Bride of the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  Tara grimaced. “Go on. You’re going to choke on your information if you don’t get it all out soon.”

  Mary laughed. “Okay. The man has never been married. He’s considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. He sails, races, plays polo and keeps his finger on the pulse of his varied interests. He could court heiresses—or princesses!—and be considered quite suitable.”

  “So why would he be interested in Tara?” Ashley queried, confused.

  “Thanks a lot!” Tara told her.

  “Well, you’re not a princess. Or an heiress.”

  “He doesn’t need money!” Cassandra exclaimed. “Just love! I think it’s marvelous. Just like a fairy tale. He sees her once. Their eyes lock across a crowded room—”

  “It was an empty museum,” Tara said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, quiet! You’re destroying my fantasy!” Mary said, annoyed. She cleared her throat dramatically. “Their eyes meet—and it’s love at first sight. Passionate, desperate love. He trails her, he finds her, he sweeps her away to a life of luxury—”

  “She already lives in a penthouse overlooking the park,” Ashley interjected, laughing. “And she isn’t exactly cleaning out chimneys at the moment, either.”

  “It’s still just like a fairy tale,” Cassandra persisted.

  Tara shook her head, looking at Mary. “That’s all? You didn’t discover anything...strange about him?”

  “Strange? No. He’s done a great deal of traveling. Seems his father believed that a young man should follow his calling. He could have had a cushy job from the beginning, but he joined the navy instead, then worked his way through foreign shipyards. Oh! He’s been in on a few smuggling busts.”

  Tara stiffened instantly. “So that’s it! He thinks I’m a smuggler.”

  Cassandra giggled. “You arrest smugglers—you don’t take them to French restaurants for dinner.”

  “Mary, where did you get your information?”

  “I’ve got a friend at the bank where Tyler keeps lots and lots of his money.”

  “You still don’t trust him?” Ashley asked Tara. She fastened her zipper and walked idly to the door. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Tara murmured.

  “Give him a chance!” Cassandra exclaimed. “Do you know what happens to old models, Tara?”

  She smiled. “No, Cassie. What happens to old models?”

  “They shrivel up and die—all alone—unless they fall in love and get married.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Well, you’d better decide quickly what you’re feeling!” Ashley whispered, hurrying back over to the sofa. “He’s out there again—with old George eating right out of his hand!”

  “He’s what?”

  “He’s out in the showroom again.”

  They all jumped up and hurried to the door. Ashley was right. He was talking to George, who was gesticulating in flushed pleasure.

  Rafe was in black again. A stunning black tux with velvet lapels, a starched white, pleated-front shirt, black cummerbund and a deep maroon ascot.

  Tara moved back into the room and leaned against the wall.

  “I wonder where you’re going, Cinderella!” Cassandra breathed.

  Tara looked over at Mary, who always seemed to be so steady and poised.

  “Good God! Don’t be an idiot! Grab him!” said Mary, which Tara found no help at all.

  “George is coming back here!” Ashley said. She was right again. George, wearing a wonderfully pleased expression, was hurrying toward them.

  He came in and shut the door, staring at Tara. “The theater! Tyler has plans for the theater. It’s quite possible the photographers will be there. You must wear a Galliard design. The black, Tara, with the sequined flounces. That will be perfect! Sexy and austere all at once!”

  Tara wasn’t sure whether to be indignant or amused. “What am I going to see, George?”

  “See? What? Oh! The Albee play. What did he say the name of it was? Oh, what difference does it make? A Galliard girl on the arm of the Rafe Tyler. What matters is what you wear!”

  She yawned elaborately. “I think I’ll have to give him an apology, George. I’m so tired these days. And you were commenting on how awful I looked—”

  “Don’t be absurd, ma chérie!” There was mild irritation in his voice—desperation, too. “Really, Tara, how can you be so ungrateful? You needn’t worry about sleep. Your fittings are well along. You can sleep late tomorrow.”

