"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 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.