No Red Roses

by Iris Johansen

  "Don't you think you may be a trifle prejudiced in his favor?" Tamara asked skeptically. "He can't be all that good."

  There was an odd flicker in Oliver's ice-gray eyes. "Rex said you hadn't ever seen him perform. I thought you were just conning him. But you really haven't seen him, have you?"

  She shook her head impatiently. She was getting a bit tired of this incredulous response to her igno­rance of Rex's work. "I'm not interested in pop music," she explained crossly. It seemed she'd repeated that quite a bit lately.

  Oliver arched a mocking eyebrow. "Tell me that after you see him in action. I'd like to get your reactions after the concert."

  "You must be a very good agent, Mr. Oliver," she said lightly. "You certainly believe in the product you're selling."

  "I don't have to promote Rex, he sells himself. He's probably the premier performer in the world today. I've never seen anyone generate as much electricity onstage. The man practically carries on a love affair with the audience." As Tamara continued to stare perplexedly at him, he frowned in frustration. "Hell, there's no way I can really define it. You'll see what I mean."

  And she did. By the time Rex was doing his last song before the intermission, Tamara was as dazed and enthralled as the wildly responsive audience.

  "My word, how does he do it?" she whispered wonderingly, her eyes fixed on the vibrant figure in the center of the stage. He was sitting on a simple stool much like hers, his fingers rippling over the strings of his guitar while his rich baritone notes soared out over the breathlessly quiet audience. She could see what Oliver meant about Rex not needing props. They would only detract from the magnetism he exuded. Even his clothes were simple. His fitted, black suede pants hugged his muscular thighs and his white shirt with its long, full sleeves reminded her vaguely of a pirate's romantic garb. The top few buttons of the shirt were left open to reveal the corded, hair-roughened muscles of his chest. "He's practically mesmerizing them. How does he do it?"

  "I used to wonder about that myself," Oliver said, his thoughtful gaze also on Rex. "His voice is damn good, but I've heard better. He's good-looking, but not fantastically handsome. I finally decided that it was sheer love. He's so passionately in love with his damn music!" He shrugged. "I guess the audience feels it and responds. He should never have quit performing. It was a mistake. He needs it to complete him."

  "But the songs of his I've heard tonight are so incredibly beautiful," she protested. "Surely the cre­ation of such music must give its own satisfaction."

  "Maybe," he said absently. "But look at his face."

  Tamara could see what Oliver meant. Rex's expres­sion was lit from within in wild exhilaration, and he looked more vividly alive than anyone she'd ever seen. "Why did he give it up?"

  "He was tired. Being a superstar can be the most demanding and confining career in the world, and he'd been at the top of the heap since he was nineteen. He'd become so popular that the personal appearances were interfering with his composing. So he just threw in the towel and swore he'd never perform again." Oliver smiled. "I knew he'd get bored eventually. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did."

  Rex had finished his song and had risen to his feet, one arm raised to acknowledge the wild acclaim he was receiving from the audience. Tamara could almost feel the waves of emotion pouring out to surround his exultant figure. How incredibly heady to be the recipient of that overpowering adoration, she thought, awed. It would make one feel almost godlike to inspire such a response.

  Then he was running lithely offstage, his face dewed with perspiration, his dark eyes blazing with excite­ment. He paused beside them for a brief moment, accepting the towel Oliver handed him and patting his brow. "Well, am I fantastic or not?" he asked jubilantly, with the endearing egotism of a little boy begging for praise. "Did you like me, sweetheart?"

  Her lips curved in a teasing smile. "I liked you very much," she assured him indulgently. "And yes, you're utterly fantastic."

  "Great!" he said. He handed the towel back to Scotty and gave her a breezy grin. "Wait until you see the second half. I've just been winding up!" He bent forward and gave her a quick kiss full on the mouth before he walked swiftly toward his dressing room.

  Rex exploded into novalike brilliance the moment he stepped onstage after the intermission. He had, indeed, just been winding up during the first part of the show, Tamara thought breathlessly. He went from peak to peak and took the audience with him, until they were drunk and almost hysterical with emotion. He did three encores at the end of the show, and the roaring audience was on its feet de­manding more when he raised both his arms and grinned beguilingly.

