Bride of the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  He wasn’t in black today. He wore a loose off-white jacket, tan slacks and a navy silk shirt casually open at the neck. His hands were in his pockets as he leaned casually against the golden oak bar at the rear of the store, nearly parallel to the models’ dressing rooms.

  He seemed to be listening politely to whatever George was saying.

  “Is that him?” Mary whispered suddenly.

  Tara discovered herself nodding reluctantly. Ashley had dragged it out of her that he had stopped by the night before, and the group of them had been teasing her all day.

  Tara heard a soft whistle. She twisted and saw that Cassandra had come up behind her, too.

  “That’s spectacular,” she murmured.

  “Cassandra!” Ashley joined the group. “Get your tongue back into your mouth before you trip on it!”

  “He might be worth the risk,” Mary said philosophically. “Don’t get too involved, of course. But his type is...rare.”

  “What type? Two arms, two legs?” Tara asked nervously. And then she laughed. “We must look like a group of high school girls standing here.”

  “Right you are!” Ashley proclaimed. “And since I do have the privilege of knowing the man...”

  She smiled sweetly at Tara.

  “Wait! I’ve got to get out of here first—” Tara began.

  Too late—she made a grab for Ashley’s arm, but Ashley was already on her way out, smiling graciously.

  Cassandra and even the world-weary Mary followed behind her.

  Rafe was charming. Tara still had not budged from the doorway, but she watched him. He met Cassandra and Mary, shaking their hands, making polite inquiries. George must have decided that he was a man of wealth and influence and, therefore, should be entertained and impressed. He himself was charming, solicitously telling his models what a long day they had endured, asking if they wouldn’t like a drink—a question usually reserved for clientele at showings—whether they shouldn’t all sit, and where Tara was? Obviously George knew that Rafe had come specifically for Tara, because he went on about how much Galliard Fashions had once done for Tara—and what Tara Hill had come to mean for Galliard Fashions.

  “Ashley, where is she?”

  “In the doorway,” Ashley replied blandly, winking mischievously at Tara from her relaxed perch on one of the well-padded Greco-Roman settees—also customarily reserved for their affluent clientele.

  The tiger eyes were instantly upon her. Warm and glowing, golden, and burning with a certain devilry. Damn him! He’d known she would never have opened her door to him again, and so he was here.

  “Hi.” He lifted his glass to her.

  She really had no option. She left the security of the doorway and wandered out. It seemed that a silence fell. He watched her; she watched him. And her little audience of friends watched them both.

  “Tara?” Only George seemed oblivious to the sparks. “Ah, ma chérie! What will you have? Hmm. We have an excellent Bordeaux.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  George poured her a glass of wine. She avoided Rafe, nearly sitting on Ashley’s foot in the process. Ashley emitted a little yowl of protest, but Tara ignored her.

  If Ashley didn’t move her damned foot, she would sit on it! Ashley had gotten her into this predicament to begin with.

  Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he would have found her and followed her no matter what.

  “So tell me again, Mr. Tyler, about this lady friend of yours who is so interested in a showing. We won’t be taking any more appointments after Friday—for two weeks, that is—but I’d certainly squeeze her in before, if you wish. Or after, of course.”

  “Oh? Why are you closing the shop?” Rafe sounded totally engrossed in George’s words, but he didn’t take his eyes off Tara. There was something totally unsettling about the way he swirled the ice in his glass while he surveyed her with his half smile. She felt herself flushing uncomfortably, wondering what he was thinking.

  Whether he was mulling over their last moments together, laughing because the sophisticated and aloof image had proved to be nothing more than a pawn to be taken in the easiest of moves.

  “We’re having a showing in Caracas,” Ashley answered for George, but George went on with enthusiasm.

  “Yes, South American buyers. It should be very exciting. Oh, I know, there’s a great deal of poverty down there, but I’ll tell you, there’s no woman better dressed, more feminine, more enchanting than a true Colombian lady. And the aristocracy of Venezuela! Some of the Mexican señoras—the Brazilians! And Argentina! None know so keenly the allure of a truly wonderful fashion!”

