Bride of the Tiger
Heather Graham
Rediscover this classic story of adventure and romance by New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham, now available for the first time in ebook!
Rafe Tyler needs answers. Two years ago, his brother was lured into danger by Tara Hill’s bewitching beauty, and he disappeared. Rafe has to know what really happened, and he can only find out by being as ruthless as he believes Tara was.
Originally published in 1987
Bride of the Tiger
Heather Graham
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
CHAPTER 1
The sculpture was magnificent.
It was in the Roman section of the museum, with a plaque beneath it: Anonymous, A.D. 100, Black Marble.
Tara was entranced by it.
It was a life-size tiger, standing—watching. The ancient artist had caught all the tension, passion and cunning vitality of the creature. The beauty was there, the danger. One paw was raised as it stalked its prey, its grace casual, its quest unmistakable. Though the sculpture was carved in sleek black marble, Tara could almost see the true color in the eyes; they would be a tawny gold, like candle flames, like the endless sun, with a heat that was just as piercing. The tiger was all power, all grace.
Tara realized suddenly that she was alone with the beast, and smiled whimsically. She wanted to be alone to marvel at this creature.
There were lions and boars in the room, salukis and mystical cats, maidens and warriors. But nothing compared with the tiger, a fact that was made clear by its position of prominence, dead center, encircled by velvet ropes.
Still fascinated, Tara began to circle the creature. She glanced at her watch, aware that she couldn’t linger much longer, or she would be late for lunch. But she did have a few minutes.
The tiger was lean and sleek, yet each muscle and sinew was well-honed and clearly delineated—again she got that sense of sheer power. It didn’t need to move or growl to display that power. Primal, subdued, awesome, it touched her senses beyond all logic.
Her back was to the doorway when she became aware that someone had joined her in the room. Watching the tiger? Or watching her?
She looked up. In the glass case around a majestic granite centurion, she could see the reflection of a man. He appeared to be as tall as the centurion, seemed to tower there, blocking her way. He stood in the doorway, as striking and as haunting as the ancient works of art on display.
He was silent, not moving. As powerful as the tiger.
A chill played along her spine in a peculiar dance. Whimsy took hold of her in the most disturbing fashion. Like the tiger, he was a hunter. Subtle, entrancing, deadly. He would tread silently, watch, then encircle his prey. He would play with it, perhaps. When he grew bored of his game, he would pounce with complete arrogance and confidence and lethal precision.
You’re mad! she accused herself. He wasn’t a tiger, and this was a public museum. Crowds were everywhere; guards lingered just yards away.
Tara took a breath, mentally ridiculing herself. Still, she moved carefully. She didn’t want him at her back. She wanted to circle the tiger again and face him, then laugh at herself, because he would just be an ordinary man.
She came around the tiger, casually.
But her ridiculous feelings of hypnotism and tension did not leave her. He was not just an ordinary man.
She stared at the tiger but looked beyond it, to the tall, compelling stranger in the doorway. Silent, hands on hips, he, too, watched the tiger.
Her heartbeat began to quicken.
His short, well-cut hair was dark, nearly jet. He wore black corduroy jeans, a cavalry-style leather jacket. Both hugged his trim form nicely.
A form like the tiger’s. Slim, but with strong, smooth muscles at the shoulders, at the thighs, encased in that midnight corduroy. He radiated a sleek and subtle power. Beautiful, dangerous. Taut, tense and vital, apparently casual, never really so.
And she still felt that, like the tiger, he was on the hunt.
She inhaled sharply as her scrutiny reached his face. It was weathered and bronzed, rugged, though still young. Firm jaw, high smooth cheekbones, full mouth, dark, arched brows and—
Golden eyes. Tawny eyes. Alive with their color, like a candle’s glow, like the sun...
She was openly staring at him, Tara realized.
He was returning her gaze, aware of it.
Slowly, his sensual mouth twisted into a small, subtle smile.
Tara felt her face flame; she quickly averted her eyes.
She had to go, she reminded herself; she would be late for lunch. But she couldn’t possibly go through the doorway where he was standing. The tiger man. All subtle, graceful power...stalking. Stalking—her?
She told herself that she was being ridiculous. Millions of visitors came to the museum, and they did not come to stalk Tara Hill. The notion was absurd.
It wasn’t a notion. It was a feeling.
Walk past him, fool! she ordered herself.
And then her breath caught again, because he moved, just slightly, into the room.
His hands remained on his hips. His gaze was fixed on the work of art to which she was mentally comparing him.
