She'd reached this conclusion in the wee hours of the morning after lying in bed mentally berating herself for the docile way she'd accepted both Brody's so-called bargain and his lovemaking.

Why had she let him bluff her as he had done? Now that she was away from that bold, magnetic charm, she could see he had no real weapon to use against Aunt Elizabeth. She had no doubt Margaret Bettencourt would vouch for her aunt's integrity if it came to a confrontation. Though Brody might cause a little unpleasantness if he chose to go to the authorities, she was sure no criminal action could come of it.

No, she'd been so upset by the events of the evening that she'd let him bulldoze her into a commitment that was totally unnecessary. In the morning she'd tell him what he could do with his threats and his blackmail, she thought crossly. With this grim resolve, she forced herself firmly to fall into a sleep that was both restless and short-lived.

She finally admitted that her nerves were too on edge for her to rest properly and dragged herself out of bed and into the shower when the clock on the nightstand read only eight. The cold needlepoint spray brought her to life with shocking rapidity, and she was soon feeling alert and much like her usual cool, confident self as she dressed in her favorite old faded jeans and a lavender cotton shirt.

She made her way briskly downstairs and into the kitchen, only to find a note from Aunt Elizabeth on the kitchen table, propped against an enormous ebony bowl full of golden irises.

Darling,

I thought I'd let you sleep in after your late night. Mabel asked me to breakfast before church, and I'll be having lunch with Reverend Potter afterward. There's tuna salad in the refrigerator for your lunch. Have a good day.

E.

Tamara touched one of the blooms with a delicate finger while she toyed with the idea of going on to church herself, ignoring that the arrogant Mr. Brody had stated he'd arrive at eleven without even asking if it would be convenient for her. No, she would wait for Brody to put in an appearance and give herself the pleasure of telling him off.

She had opened the refrigerator door and was reaching for the pitcher of fresh orange juice when she heard the front door buzzer. With a puzzled frown she closed the refrigerator and hurried down the hall. This couldn't be Brody yet. It was only eight-thirty and he'd clearly said he'd arrive at eleven.

Celia Bettencourt was standing on the top step dressed faultlessly as usual in designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. She started speaking as soon as Tamara opened the door. "I know you have the right to be angry. If it were I, I'd probably slam the door in my face," she said desperately. "But I'm asking you to listen to me. Will you do that?"

"I don't think we really have anything to say to each other," Tamara said coldly. "You made yourself more than clear last night."

Celia moistened her lips nervously and Tamara noticed she didn't look at all well. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her mouth was taut and strained. "I want to apologize for that," she said haltingly. "I know my behavior was unforgivable." She grimaced. "Even if I wasn't aware of it before, I assure you my father let me know in no uncertain terms how disgracefully I'd treated you."

"I'm not in the mood to be very forgiving at the moment, Celia," Tamara said. "There are some things that take a good deal of time to forget before-"

"Look, do you think this is easy for me?" Celia burst out. "Do you think I'd be here if there were any way I could get out of it? I have to talk to you, damn it!"

So much for Celia's abject apology, Tamara thought grimly. "You might as well come in," she said, moving aside reluctantly. "Though I don't agree we have anything to talk about now that you've done your duty. I promise I’ll let your father know you've done the proper thing."

"My father doesn't know I'm here," Celia said, stepping hurriedly into the hall as if she were afraid Tamara would change her mind. "I left before breakfast this morning. I wanted to try to see you before my father called you with his own apologies."

Tamara shook her head doubtfully but turned and preceded her into the living room. "Sit down," she invited curtly, gesturing to the couch while she dropped into the pale blue armchair.

Celia gazed curiously about the room, and she looked no more at home than Brody had with the mellow period furnishings. Tamara stiffened defensively, expecting some caustic comment, but she was startled to see a curiously wistful expression on the other woman's face. "This is nice," Celia said softly. "It's almost like a Norman Rockwell print."

"You like Norman Rockwell?" Tamara asked, surprised. She wouldn't have thought a woman as worldly-wise as Celia would embrace Rockwell's down-to-earth hominess.

But Celia was nodding. "I have several in my room," she said absently. Then she sat up arrow-straight, her thin figure tense. "I want you to go away," she said abruptly.

"I beg your pardon?" Tamara's eyes widened in shock.

"I have some money I inherited from my mother's estate," Celia said, moistening her lips nervously. "It's not a great deal but it's enough for you to resettle comfortably in another town. Perhaps if you're careful you'd even have enough to open your own boutique."

This was the second time in twenty-four hours she'd been offered a shop of her own, Tamara thought wryly. If it hadn't been so insulting, it would have been a little amusing. "I think you'd better leave, Celia," she said, a thread of steel in her voice.

Celia ran her hand through her hair, disturbing her elaborate crown of curls. "Oh damn, I knew I'd make you angry," she said and, incredibly, her brown eyes were glistening with tears. "Look, I know you must hate me as much as I do you, but you've got to listen to me. Can't you see what an opportunity this would be for you?" She bit her lip as Tamara continued to gaze at her without speaking. "All right, give me just a year. Go away for a year and you can still have the money."

"I don't want your money, Celia," Tamara said, shaking her head in bewilderment. "And I don't hate you." Her lips twisted bitterly. "After last night, I can't say you're on my list of favorite people, however."

"I went a little crazy last night," Celia admitted hesitantly. "I saw you dancing with Todd and the way he was looking at you, and I guess I drank a little too much."

"That makes two of us," Tamara said. "I wouldn't have responded quite so readily to your charming little remark if I hadn't had more than I could handle." She shrugged. "Let's just try to forget about it, Celia."

"I can't," she said, her lips trembling. "I can't take any more. Won't you please go away?"

The woman was actually pleading with her. Where was that brittle, sophisticated facade with which Celia Bettencourt usually faced the world? She looked more like a desperate little girl with those big brown eyes swimming with tears. Here was a Celia Tamara had never seen before.

"This must mean a good deal to you," she said slowly, her gaze fixed on the other woman's face. "You don't have to worry about Todd and me, you know. There's really nothing between us."

"Yes, I know that." Celia smiled bitterly. "I also know that Todd wants you. It was clear to everyone at the party last night. You only have to reach out your hand and gather him up as you do all the other prizes."

"Prizes?"

"Even when we were children in school, you were always the bright little star pupil who won all the blue ribbons in sight," Celia said. "And when Daddy hired you after you graduated, he could never stop raving about you. I thought after high school I'd go right into the store but Daddy sent me to Switzerland instead." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "Then when I came back you were even more deeply entrenched."