As she walked slowly through the garden, she paused for a moment to watch a gorgeous orange and sable butterfly flitting among the marigolds bordering the red brick path. So lovely. So graceful and free as it spread its brilliant wings in the sun.
Flitting. Tamara's lips curved in an involuntary smile. That was how Aunt Elizabeth had described her mother when she'd first explained Tamara's illegitimate birth and her mother's desertion. Carla Ledford had been like a beautiful butterfly that flitted from flower to flower, only pausing to drink the nectar before continuing dizzily on its giddy flight. It wasn't the nature of the butterfly to ponder and worry or to stay in one place, Aunt Elizabeth had told Tamara gently. So one mustn't blame either the butterfly or the flower, but accept it as the nature of things. For years after that explanation, whenever Tamara had seen a butterfly she'd thought of her mother, and the simile had relieved her of any corrosive bitterness she might have harbored.
Aunt Elizabeth saw everything with such clarity and honest simplicity. Tamara had been raised to face life with strength and that same honesty, but now she was forced to acknowledge she hadn't even been honest with herself. As she'd sat watching Celia and thinking how seldom people and actions were what they really seemed to be, she'd suddenly realized what had provoked the scene at the party.
There had been a growing restlessness within her for years that had culminated in that explosion the night before. She must have been mentally rebelling for some time against the emotioned and physical strictures she'd placed on herself. Why else had she let Celia's petty shrewishness prey on her nerves after a lifetime of ignoring it? And why had she worn that crimson gown after years of dull anonymity? Now that she looked back on it, her actions had been as smooth and consistent as if she'd formulated them. Celia, Todd, and Brody may have acted as catalysts, speeding up the process, but they were only that… catalysts. She was responsible. She wanted to break free.
Tamara shook her head in wonder, her gaze still fixed absently on the butterfly. Freedom. It was all so clear now. She'd never have acceded to Brody's blackmail threat so readily if she hadn't subconsciously wanted to go with him. He'd suddenly appeared on her horizon like a bold eagle and she'd instinctively recognized and desired the freedom he represented.
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."