  “Is that so?” Rafe said.

  Cassandra laughed. “Actually, we’re all looking forward to it. We’ll be aboard a wonderful cruise ship for seven glorious days, all in all. And only three sessions aboard the ship! George’s—” she hesitated, smiling sweetly at George “—grande showing is in Caracas, and we’re free as birds the rest of the time.”

  “Are you really? Fascinating,” Rafe murmured.

  George cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Tyler, shall I make an appointment for this lady?”

  What lady? Tara wondered. And she hated herself because she was sick with the thought that he might be married. But if she intended to stay away from him, what difference did it make?

  “Certainly. This Friday, if at all possible.”

  “Certainly, certainly. The lady’s name?”

  Rafe arched his brows. “Mrs. Tyler, of course. Mrs. Myrna Tyler.”

  “Your wife, sir?”

  “My stepmother, Monsieur Galliard.”

  “Oh, of course, of course, of course!” George said. “You do seem enraptured with Miss Hill. Should Tara model—?”

  “No.” He turned full face to George. “I would love to have Ashley model for her, if it’s possible. Of course, I realize she is busy preparing for her trip—”

  “I won’t mind at all,” Ashley murmured.

  Tara kicked her.

  “Well, then. Friday—say at three? Would that suit Mrs. Tyler, do you think?”

  “Perfectly,” Rafe murmured.

  George chuckled softly, clearing his throat. “Strange, Mr. Tyler—wasn’t it Miss Hill you asked for when you came in?”

  “Oh, it was,” Rafe said smoothly, and at his look, Tara felt blood rush to her face. He turned back to George. “Ashley and I are...old friends. I came to ask Miss Hill to dinner.”

  Tara jumped to her feet. “Miss Hill can’t possibly go to dinner.”

  “Tara—how rude!” George protested uneasily. At that moment, she hated him. She was a model—not his damned upstairs maid! She made fabulous money, but she worked for it!

  She turned on George. “George! You’re the one who’s insisting that I need sleep these days.” He looked so baffled and confused that she ended it with a smile as she swept over to the bar to deposit her glass.

  He sounded curiously like Ashley had the day before as he lowered his mouth to her ear to whisper, “Tara! The man is inviting you to dinner—he’s not asking to have you for dessert!”

  “Oh, yes, he is!” Tara muttered.

  She turned quickly to find him watching her again. To see the amused golden light in his eyes.

  “Really, Mr. Tyler. I can’t. I have an early fitting—”

  “No, no you don’t, Tara!” Cassandra interrupted breathlessly. She looked at Tara, her eyes wide and innocent, and Tara decided that Rafe Tyler had hypnotized them all. “Tomorrow is Madame’s late day, remember? We’re not due in until noon. That’s right, isn’t it, George?”

  “What? Ah, yes.”

  “How wonderful,” Rafe said smoothly. Then somehow George had moved, and Rafe was standing beside her, folding his long fingers over hers, smiling. Pleased with himself. Like the tiger that had just consumed the canary.

  “I don’t—” she began, but as she watched him, the words stuck in her throat. At his touch she felt an overwhelming curiosity, a desire to be with him. She
wasn’t a teenager; she would never be innocent again.

  And she would never let things get out of hand again!

  She lifted her chin slightly and smiled. “Dinner. Since you insist, Mr. Tyler.”

  “Good night, Monsieur Galliard,” he told George, smiling with just a trace of irony at the title, which slipped so smoothly off his tongue. Then he turned, and in a friendly, charming fashion said goodbye to the others, and told them that it had been lovely to meet them. He was certain, he said, that no man had ever been so surrounded by beauty.

  “Quite poetic,” she muttered as soon as they were on the street.

  He arched a dark brow to her. His reply came with a subtle grin. “Jealous?”

