She laughed recklessly. "Really? Perhaps I should rephrase the question. What kind of person do you think I am, Marc?"

"Why…"He gestured helplessly.” You’re intelligent, dignified, and gentle. You have a quiet charm and are very discriminating." He shook his head. "Why are you behaving this way, my dear?"

She stared at him in sad amazement. She had thought that Marc knew her better than anyone in Somerset, yet the person he had described was no closer to her own personality than Todd's assessment. Did everyone see only what they wanted to see? She suddenly felt terribly alone.

"Perhaps because the woman you've just described has all the characteristics of a victim," she replied huskily. "And I find I'm tired of acting a part to you to gain approval from people who couldn't care less about who I really am. I've been trying to conform to Somerset's idea of what a lady should be since I was sixteen. I've been as discreet and colorless as a little brown wren for years, but I'm still looked upon as some kind of scarlet woman."

"You're speaking wildly, Tamara," Marc said in a firm, fatherly voice.

She shook her head, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

The emotional shocks that had followed one upon the other had shattered the cocoon Tamara had woven around her feelings, and she was flooded with a wild euphoria that made her peculiarly light-headed. Not that the three cocktails she'd consumed earlier hadn't contributed to that state, she thought ruefully. Whatever the cause, it resulted in the banishing of her inhibitions and she found the new Tamara Ledford to be bitterly amusing.

If no amount of discretion was going to change anyone's opinion of her, why should she attempt the impossible? Why not enjoy herself and give everyone what they expected of her? Since they thought of her as some sort of Femme Fatale, then she'd show them just how vampish she could be if she put her mind to it.

She found it ridiculously easy. All it took was a slow, seductive smile or an alluring sidelong glance and her partners responded as if she'd pushed the ignition button on a rocket. She soon had a small court of eager males around her, vying for her favors. She was aware of the whispers and coldly disapproving glances she was receiving from the other women in the room, but that didn't really matter until she looked up to meet the eyes of Celia Bettencourt.

The blonde was standing only a few yards away. She was holding Todd Jamison's arm with possessive intimacy, but her attention was fixed with malevolence on Tamara and her circle of admirers. Her voice was light but meant to carry clearly to the people in her immediate vicinity. "Isn't it amusing to see the little bastard try her hand at social climbing? But then who could blame her after living all her life with that crazy old witch of an aunt?"

At the blatant insult, rage shot through Tamara like a lightning bolt. She'd taken just about enough from Celia for one day. There was a look of embarrassed shock on the faces of most of the crowd surrounding them. The rudeness had been too obvious for even Celia's most devoted sycophants to accept. It was clear Tamara was meant to be hurt and humiliated by the comment, and that only served to increase the tide of anger flowing through her. She might have tried to ignore an insult to herself, but there was no way she was going to take Celia's sniping at Aunt Elizabeth without retaliation.

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze moved thoughtfully to Todd Jamison. Judging by the flush on his face and the slight sway of his body as he returned her look hungrily, he'd clearly been imbibing heavily since she'd seen him last. For a moment she hesitated. What she was about to do went much against the grain, and she almost surrendered the idea at its birth. Then Celia followed her remark with a burst of scornful laughter.

What had Todd said earlier? Oh yes, that he would come to her if she so much as crooked her little finger. Well, he was about to be put to the test, she thought grimly.

She smiled, putting every bit of voltage and appeal she possessed into it. Then,’ raising her hand, she languidly beckoned Jamison to come to her. At first she thought he was ignoring the gesture. He didn't move and there was a dazed, blank expression on his face. Then he brushed Celia's hand from his arm as if she didn't exist and started eagerly forward.

"Todd!" Celia's exclamation was charged with incredulity and outrage, but he acted as if he hadn't heard her. He was so soused he probably hadn't, Tamara thought wryly.

Then suddenly there was a sound from Celia that was a cross between a snarl and a shriek as she rushed forward, pushing Todd Jamison out of her way, to halt before Tamara. She was breathing hard, her doll-like face suddenly not pretty at all, her eyes glazed with fury.

"Damn you!" she hissed, and her hand swung out to connect with a sharp crack on Tamara's cheek.

For an instant Tamara couldn't believe it had happened. Even Celia wouldn't cause such a scene at her father's anniversary celebration! But she'd done it, as was evidenced by the sudden, shocked silence of the guests.

"If you'll excuse me, please," Tamara said formally. She raised her chin proudly and with a slow, regal dignity glided through the silent crowd to the French doors that led to the terrace.

As Tamara closed the doors, she heard the sudden outbreak of conversation behind her. She leaned back for a moment, the cool breeze stroking her hot cheeks like a caressing hand. The reckless gaiety and daring that had sustained her through the evening had abruptly subsided, drowned in the shock and embarrassment she'd felt in that terrible moment when Celia Bettencourt had attacked her.

She felt only a deep depression now as she straightened slowly and wandered despondently to the decorative stonewell bordering the flagstone terrace. She gazed blindly out over the formal rose garden as silent tears ran slowly down her cheeks.

"Well, you're certainly well versed in the art of raising hell, sweetheart," Rex Brody drawled behind her.

Tamara whirled to face him, her stance as defensive as an animal at bay.

Brody leisurely closed the French doors behind him and moved toward her with lithe grace. The moonlight flooding the patio illuminated his tuxedo- clad figure in dramatic, black and white relief, and if anything he appeared more magnetic than ever in the formal attire.

She didn't answer, afraid he would detect her momentary weakness in the shakiness of her voice. She turned hurriedly away again, not daring to wipe her eyes. The blasted moonlight was almost as bright as the noon sun and she'd be damned if she'd reveal to Brody how vulnerable she felt at this moment. He was already dealing from a position of power without her weeping before him like a woeful child.

He halted next to her, gazing down at the dark silkiness of her averted head. "You ought to be spanked, you know," he said grimly. "After you move in with me, I’ll break your little neck if you pull anything like this again."

"I deserve to be punished!" she exploded indignantly, only hearing those first outrageous words. "I'm the one who was slapped by your dear cousin-in- law in front of an entire room of people. I'm the one who was insulted. Don't you think she should reap a bit of the blame?"

"What did you expect after the way you behaved all evening? You threw out so many lures you had every man in the room reeling. You're fortunate one of those women whose man you filched didn't take a knife to you. I'd say you got off damn lucky."

"How do you know how I've been behaving all evening? I haven't even seen you since you walked in the door. You've been so surrounded by all your fans I'm sure you haven't had time to do anything but absorb all their adoring gush."