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?

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 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 lazily 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 pot shots 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?