  “A day off?” Tara queried sweetly.

  “What?” George blustered.

  “I’m down to where I believe Madame is sticking me with pins for the fun of it,” Tara told him.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, then. Fine, fine. You’ve got the day off. Just get the black on and wear it with élan!”

  “I’ll do my very best, George,” Tara promised.

  He nodded, turned around in a daze and left them. They were all silent for a minute; then they burst into laughter.

  “What more could you want from a man?” Mary asked, and they all laughed again.

  Ashley pinched Tara’s cheek. “Well, you get into that black dress, ma chérie. And take your time. I’m going to run out and cheerfully greet tiger-man and see if old George won’t pull out that marvelous ancient Scotch of his again!”

  “Sounds good to me!” Mary agreed.

  Cassandra chuckled. “Now, now. We make a ridiculous amount of money. We can afford our own Scotch.”

  “But it’s so much more fun to drink George’s!” Ashley retorted, rolling her beautiful eyes. “Especially with Tara’s tiger-man. If she blows this thing, I’ll be around to console the poor fellow.” She grinned at Tara. “Get out there and be beautiful, kid!”

  Tara grinned as the others left her. She went to the rack and found George’s grand creation. It was a stunning dress. And it suited her coloring well.

  She paused, hoping there would be no photographers around. She didn’t want the mud raked up by the press again; George should have thought of that.

  She shook her head. His creations were all George ever thought about. He was internationally known—a sleeveless cotton blouse by George Galliard cost well over a hundred dollars. But it was a two-way street. Galliard clothed the rich and the famous—and the rich and famous had made Galliard because they wore his clothing.

  And, she thought, smiling smugly, she had earned a day off. Not a bad agreement. Maybe she had something to thank Rafe for after all.

  Minutes later she entered a scene much like the one she had encountered the day before. Rafe, totally resplendent, her three color-coordinated and bewitching friends arrayed around the bar—George amid them, the supreme ruler.

  They were chattering when she came out. All of them except Rafe.

  He stared at her in a fashion that was bewitching in itself.

  Stared at her as if she was a goddess suddenly descended to the earth. Silent, still, a golden message of enchantment in his eyes. He didn’t move; he didn’t come toward her.

  For a moment she couldn’t move either. She could only meet his eyes, feel their golden heat. Feel it move into her, enthrall and hypnotize her. Become liquid and mercurial as it swept through her, making her feel dizzy, as if the room were spinning, as if the world had faded away...as if there were only the two of them. Meant to come together, the earth itself screaming that it should be so.

  Ashley broke the spell. “George! My God, that’s a stunning creation.”

  “Woman,” Rafe corrected her.

  And he stepped forward, coming to her. Reaching out a hand. She raised her own slowly; he enfolded it in long, strong fingers.

  “My God,” he breathed, his eyes locking with hers, then moving slowly over her bare shoulders and the cleavage displayed by the silken bodice and velvet trim. Over the length of her body, hugged and draped by fabric. To the slit along her thigh, the froth at the ankles.

  It must have been at that precise moment, she wo
uld think later, when magic entered the night. It was the way that he looked at her, the way that he looked. So tall, so elegant and so darkly masculine.

  Suddenly she wasn’t aware of anything around her. She knew only the light in his eyes. The subtle but persuasive scent of his after-shave. The shivery feel of heat and energy that surged around him, engulfing her. She felt his hand on hers; she felt that this was a fantasy, that this was magic. And maybe she did feel a little bit like Cinderella at the ball—she’d danced that first dance with the prince of her dreams, and she was falling in love. There was something so right about him. Not in appearance, not in height or stature or any other tangible way. Just him. His touch. The message in his eyes.

  Had he been dressed in rags, she would have felt it. The absolute need to put her hand in his, and with that, the trust she couldn’t logically give him.

  “Shall we?” he murmured, and she nodded, unsure of her voice.

