No Red Roses: A Loveswept Classic Romance Page 8

  She was abruptly awakened from her abstraction when they reached the highway and instead of turning south, Rex headed north.

  She sat up straight. “You’re going the wrong way,” she protested.

  Rex shook his dark head as he turned right at a small blue sign lettered McCarthy Airport.

  “It would take too long to drive to New York now. I’ve lost too much time already so I arranged to charter a plane and have my car driven down later.” He made a face. “I had to settle for a prop job. The runways at this private field aren’t long enough to accommodate even a small jet.”

  “What a pity,” Tamara murmured. The look Rex shot her, as he brought the sports car to a smooth halt beside a large hangar adjacent to the runway, was definitely intimidating.

  As she climbed the steps and entered the cream and gold Beechcraft a few minutes later, Tamara thought a few people would have been quite happy to settle for the unobtrusive luxury of this plane. The passenger compartment seated eight, and the tan and cream tweed-covered seats were grouped for informal comfort, with a polished mahogany writing table between each pair of chairs. The plush rust carpet contrasted with the glowing mahogany paneling, and the small bar at the rear of the plane was built of the same beautifully textured wood.

  “Sit down and fasten your seat belt,” Rex said as he entered behind her. He turned to the door leading to the cockpit. “I’ve had the pilot standing by since nine this morning. We should be taking off any minute. I’ve got to check our ETA in New York and then radio ahead to arrange for us to be picked up at the airport on Long Island and driven into Manhattan.” Without waiting for her to reply, he disappeared into the cockpit.

  Tamara sat down, opting for an aisle seat rather than a window. The one time she and her aunt had flown from Boston to New York, she’d gotten a bit queasy looking down at the patchwork terrain below. She was fumbling with her seat belt when Rex returned. He brushed her hands away and deftly fastened the belt before dropping into the seat across the aisle from her.

  “Take off your jacket and get comfortable. It will be about an hour and thirty minutes before we arrive in New York.” Then to her surprise he drew a crumpled sheet of paper and a stub of a pencil from the back pocket of his jeans and proceeded to ignore her. Whatever he was working on, it was receiving his complete attention, Tamara noted, as she slowly pulled her own notebook out of her bag and put it on the table in front of her.

  It wasn’t until they’d been in flight over an hour that Rex looked up, his face intent and abstracted, to meet her puzzled gaze. The absorption gradually faded and he grinned with an appealing boyishness. “Sorry, I just wanted to polish these lyrics while I had the chance. It’s going to be pretty frantic once we reach New York.”

  “It’s a new song?”

  He nodded. “I did most of it last night when I was holed up in that motel outside Boston, after I’d contacted Billings and wrapped him up in pink ribbons for you.” He made a wry face. “It kind of reminded me of the old days when I was on the road and the only spare time I had to do any composing was either after the show or while I was traveling. Only then I usually went by bus, not plane.” He smiled reminiscently. “My first single that went platinum was written on a paper towel from the washroom at the Greyhound bus station in Milwaukee.” He folded up the paper he’d been working on and stuffed it carelessly back into his pocket.

  “How are you able to compose music without an instrument?” Tamara asked, interested in spite of herself at this glimpse of Rex’s colorful past.

  He chuckled and reached across the aisle to flick her nose with a playful finger. “You don’t, sweetheart,” he answered, his dark eyes twinkling. “Even I’m not that good. I never travel without my guitar, though I prefer a piano for composing if one is available. My guitar is stored with the rest of the luggage in the cargo compartment.”

  “I see,” she said a trifle crossly, feeling a bit of a fool. How did she know how pop singers composed their songs? Judging by the cacophony of discordant notes that were produced by some of the more famous groups, their music might well be composed on a rusty washboard. She huffily turned her attention back to her own work with the firm intention of ignoring him.

  Rex evidently had other ideas, though. He checked his watch, then rose to his feet, stretching lazily. “How about a cup of coffee?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he strolled to the bar in the rear of the plane and poured two coffees from a large thermos on the counter. He added cream to one, then returned and offered it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, gazing at him curiously. “How did you know I took cream in my coffee?”

  “Your aunt mentioned it this morning when she was stuffing me with coffee and sugar doughnuts,” he said with a shrug, half sitting on the arm of his chair, his long legs stretched out before him in the aisle. “She seemed to think it was an insult to her coffee-making expertise to dilute the flavor with milk.”

  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 are 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 Guinevere 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 unrepetant 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 bla
ck 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 practically irrepressible. If he won’t muzzle that vitriolic mouth of his, I’ll just 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 l
azily 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 potshots 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?