  "I don't want to leave you, either," he said in a husky voice. "Will you let me sing one more song?"

  The answer from the crowd probably shook the rafters of the stately old concert hall.

  "Terrific," he said, as he settled back on the stool. "Because this is a very special song. It's brand new and it's for my lady."

  Tamara's breath caught in her throat and she barely heard the first few chords of the guitar or the surprised murmur that ran through the auditorium.

  Sweet my lady, weave your magic spell.

  Bring me to your arms and let me love.

  The throbbing, beautiful notes flowed out with a curious intimacy into the darkness, and Rex's face as he sang them had a sensual poignancy that was almost as moving as the song itself.

  There were tears flowing down Tamara's face as the last note died away. "It's so lovely," she murmured.

  "It's better than that," Oliver said, a trace of excitement in his gravelly voice. "It'll probably go platinum!"

  With a wave of acknowledgement, Rex made his final exit from the stage. This time he didn't stop but continued straight, down the corridor to his dressing room, surrounded by musicians and technicians ea­ger to congratulate him. Tamara felt an odd sense of desolation as he disappeared from view.

  "Well, Miss Ledford, how does it feel to have the foremost pop composer in America write a song for you?" Oliver's voice cut caustically across the euphoric plane she'd been wafted to when Rex had announced his dedication.

  But she wouldn't let Oliver's sarcasm destroy this moment. "It's the loveliest thing that's ever happened to me," she said with quiet sincerity.

  There was a flicker of surprise in Oliver's gray eyes before he said, reluctantly, "If you can manage to inspire any more songs of that caliber, you may be an asset after all."

  "That's very generous of you to say so," she said, her violet eyes twinkling. "Do you think I may even be worth the Lotus?"

  "Rex told me you wouldn't take the car ... or the necklace," he said gruffly. Then quickly standing up, he helped her down from the stool. "Come on, it's time we got moving. Rex is having a press confer­ence in his dressing room, and I promised I'd deliver you when they were about ten minutes into the interview."

  "Won't he be tired after the show?" she asked, accompanying Oliver obediently. "I'd think he'd be too drained to bother with the press."

  "Not Rex. He's so full of adrenaline he's high as a kite after a performance."

  They'd reached the dressing room and Oliver opened the door and aggressively pushed their way into the small room that was crowded with reporters. They were ignored by the press, which concentrated with single-minded attention on Rex's vital, mag­netic figure, sprawled in a chair. Oliver and Tamara stood in the back of the room watching as he an­swered some questions and parried others good- naturedly.

  Tamara was sure he hadn't noticed their presence until one reporter asked sharply, "Your last song came as quite a surprise, Rex. It's the first time you've ever dedicated a song to anyone. Who is 'my lady'?"

  Rex smiled slowly. "I thought you'd ask that. Tamara!"

  The crowd of reporters parted as Rex beckoned in Tamara's direction. Oh no, he wouldn't expose her to this, would he? It seemed he would. Oliver nudged her firmly in the small of her back, propelling her forward, and she reluctantly made her way to Rex's seated figu
re. She could feel the color flood her cheeks as he took her hand and kissed it lingeringly. "Gentlemen, this is 'my lady,' Tamara Ledford."

  There was an immediate volley of questions that Rex deftly parried until one reporter queried if Tamara was an actress or in the entertainment field.

  Rex's eyes lit with mischief as he continued to hold Tamara's hand firmly in his own. "I can see how you might think so," he drawled. "She's gorgeous, isn't she?" There was a murmur of laughing assent and he continued solemnly, "Actually, her occupation is slightly more bizarre. Tamara is a genuine, card-carrying witch. How else do you think she beguiled me into writing that song for her?"

  There was a burst of laughter from the reporters and Tamara's embarrassment and annoyance in­creased tenfold. But Rex wasn't through. "I'm quite serious," he said, with a grin that belied his words. "It's the eye of newt keeping her complexion that satin smooth, and she can brew up a love potion that can lay any man low." He looked up and winked outrageously into her angry face. "She's a very dan­gerous lady."