  “No.”

  “My God, you do know how to dash a man’s hopes.”

  “Ashley might love to go to dinner.”

  “We did go to dinner.”

  She sighed softly. “I’m sure that Ashley would love to go to dinner with you—alone.”

  “Ah. Because you and I have already had dinner together—alone?”

  There was something about the way he said it that made her turn about and smack him on the arm. Not hard. Just hard enough.

  He laughed. “I thought you were having a rather good time.”

  “I was having a wretched time.”

  Laughing, he caught her hands and whirled her before him.

  She found herself standing there, staring into his eyes. Her hands were still held in his. People were walking by them; horns blared, automobiles snorted exhaust fumes, and everything seemed to fade slowly away.

  “Why were you following me?” she asked him.

  “How can you ask that?”

  “Why?”

  “I think I’ve been as blatant as I can.”

  “Oh. Have you?”

  “You know what you look like. You’re not a fool. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a man see you and feel compelled to follow you before.”

  “No, Rafe. I haven’t. Of course...”

  “Of course what?”

  She shook her head and lowered her eyes quickly, moving to his side and hurriedly walking once again. She had almost told him about Tine. That no one had ever dared smile at her or come close to her because Tine had been there—her determined guardian.

  “Hey!” he said, striding quickly to keep up with her. “We need to turn at the next corner.”

  “I’m not so sure—”

  “Oh, yes you are.” He caught her elbow and spun her back around. “French tonight, Miss Hill. Right this way.”

  “I just said—”

  “What? What is it?”

  “All right! I feel like your chosen prey! As if you know exactly who I am. As if the past...” She didn’t know why, but she hesitated, inhaling sharply.

  “You’re behaving ridiculously. All right—I know who you are. Tara, you’ve been in dozens of national advertisements. I was fascinated; I am fascinated. Tara, for God’s sake, what is the matter with you? Haven’t you ever dated? Gone to movies? To plays? For long walks in the park? Met someone for dinner after a long day?”

  “I...” She started to make a retort, and then it occurred to her. “No.”

  She had never dated. Not really. Not gone out, done all the little things to get to know someone. She had been at home, and then there had been Tine. And she had wound up with him—just as he had intended. But they had never dated. Never gone to movies. Never laughed in the park.

  Rafe squeezed her hand. “It’s fun. Give it a try.”

  She lowered her head again, horribly confused. She couldn’t let herself be taken in by someone, not again. She just couldn’t. Any remnants of youth and innocence had died on that last awful night in Caracas.

  “La Maison,” Rafe murmured softly, and she realized that they were at the restaurant. He was opening the door, ushering her in, his hand supportive and light against the small of her back. Inside the foyer, he gave his name to the maître d’. Seconds later they were escorted along a deep-maroon velvet pathway to an intimate table of dark, heavy oak. The lighting was dim; the tables were situated so that each was private, a trellis of dark wood separating each one from the next.

  They sat down; Rafe ordered wine. His interest was in the menu. He mentioned various dishes that he had tried. Tara just sat there, watching him and wondering what she was looking for. Might there be a break in his facade?

  Tara realized that she didn’t want anything to be wrong. There was more to her feelings than just the tremendous physical pull the man had on her senses. She liked him. She liked the way he smiled, the easy way in which he had swayed George, the charm that had brought her friends around him like moths drawn to the light.

  He looked up from the menu, caught her tense scrutiny—and smiled. “Am I passing muster?”

  Tara flushed, but she refused to be swayed. “If you know who I am, you obviously know something of my past.”

  “Oh, yes. The mysterious past.”

  “There was no mystery about it,” Tara said bitterly. “The papers had a field day.”

  “And hence, Tara Hill disappeared.”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t so much afraid of the papers as...” She hesitated, then shrugged. “I needed to get away from everything for a while. I’d made some rather serious mistakes in judgment.”

