm your latest mistress, you have to expose me to this!"
For a moment there was an odd vulnerability in Rex's dark eyes and he flushed guiltily. Then before she could decipher this reaction, his lips tightened and his expression regained its former impenetrability. "I said I was sorry" he said tautly. "I can promise you it won't happen again."
"Won't it? I'd like to know how you're going to prevent it. Presumably your charming friend is going to accompany us on the entire tour, and he doesn't appear to be the type of person who can be easily intimidated."
"You're right, Scotty is pra
ctically irrepressible. If he won't muzzle that vitriolic mouth of his, I’ll have to leave him in New York:"
Her gaze flew in startled amazement to his. "But won't you need him?"
"You're damn right I’ll need him," Rex said moodily. "This tour will be pure hell without him along to smooth the way."
"Then why?" she asked. "If one of us is to be left behind, surely it would be more practical to release me from our agreement."
He shook his head stubbornly. "No way. You're going, and if Scotty can't be decent to you, he’ll be the one to stay behind."
"That ought to make me really popular with the man," Tamara said gloomily.
Rex ran his fingers through his dark hair and glared at her in exasperation. "For heaven's sake, give me a break. I told you I'd protect you and I will."
"I don't want your blasted protection! I want to go back to Somerset and forget you and your precious manager ever existed," Tamara said stormily, her eyes suddenly suspiciously bright.
"Damn it, don't you dare cry!" Rex practically shouted. "I've got enough on my plate without you tearing me up in that particular fashion."
"I have no intention of crying on your shoulder," Tamara said, haughtily lifting her slightly quivering chin. "I'm not in the habit of venting my emotions on all and sundry, no matter what you think. I'm merely very, very angry."
Rex muttered an impatient curse. "Don't lie to me," he said. "You've let me see beneath that glossy shell you wear, and I know just how vulnerable you are. You've no more real defenses than a babe in arms."
She was prevented from answering by their arrival at the limousine. The airport attendant had just finished stowing their luggage in the trunk, and she only had time to shoot Rex an indignant glance before she was forced to get into the car, followed closely by that infuriating individual.
As she settled herself on the plush gray seat between Oliver and Rex, she noticed that the manager's expression was as forbidding as when he'd stomped angrily away. Well, in spite of what Rex believed, she wasn't about to let this surly brute's attitude bother her. She composedly looked around the spacious interior of the limousine, conscious all the while of Oliver's sardonic eyes on her face. She was very careful not to let any of her admiration show as she noticed the built-in bar, the television set, and the smoked glass that separated the passenger area from the chauffeur.
"Impressed?" Oliver gibed, after he'd given the chauffeur orders to start.
"Not really," Tamara replied coolly. "I've never cared for limousines. They always remind me of funerals."
Rex made a noise somewhere between a snort-and a chuckle. "That's what I've always told him, sweetheart, but he's a hard man to convince." He lazily stretched his jean-clad legs before him and put a casual arm on the back of the seat behind Tamara.
"You know damn well it's necessary," Oliver said, frowning. "This limousine is as solid as a Sherman tank, and just having George acting as chauffeur is a deterrent. Or have you conveniently forgotten that night in Dallas when we had to take you to Parkland Emergency with bruises and lacerations?"
"That was five years ago," Rex scoffed. "So my fans were a little too enthusiastic. That's no reason for you to go into a tailspin every time I take my own car out."
"You're too damn reckless," Oliver said harshly. "There are too many crackpots out there to take the chances you do. Remember what happened to Lennon?"
Rex frowned. "We've gone into all this before, Scotty. I'm not about to live like a prisoner behind bars just because there's a possibility some psycho may take pot shots at me." He grinned crookedly and idly began to play with the wispy curls on the nape of Tamara's neck. "Though perhaps, with Tamara along, I'll give in to your paranoia on this tour. I wouldn't want to chance even the tiniest bruise on this exquisite skin."
Tamara paid no attention to Rex's teasing remark, which was obviously meant to evoke an indignant response from her. Rex and Oliver's almost casual discussion of wounds and fanatical fans and even the possibility of violent death had thrown her into semi-shock. It was the matter-of-factness of the remarks that struck her like a blow. Rex evidently accepted this aspect of his career with the same nonchalance he displayed toward the harvest of wealth and fame it had also brought. A shiver of fear ran through her as she thought of him so badly bruised and cut that he'd had to be taken to the hospital for treatment. The mere idea affected her so intensely she felt physically ill. Why did he continue with a career that could cause such things to happen?
She was grateful neither man noticed the paling of her cheeks and her sudden discomposure. Rex's teasing comment was met by a startled rejoinder from Oliver.
"You're taking her with you on the tour!" he exploded. "You can't do that. Rex. The arrangements are all made."