  George said something to her; the others all waved and called goodbye. Ashley came running out with Tara’s silver fox fur, and she accepted it gratefully.

  Then they were out on the street, where his limousine awaited them. He ushered her in.

  “Are you cold?” He adjusted the fur more closely around her shoulders. She shook her head.

  He sat back. Day was still with them, fading to twilight. She could see his features so clearly: all the hard and handsome planes; all that was rough and rugged; all that was keenly beautiful. All that created that most intricate animal—man.

  And still the magic held her. Held her so firmly that she could not find words to speak.

  He reached over and took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it with a bewitching reverence. His eyes had not left her.

  He touched her cheek. “Do you really want to see a play?”

  “I love plays.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Do you really want to see a play right now?”

  God help her. She shook her head. She knew what she was saying, what she was doing. She hadn’t had a single drink; but she knew exactly what she was saying by not speaking.

  He watched her for a moment. Something inside her cried that she should protest, that she should ignore all she felt and gaily say that she was just dying to go to the theater.

  He wouldn’t have protested. He would have gone ahead. And he would have been a charming companion for the whole evening. He would have taken her to dinner, and then he would have taken her home, and he would have left her at her door with a good-night kiss that would have left her aching for more.

  But she didn’t speak.

  He tapped on the dividing window and murmured something to the chauffeur, then sat back.

  They stopped in front of an apartment complex that was nearly as well known as Rockefeller Plaza. Dear Lord—she couldn’t think of the name of the place. It wasn’t far from hers.

  The chauffeur didn’t appear. Rafe himself helped her from the car.

  The doorman greeted him deferentially. Tara felt her lips lift in a smile as he nodded to her.

  The lobby was muted luxury. Marble and oak, ferns and pillars. The elevators were subtly etched in gold.

  She still didn’t speak as they entered and rose high above the world, high above any normal concerns.

  The elevator door opened. Tara would have stood still, staring blankly at the door. But her hand was still in Rafe’s, and he was walking, so she followed.

  A few steps brought them to a set of double doors. Rafe opened them and released her, standing slightly behind her to turn on a light.

  She blinked, seeing the place arise from the darkness.

  They were up on the roof, on the corner, and both sides of the back wall were glass, looking out on a panoramic view of the city, of the park. The stars were reachable through those sparkling panes. Even the moon—she could stretch out a hand and touch it, and she reflected that perhaps she already had.

  It was contemporary, completely so. Mexican tile flooring in the entry gave way to deep pile beige carpet, white leather sofas, and a redbrick and copper fireplace. To the far left of the windows was a door, so artfully planned by some architect that it blended with the open beauty of the room yet led out to the balcony, where the heavens would seem even closer.

  A little breathlessly, Tara stepped into the room, down from the Mexican tile to the sunken carpeting beneath. The fur trailed from her shoulders.

  Watching her, Rafe could barely breathe. As usual, she was part real, part fantasy, her hair a golden contrast against the black of her gown, the silver fur just dangling over her shoulder. Her other shoulder bare.

  Long, lithe, slim, elegant. He swallowed. What was it that she had? Whatever it was, it went far beyond the obvious. Was it the silver mercury of her eyes, the timbre of her voice? Motionless, poised, she might have been Tara the model, the face and shape that had seduced and enticed from a million pages of print. And that alone could humble a man.

  But it was in motion that she had enchanted him. In motion that she had gazed, spoken, whispered, touched. It was the essence of the woman that had been his downfall. Something inside her, something undiscernible.

  He followed her, reaching for her coat. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s spectacular.”

  “I like the sky.”

  “Yes.”

  Rafe set her fur over a chair. He moved to the left, to the kitchen, which was done in white and chrome. His fingers were shaking when he opened the refrigerator.

  “Wine?”

  It seemed that she hesitated, that she trembled.

  “Yes, please. May I—may I go out?”

  “Of course. I’ll be right with you.”