He was closer, she realized. She felt hot and flushed, and totally irritated with herself. But there was just something about him, something that was both base and noble, that lured and enticed. She wanted to read the message in his eyes. She was painfully tempted to touch him and discover whether he, too, was of marble or true flesh and blood. Sleek and agile, alive and breathing...
He captivated one. He touched something beneath the cool exteriors of civility. He lured; he repelled. He fascinated....
And he terrified.
Absurd, Tara thought once again. But she felt frozen, willed to stillness, by the mere presence of a stranger. Her palms were damp; her throat was dry, and the ripples of heat and fear and excitement still played havoc all the way down her spine.
Run past him! she commanded herself.
Walk normally; don’t be an idiot!
She moved the silver fox fur of her collar closer to her face, squared her shoulders, and started to walk.
So did he.
They passed each other. He nodded to her. She lowered her eyes, hurrying, breathing deeply.
His scent was subtle, clean and pleasant, elementally male. It was filled, too, with a sense of primal power.
The tiger was stalking. He would strike at any moment.
He walked right on by her.
When Tara reached the doorway, she couldn’t help but turn back.
He was staring at the tiger. Tall and lean and as dark as the beast, in his black cords and leather.
She turned, smiling ruefully at her foolishness, and hurried out of the Roman section to the stairs. He’d had no interest in her whatever—just in the treasures of the museum.
Too long in the country, girl! she chastised herself. Well, that was all changing now. She had run, and she had hidden, but it was time to face the daylight.
She had started off rather well. Only a few days in the city and her apartment felt like home again, she was ready to start work on a fascinating assignment, she had come to the museum, and she was meeting Ashley for lunch.
Her smile broadened as she thought about telling Ashley all about her encounter with the tiger-man. Ashley would love it. Paranoid, Ashley would call her.<
br />
And, of course, she had been. To have thought of the man as being as ruggedly beautiful, powerful and dangerous as the tiger.
And to have thought that he might actually be stalking her. As if she were prey.
Ashley would definitely be amused.
Tara ran down the steps of the museum to the street, still grinning as she hailed a taxi.
She didn’t see the tiger-man tread lightly down those same steps behind her, following her every movement with his eyes, carefully noting the direction of her cab.
Then advancing to the car that awaited him at the corner.
CHAPTER 2
Rafe Tyler had no need to hurry. A shift in the wind had brought the soft sound of her voice to him; he had heard her instruct the cabdriver to take her to the Plaza.
As soon as the taxi pulled away from the curb, he raised his hand to the hovering limousine. He hopped in beside the driver.
“Where to?” the snowy-haired chauffeur inquired.
“Follow her cab,” Rafe said. He leaned back to rest his head against the seat and closed his eyes. He was tired from a month of constant travel, but this lead on the girl had been too good to ignore. She was the last avenue of discovery he had left.
“Damn traffic!” the chauffeur grumbled impatiently.
Rafe opened his eyes again, grinning. “Don’t let it worry you, Sam. I want a few minutes to pass anyway.”
“What if we lose her?”
“We won’t. She’s obviously got a luncheon appointment.”
“How do you know?”
“Sixth sense?” he teased, then admitted, “I overheard her. She’s heading for the Plaza, probably the Oak Room. She’ll be easy to find.” He frowned suddenly, turned to push aside the glass barrier behind him, and leaned halfway over the seat to rummage in a storage cabinet.
Warily, Sam glanced in the rearview mirror to watch his employer’s movements. “Rafe? What are you up to there, boy? Now I’m not going into that place with you—”
“Sure you are, Uncle Sam!” Rafe laughed, returning to his seat, a dignified suede jacket in his hand to replace Sam’s uniform coat.
“I’m not—”
“Hey, I can’t walk in alone! I have to have a lunch appointment myself, right?”
Sam started to grumble under his breath. Already the collar that hadn’t bothered him all morning had begun to bother him. “I swear, if I hadn’t been working for the Tylers since they first set foot in the States—”
Rafe’s smile faded. He interrupted his old employee and friend with a flat reminder. “This is all about Jimmy, Sam. I wouldn’t be asking you, otherwise.”
They fell silent until the limousine pulled up in front of the Plaza. Sam was doffing his cap and changing jackets even as the doorman opened the back door. A little confused at finding no passengers in the rear of the elegant vehicle, he scratched his chin.
In the meantime Rafe had left the car, smiling pleasantly as he approached the doorman with a generous tip. By the time Sam was out—now clad as nondescriptly as any businessman, Rafe had been assured that the limo could sit just where it was until he and Sam were ready to retrieve it.