  Before she could make the indignant response this remark deserved, Rex quickly changed the sub­ject and released her hand. Oliver was beside her instantly, adroitly extricating her from the crowd and out of the room. She soon found herself outside the concert hall and bustled into a taxi.

  Seven

  As they pulled away from the hall, Oliver turned to her with a frown. "Rex wanted to send you home in the limousine, but I talked him out of it. He's going to need all the protection he can get when he leaves the hall. That crowd at the stage door will tear him apart."

  Tamara was still so annoyed at Rex's blatant ridi­cule of her before the reporters that she didn't answer. She was silently fuming during the entire drive to the apartment.

  When Oliver had escorted her to the apartment door, he took a final look at her angry face and said dryly, "I have to make an appearance at a party the promoters of the concert are giving, since Rex is coming right home. You won't try to drown him again before I get back, will you?"

  Her violet eyes flashed fire. "I might, Mr. Oliver. I just might!" She entered the apartment and slammed the door behind her.

  She strode furiously into the bedroom, dropped the sumptuous cloak on the bed, stripped off the rest of her clothes, and stuffed her hair into a shower cap. She stepped into the shower stall and turned the water on full blast, letting the spray wash away a tiny amount of the irritation she was feeling toward Rex. What had possessed him to embarrass her in front of all those reporters, she wondered in exasper­ation. He'd known she preferred to keep her associa­tion with him as discreet as possible, and yet he'd deliberately made her the amused focus of the report­ers from probably half a dozen newspapers.

  By the time she'd finished her shower and slipped on her nightgown and tailored white satin robe, she'd worked herself into a fine state of indignation. She could hardly wait to confront Rex with her anger. After an hour's impatient pacing and aimless wan­dering about the living room, though, she decided to go to the kitchen and make herself that sandwich Rex had mentioned earlier.

  She'd put on a pot of coffee, removed a plate of ham from the refrigerator, and was looking futilely for bread in the many walnut cabinets when Rex drawled from the doorway, "Ah, could any man ask for more? A gorgeous woman puttering happily about the kitchen and waiting for him to come home."

  She threw him an icy glance. "I'm not puttering happily," she said, slamming another cabinet door. "I can't find the damn bread!"

  "In the red bread-saver on the counter," he said, strolling forward and seating himself on a high stool at the scarlet serving bar. "Is that coffee I smell?" he asked wistfully. "You wouldn't want to give a poor entertainer a cup?"

  "No, I would not!" she said shortly, as she drew out two slices of bread from the red metal container and proceeded to build herself a generous sandwich. "I wouldn't give you a glass of water if you were dying of thirst." She noticed with annoyance that he was still wearing the dark suede pants, and his white corsair's shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist now. Why must the man look so devastatingly attractive?

  He sighed resignedly. "I thought "you were angry when you left the dressing room. What have I done now?"

  She whirled to face him. "What have you done?" she sputtered incredulously. "You've only publicized our supposed relationship before the entire world, besides spouting that absurd witch balderdash and making me look utterly ridiculous!"

  His lips tightened and his ebony eyes darkened stormily. "I did what I thought was best. There was no way to keep your presence in my life a secret, and I've found the best way of handling reporters is to give them a little so they won't probe too deeply. I consider that bit about your being a witch some­thing of an inspiration. They'll be so busy writing titillating stories about my resident witch that they just may forget to check into your background."

  She strode up to his stool and planted her hands on her hips. "And what if they don't forget?" she asked belligerently. "What if one of them gets to Aunt Elizabeth?"

  Rex's face clouded with answering anger. "Damn it, I did everything I could! I can't perform miracles!" He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a little shake. "Give me a break, will you?"

  "That's not good enough," she bit out. "I won't have Aunt Elizabeth upset by all this!" She struggled furiously to break his iron grip on her arms. Then as her struggles proved fruitless, she gave a little cry of frustration and pushed against his chest with all her strength.

  Rex's grip on her arms loosened as the high stool he was sitting on toppled backward, and he hit the floor with a bone-jarring crash!

