"As I said before, you're completely crazy." Tamara's violet eyes were blazing. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then perhaps we'd better discuss it," he suggested. "May I come in?"

He was already in; she thought in annoyance, as Brody shut the door and strode through the arched doorway to the right of the entry hall.

"Please do make yourself right at home, Mr. Brody," she said caustically, trailing behind him into the living room.

"Very cozy," he said, ignoring her sarcasm. "All this hominess must be very soothing to your 'clients,' Miss Ledford." There was a caustic barb in the smooth silkiness of his voice and Tamara clenched her fists in fury. Her gaze followed his around the room, noticing as if for the first time the faded flowered carpet, the worn spot on the shabby blue couch, and the lace drapes, yellowing with age, at the windows. Why did this arrogant, obnoxious man only have to enter the room for her suddenly to find fault with the only home she'd ever known?

The room was cozy, she thought defensively. What difference did it make that the furniture was old- fashioned and a bit shabby, and that lace doilies and family miniatures went out with high button shoes? It was all dear and familiar, and had the mellow graciousness of a faded but still beautiful old lady.

"This is our home, Mr. Brody," she said archly. "My aunt and I aren't concerned if the decor isn't up to your exalted standards." She sat down on the couch and gestured resignedly. "You might as well sit down."

He sat down on the couch beside her, looking bizarrely out of place in the gentle period surroundings. "You're very much on the defensive, Miss Ledford," he drawled. "I meant no offense. In fact, I think your aunt is much more clever than Celia Bettencourt imagines."