  He set down the menu and leaned back against the booth, smiling as he watched her. He picked up his glass, clinked it against hers where it sat upon the table, and sipped his wine. Tara didn’t pick up hers.

  “What are you—twenty-five?” he asked her.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Excuse me.” He laughed. “Still, rather young to give up on the world, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t give up on the world. I simply had a lot of experience shoved into very few years.”

  “Oh.” Still smiling slightly, he looked back at the menu.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she inquired sharply. “I don’t intend to be patronized.”

  He didn’t answer, because their very French waiter had appeared. Rafe asked her if he should order for her, and she shrugged, not caring what she ate.

  Rafe ordered in French. Not the high school or college French so many people liked to practice in French restaurants—the kind that caused waiters to grin scornfully as soon as their backs were turned. It was obvious that he spoke the language fluently.

  When the waiter was gone, Rafe stretched a hand across the table. “I’m not patronizing you, and I’m not laughing at you. I believe you had a rough time of it. But you’re still very young, and to judge the entire world by one previous experience is a mistake. Is that why you’re afraid of me—your relationship with Tine Elliott?”

  Tara stiffened. Of course he knew about her; she imagined that he sat down with The New York Times and coffee every morning. He’d study the headlines and move on to the stock exchange and the sports pages—she wasn’t sure in which order.

  So, of course, he knew all about Tine Elliott. About the fact that she had been charged with murder, suspected of smuggling—and had her life recorded in boldface black on white.

  It just hurt her somehow. It made her feel as if she had to defend herself.

  As if she had to convince him that she wasn’t the woman they had portrayed in those pages.

  “I didn’t do it,” she blurted out.

  He leaned back, grinning an amused devil’s grin once again. “You didn’t do what?”

  “Any of it.” She picked up her wineglass and sipped at it nervously.

  He leaned closer to her, catching her eyes intently. “Tell me about it,” he told her.

  She inhaled, not meeting his eyes. “It was a mess. I wanted to get away from Tine. I’d met a...friend. I was supposed to meet him, and I did. Then suddenly Tine was there with the woman who died. He wanted some mask—shooting started. And that was it. Tine and Jimmy disappeared; the woman was dead—and I spent the night in the police station.”

  She d
idn’t mean to, but she shivered with the memory of fear. Fear of Tine. Of his threat. He had said that he would find her somehow, someday, somewhere.

  And she was going back to Caracas. Back to the very place where Tine had disappeared.

  She gazed up at Rafe quickly, then frowned at the tense, penetrating quality of his stare. It was as if she had said something that had touched him personally. She sipped her wine again, her throat dry.

  But he leaned back, easy once again, darkly handsome and charming. “You’re still frightened,” he commented.

  She shrugged, determined to talk no further. “It was a long time ago. Never mind—I think George was the only one who ever believed I didn’t know a damn thing about any mask. The police didn’t even want to believe that Jimmy existed. Do you believe me?” she inquired coolly.

  He lifted his hands. “You said you were innocent. You’re innocent, then. Go on, tell me more.”

  She shook her head vehemently, alarmed at the way she was feeling. Warmth flooded her veins, something secure that seemed to ease her shudders. Her thoughts of Tine had filled her with a reverberating fear; Rafe, so close, so sure, made her feel as if she had a buffer against that fear.

  She didn’t like it. It was the physical thing. It was the fascination, the longing to touch, the fire that scorched her when he looked at her, when he touched her. Like something that would grow until the heat was too much—and had to be appeased. She couldn’t trust him; she didn’t dare. So she had to keep her distance.

  And she was going to have to go to Caracas alone. No buffer zones. She didn’t think that she was looking for an answer to the past, but maybe she was.

  She determined to change the subject. Picking up her wineglass, she challenged Rafe. “Where did you learn to speak French so fluently?”

  “Ah, Miss Hill! You weren’t listening to Ashley and me the other day. I was in the navy for a while after college, then I worked aboard a French freighter.”

  She shook her head. “I thought you went into your family business.”