"Is she?" her aunt asked. "I wonder. You'd be very potent competition for any woman, love." Her gaze ran over her great-niece in affectionate appraisal. "You're very beautiful, you know. You have that wonderfully wicked look I imagine a king's mistress might have." Her gaze returned to her cake. "Besides, you have something I rather think Celia would give a good deal to possess."

"And what is that?" Tamara asked.

"Walter Bettencourt's respect and admiration," her aunt answered quietly. "She knows her father not only trusts your business acumen, but has genuine affection for you. That's a pretty bitter pill to swallow when she probably realizes he doesn't give her the same respect."

"She's the apple of his eye," Tamara protested.

"As a daughter," her aunt said, her face compassionate. "Not as a friend. You have to earn friendship. Maybe that's something Celia doesn't realize yet. Perhaps she thinks you've stolen that from her."

"You're a very frustrating woman to be around, Elizabeth Ledford," Tamara said, her lips curving in a tender smile. "I fully expected to be soothed and cosseted, and you actually have me feeling sorry for the bitch." She scowled as she remembered the extremely trying day she'd just undergone. "And she is a bitch, Aunt Elizabeth."'

"I don't doubt it for a minute, dear," her aunt said serenely. "I just want you to come to understand why she's a bitch." She smiled. "And you don't really need cosseting, do you? It's the Celias of this world who need reassurance and sustenance. You're quite strong enough to face anything, Tamara."

Tamara stood up suddenly and leaned over to kiss her aunt's cheek. "You're pretty terrific! Do you know that, Madame Zara?" she asked huskily, and then before her aunt could answer, she was striding briskly toward the door. "I think I’ll change into my gardening clothes and work in the greenhouse before I get ready for the party. Marc won't be picking me up till eight to take me out to dinner." She raised a brow inquiringly. "Have you decided to attend the party?"

Her aunt shook her white curly head. "I don't think so. The vibrations are always so strong in that large a crowd that it invariably gives me a headache. Besides, there's a bingo tournament and a covered- dish supper at the church tonight."

"I'm tempted to skip the party myself." Tamara sighed, making a face. "If I hadn't promised Mr. Bettencourt I'd be there, I think I would skip it. I've had enough of Celia for one day and I can do without watching her play lady of the manor."

She would just have to avoid Celia this evening. It shouldn't be all that difficult. Walter Bettencourt had invited practically everyone in Somerset, New Hampshire, to celebrate the first anniversary of his marriage to his attractive wife, Margaret. A widower for fifteen years, it had been a nine-day wonder when Bettencourt had attended a convention in New York last May and returned two weeks later with a bride. He obviously was crazy about her, and Tamara could readily understand the reason. Margaret Bettencourt was a charming and intelligent woman who still possessed a glowing attractiveness. Tamara had met her several times when she'd come to the house for consultations with Aunt Elizabeth, and found her both gracious and kind.

"I wonder if there would be room for me in Mildred Harris's fruit cellar? I feel a little like running away myself." Tamara sighed again. "Have a good time, love." She blew her aunt a kiss and hurried out of the kitchen.

Three hours later, Tamara reluctantly put away her spade and trowel, checked the thermostat and humidifier, and turned out the lights in the greenhouse. As usual, the hours spent working so happily in her herb garden had flown by, and she was tempted to spend the evening contentedly puttering with her plants rather than attending that dratted party. She'd always had a passion for horticulture, and she'd had her own herb garden from the time she was six. As a birthday present when Tamara was twenty-one, her aunt had insisted on having a small greenhouse built in the backyard so she could enjoy her hobby year round. It was Tamara's pride and joy, and she spent every free moment there.

Oh well, Marc Hellman was escorting her to the party and she couldn't just stand him up. She'd have to go and try to make the best of it. Marc wasn't the kind of man who would understand any impulsive change of plan. His keen legal mind was respected by everyone in town, but he was so methodical and so pedantic.

As she passed through the kitchen, she noticed it had a pristine emptiness. Aunt Elizabeth must have already left for her church social, she thought absently. However, when she reached her room, she discovered that her great-aunt had left her a note that caused Tamara to shake her head ruefully.

The note was pinned to a crimson taffeta gown that lay like a brilliant poinsettia on the earth-colored coverlet on her bed. It was short and lovingly coercive:

Darling,

I know you want to look your very best tonight, so I pressed this gown for you.

Have a lovely time!

E.

Aunt Elizabeth passionately hated Tamara's wardrobe, which she described as dull and mouselike. She'd given Tamara this lovely creation last Christmas, and had been most disappointed when she had never worn it.

Tamara reached out a tentative hand and stroked the smooth, rustling material thoughtfully. Why not? It would please her aunt, and she was tired of the grays and browns that were the staple colors of her wardrobe. She certainly needed something to raise her morale if she were to get through the evening with her temper intact.

An hour later, her eyes widened slightly as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The gown was blazing crimson and almost medieval in cut, with long, tight sleeves and a fitted bodice, and the long skirt fell to the floor in graceful folds. The neckline was low and square-cut, showing a generous amount of cleavage, though it was probably quite modest compared to some of the gowns that would be on display tonight.

The gown took on its wicked provocation from Tamara herself. The combination of golden satin skin and a slim, curvaceous figure made all the difference.

The passionate curve of her lips, and the slightly slanted, wide-set violet eyes framed in extravagantly long lashes, lent her face a stormy sexuality that made her remember her aunt's simile of this afternoon. She'd said she looked like a king's mistress and that was certainly true tonight. She'd been trying to underplay that sultry, sexual quality for years, ever since that ghastly night at O’Malley's Roadhouse. Yet strangely, tonight she derived a certain amount of pleasure from seeing that brilliant bird of paradise in the mirror.

She quickly combed her long, silky black curls, then pulled her hair forward to nestle provocatively against the curve of her ripe breast. A glance at the clock on her bedside table verified that she still had forty-five minutes until Marc was due to arrive. She would go downstairs and wait.

She was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell buzzed stridently. Frowning in puzzlement, she continued slowly down the stairs, her eyes fixed on the shadowy outline behind the translucent panels of the front door. It couldn't be Marc. He firmly believed it was just as rude to be early as late, and would arrive at eight o'clock on the dot.

Besides, that masculine shadow had an odd electric quality that was totally unfamiliar to her. The shadow moved abruptly and suddenly the bell was ringing again. The visitor pushed on the bell with a rough impatience, causing Tamara's lips to tighten in displeasure as she hurried down the last few steps and across the hall. Whoever the visitor was, he could use a lesson in manners. She threw open the door.

"You certainly took your time about it, damn it!"