  Tamara gave a whimpering cry of horror. Rex's limp form lay motionless on the floor, his face pale and his lids closed. She dropped to her knees beside him. He was so still. Suppose he'd hit his head when he fell? Suppose she'd killed him? A quiver of shocked panic ran through her and she felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her world, leaving only dark emptiness.

  She cradled his head on her lap. "No, you can't be hurt," she moaned frantically, tears pouring down her cheeks. "You're not hurt!"

  A dizzying relief enveloped her as his absurdly long lashes fluttered and then his lids opened to reveal a wry flicker in the midnight dark eyes. "If you say so, sweetheart, but you could fool me," he said huskily. "Remind me not to make you really angry, will you? I don't know if I'll survive the next time."

  "I'm so terribly sorry," she sobbed, hugging his head against her breasts and rocking him like a beloved child. "I didn't mean it. Are you badly hurt? Shall I call a doctor?"

  He weakly shook his head. "I don't think it's any­thing serious," he said soothingly, rubbing his cheek in sensuous enjoyment against the soft satin cover­ing her breasts. "It hurt like hell when I hit the floor and I think it knocked the breath out of me, but I'm in no pain right now I assure you." With obvious reluctance, he added, "I guess I'd better try to sit up and make sure."

  With painstaking slowness, he levered himself to a sitting position, though not without a few muttered curses. When he was upright, there was a white line of pain about his lips. "Nothing's broken," he said, as he sank back onto her lap. "It's probably just severe bruising." He looked up into her anxious face and smiled. "I'm going to be sore as hell for a few days."

  She lovingly held him and his expression became suddenly thoughtful as he took in her brimming violet eyes and quivering lips. "What can I do for you?" she asked. "Shall I try to help you get up?"

  "I'm very comfortable as I am," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "I wouldn't think of mov­ing at the moment."

  "My Lord, what's happened here?" Scotty Oliver roared from the kitchen doorway. His incredulous appraisal took in the overturned chair, Tamara's tear-streaked face, and Rex's supine body. He came swiftly forward and knelt beside Rex, his face almost as pale and worried as Tamara's.

  Rex said casually, "We had a little accident. I fell out of a chair. I'm okay, just a little sore. Don't fuss, Scotty."

  "Fell out
of a chair!" Oliver repeated skeptically. He cast one look at Tamara's flushed, guilty face and said grimly, "Well, I only asked you not to drown him." He looked back down at Rex. "We'd better get you to the emergency room."

  "No way. It's nothing. Only some bruises."

  "He can hardly sit up," Tamara said tremulously, smoothing Rex's shining dark hair tenderly.

  "That's great, absolutely great." Oliver shook his head with disgust. "How the hell are you supposed to give a three-hour concert in Houston tomorrow night? You'll be in agony the entire time."

  "I've done shows with a 104-degree fever. I can muddle through this one," Rex said stubbornly. "No hospitals!"

  Oliver ran his hand through his hair distractedly. "Okay. I'll get hold of a doctor and get him to prescribe some painkillers. I guess Houston will think a doped-up Brody is better than no Brody at all."

  "No!" Tamara broke in fiercely. "You're not pump­ing him full of drugs and pills! I’ll take care of him."

  "And how do you expect to accomplish that?" Oli­ver asked caustically. "You said yourself he could barely sit up."

  "I have some herbs that will help," she answered. At Oliver's derisive snort, she added heatedly, "They were using herbs for healing and for killing pain thousands of years before modern medicine devel­oped penicillin and Valium, and in many cases they're still a good deal healthier. I told you, I'll take care of him!"

  Her arms tightened possessively around Rex, and he looked up at her with his lips twitching in amusement. "You heard her, Scotty. She'll take care of me."

  Oliver gave her a black scowl. "I hope you know what you're doing, Rex."

  "I have absolutely no intention of doing anything at all. I'm just going to lie here and let Tamara take care of me." He sighed contentedly. "And I expect to enjoy every moment of it. Bring on your herbs and ointments, my lady. I'm completely at your disposal."