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.
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."