  Tara stepped across the room to the camouflaged door; it opened to her touch. The chill hit her as she stepped out. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself but did not think to return for her coat.

  Night had come in full. There were plants on the balcony, fragrant from a recent rain. The sky seemed a blanket of velvet, and she had the feeling that she was wandering in that velvet.

  He came up behind her, offering her a fluted stem glass from behind. She clutched it and sipped from it too quickly. Almost like a drowning man reaching for straws...

  He touched her then. His body, the length of it behind her. His hand upon her shoulder pulling her close against him. His fingers stroking her neck. His breath falling upon her with warmth.

  Tingling, rippling sensations played havoc throughout her. He simply stood there, and she felt liquid. She wanted him.

  She closed her eyes. It had been two years. Two years since that horrible last time with Tine. Two years since she had felt that everything inside her had died, that she could never want anyone again, that she could never feel again...

  She was afraid. Eager, anxious, nervous—and afraid.

  “I’ve ordered dinner,” he murmured, and she nodded.

  He pointed over her shoulder to the stars. “Ursa Major. Perseus. Cassandra.”

  “You know them all?”

  “Most. You learn the stars when you sail a lot. On a ship, in the middle of the ocean, it’s as if they’re all that exists. You feel very small.”

  “I can’t believe you would ever feel small.”

  “Any man can feel small.”

  He paused, lightly rubbing his cheek against her hair, inhaling its clean fragrance. The night, the sea, the stars. They should have been a perfect opening, he thought. He could have quizzed her about sailing, asked her about Caracas.

  No. He couldn’t. Something had touched them. Something unique. He could no more end it than he could cut his own throat. He felt her tension; he felt the need to walk on eggshells, to hold the magic.

  She sipped her wine and said nothing. For the longest time they stood there, staring at the stars, silent. And through all that time it grew. The knowledge, the awareness. His hard body against hers. Her soft one leaning against his.

  At last she heard a little buzzer. He excused
himself. Through the glass panes Tara saw two men arrive with silver serving dishes.

  She turned back to study the night and sip her wine. Seconds later, Rafe was back. The men were gone. He led her back in and seated her, filling her wineglass again, dexterously removing lids from chafing dishes and filling her plate—seafood tonight. A thick bisque of shrimp and scallops and langoustines. Delicate puffs of rolls. Asparagus salad.

  “You serve food superbly,” she told him, trying to joke.

  “I’ve worked in food service. I cook superbly, too.”

  “How commendable—if it’s true.”

  He laughed. “Someday you can judge for yourself.”

  He sat down, and they lifted their wineglasses to each other.

  It was then that she began to tremble. Really tremble, so that her glass tilted precariously.

  She didn’t know that her face had turned pale, that her hair was sun gold, her lips rose red against it.

  Quickly, anxiously, he was on his feet. More quickly still, he was at her side, on one knee, rescuing her glass, taking her hands in his.

  Fire, electricity, all the tension of the evening leaped between them. He looked into her eyes.

  “You’re afraid of me,” he murmured.

  “I’m just...afraid.”

  “I’ll take you home.” He started to rise.

  “No!” She caught his hand; she still quivered. She lowered her head and idly inspected his fingers. And then she looked at him with such whimsical, wistful appeal that it seemed his heart had stopped.

  “Will you be tender? Patient?”

  It was that softly voiced question, the haunted emotion that colored it, the melody of her voice, the quiver of it more than anything, that ensnared his heart completely. Not her beauty, not her form, not even the wonder of her scent.

  It was all that she laid at his feet in that moment.

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, then met her eyes again.

  “Always,” he vowed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Stars were part of a dream, part of fantasy, part of illusion. A velvet-dark sky, rhinestoned with stars.

  This wasn’t illusion; it was reality.

  Tara didn’t know what else was in the apartment. Another bedroom, perhaps; a study. She only knew that there was a hallway that passed by the kitchen, that they came to a room where not only the window was of glass but also a pane of the ceiling above them.