Rex was now stroking the back of Tamara's neck
as if she were a favorite kitten. "Then make new ones," he said with a lazy grin. "She's going with us, Scotty." Despite the quiet good humor of his expression, there was a thread of pure steel in his voice.
Oliver's face turned ruddy with anger. "Good Lord, Rex, why do you want to take her with you? She'll just get in the way." He gave Tamara a brief, assessing appraisal, causing the color once again to rise to her cheeks. That contemptuous glare might just as well have stripped her naked. "I admit she's a beauty, but you've never felt the need of a live-in woman before. Lord knows there are enough of them willing to tumble into your bed on the road."
"That's enough, Scotty," Rex said, frowning. "I said she was going."
"Okay! But I’ll lay odds you're going to regret it," Scotty growled. "Ill try to alter the arrangements." His lips twisted cynically. "It shouldn't be too difficult since you’ll be sharing a bed."
This was too much! Tamara opened her mouth to tell this rude bastard what he could do with his arrangements, when Rex stopped her by placing a warning hand on hers.
"Easy, babe," he said quickly, not looking at her. His dark gaze was fixed with flint like hardness on Oliver's belligerent face. "I'm going to tell you this once, Scotty, so I'd advise you to listen," he said with dangerous softness. "I don't want to hear you speak of Tamara in that tone ever again. You don't have to like her, but you'll treat her with courtesy and respect or I'll take a great delight in punching your face in!" He suddenly relaxed and grinned with that irresistible, little-boy charm. "We've been friends for a long time, Scotty," he continued coaxingly. "Don't blow it!" He was idly playing with Tamara's fingers. "And you're wrong about the sleeping arrangements. I'd like to have her as close to me as possible, but Tamara will have her own bedroom."
Anger, astonishment, and cautious speculation superseded each other on Oliver's face. "Separate bedrooms?" he echoed. "She's not your woman then?"
There was a curious expression in the midnight darkness of his eyes as Rex's gaze shifted to Tamara's face. It was a strange mixture of mischief, desire, regret, and something else that caused her breath to catch in her throat and her gaze to cling to his as if enthralled. "No, she's not my woman," he said gravely. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss in the palm. "She's my lady."
There was a touching gallantry in the way he uttered "my lady" in that honey dark voice. Tamara was instantly reminded of their recent teasing raillery about knights and chivalry, and she felt oddly moved. She was unable to withdraw either her hand or gaze from his, so lost was she in the strangely timeless moment. She was abruptly brought back to earth when Oliver's voice cut through the misty mood like a finely honed razor.
"Charming," he said sardonically. "But not very explanatory."
Tamara quickly withdrew her hand from Rex's and glanced at Oliver. She was instantly suspicious of the change in his demeanor. Before there had been impatience, anger, and careless contempt in his attitude toward her, but this had undergone a transformation—and not for the better. She sensed not only a chilly wariness, but also an almost menacing calculation in him now. She had an uneasy feeling Oliver was going to prove to be a very
dangerous antagonist.
Rex chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "You don't have to understand it, you just have to accept it, Scotty. I'm having a hell of a problem understanding it myself." His expression sobered. "Now tell me about that deal you made with HBO to film the show tonight."
For the remainder of the drive, Tamara was completely excluded from the conversation as the two men discussed residual contract clauses and percentages. Despite her dislike for the man, she grudgingly had to admit that Oliver sounded like a brilliant businessman and exceptionally good at his job as Rex's manager. In addition there seemed to exist a respect between the two that obviously was built on a long and mutually satisfactory relationship. As the discussion continued, Oliver appeared to forget his former displeasure with his client and relaxed. He even chuckled a time or two at Rex's wry remarks, and Tamara was amazed to see a glint of warm affection in those icy gray eyes.
She was so absorbed by the interaction between the two men that she scarcely noticed when the limousine turned into the underground parking garage of a towering modern apartment building. At the end of a ramp black wrought iron gates were electronically opened by a uniformed security guard, and the long, black limousine swept like a graceful bird into the parking garage, coming to a smooth halt a short distance from a row of elevators.
She had her first glimpse of the chauffeur when he jumped lightly from the front seat and opened the passenger door.
"How have you been, George?" Rex asked with easy camaraderie, as he got out and helped Tamara from the car. "This is Miss Ledford. She'll be staying with us awhile. This is George Edgers, Tamara."
"I'm very happy to meet you, Mr. Edgers," Tamara said politely, as she took in the chauffeur's massive proportions, curly, gray-flecked red hair, and wide, breezy grin.
"My pleasure, Miss Ledford," he said with an admiring look. "I'll bring the luggage right up, Mr. Brody." He turned toward the trunk of the car.
No Red Roses Page 8