Rafe rested a hand against Sam’s shoulder to steer him through the lobby. Sam always felt uncomfortable at the Plaza. “Too much opulence!” he muttered, shaking his head at the display windows full of gems.
“Sam! We’re just going to have lunch. We’re not moving in!” Rafe chastised him.
“Ostentatious!” Sam said under his breath.
“Ah, come on! It has warmth and character!”
“It’s better than some,” Sam admitted. Then he sniffed. “The waiters always look at me as if they think I don’t know which fork to use!”
“They don’t care if you use a fork at all—as long as you leave them a decent tip,” Rafe assured him dryly, stopping Sam at the entrance to the Oak Room. Before the maître d’ approached them, Rafe had already found Tara Hill. She was sitting with a redhead who was as svelte and fashionable as she was. Luckily, the table behind Tara, which angled to her right, was empty. He could study her easily, but she would have to twist to see him. He should even be able to hear her conversation fairly easily.
“Mr. Tyler,” the maître d’ began.
“Afternoon, John. My uncle is here on holiday. He’d enjoy a view.”
“A view?”
Rafe grinned. “The blonde and the redhead. Think you could arrange to get us behind them—the table right over there?”
“Certainly, Mr. Tyler. Certainly. Gentlemen, right this way.”
“The man reminds me of a penguin,” Sam murmured.
“Sam,” Rafe groaned, “anyone in a tux looks like a penguin.”
He helped his aging “uncle” into a chair, then drew up his own for a nice view of Tara Hill. Engrossed in conversation with the redhead, she hadn’t noticed their arrival.
He was glad to see that her silver fox fur was gone—obviously left in the cloakroom. He could study her more thoroughly without the fluffy garment, which concealed her throat and chin. She wore a simple gown, a teal silk with a scoop neckline, her only ornament a gold chain belt about her waist. He was certain, though, that she would look just as appealing in rags. Her beauty was in her height and grace. She was, he knew from experience in sizing people up, about five foot eight and one hundred and twenty well-arranged pounds. Her legs were long, lightly muscled, very sleek. Her hips and breasts were pleasantly rounded; her waist was very small. Her throat was slender, and her cheekbones were exquisitely high. Her eyes, silver like the fur she had worn, were large, expressive, and framed with rich dark lashes that contrasted arrestingly with the golden beauty of her hair, which she wore in fashionable layers at a length just below her shoulders.
Rafe absently picked up his menu. His assessment of her was totally objective. She was a very beautiful woman, but, more importantly, she was—he hoped—the means to an end. She was his last chance to pick up the trail where it had disappeared into South American bureaucracy. She should be beautiful—she was Tara Hill. Until two years ago, there hadn’t been an American male alive who didn’t recognize her.
“Drink!” Sam said suddenly.
“What?” Rafe queried, frowning.
“Am I supposed to order a drink?” Sam asked.
“Do you want a drink?” Rafe asked. He glanced up to see their young waiter standing patiently.
“Hell, I’d like a whole bottle of Jack Black!”
“Then you should have a drink!” Rafe laughed. He gazed at the waiter, amusement deep in his tawny-gold eyes. “Two Jack Blacks on the rocks, please.”
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said. “And may I suggest the veal? It’s excellent today.” He walked away.
“Haven’t they got hamburgers?” Sam asked.
“We’ll get you a hamburger,” Rafe promised.
Sam fell silent, sitting very straight in his chair. Rafe chuckled again.
“For heaven’s sake, Sam! Loosen up! You’ll have everyone staring at us. And talk. Act natural.”
“What should I talk about?” Sam ran his finger beneath his collar again.
“Anything,” Rafe replied. The waiter returned with their drinks. Rafe ordered two hamburgers and was assured that he could get them. Their menus were taken away, and Rafe tried to hear the conversation between Tara Hill and the pretty redhead. For several seconds he could barely make out their words. He concentrated harder, then started slightly, aware that they were talking about him.
“I don’t know, Ashley,” Tara Hill was saying ruefully. “It was just the oddest sensation. He stared right at the tiger—oh, it’s really a wonderful, wonderful piece!—but I still had the feeling that he was looking at me.” She shivered slightly, delicately, then laughed. “Too much country living, I suppose. He reminded me so much of that damned tiger.”
“Primitive, eh?” Ashley queried.
“I guess. But then, of course, I finally got up the nerve to walk by him, and he wasn’
t after me at all.”
Ashley laughed delightedly, picking up her wineglass. “I love it. Maybe he was after you. Men might well be, you know. Are you forgetting that you’ve been called one of the ten most beautiful women in the world?”
Tara looked annoyed. “Years ago—and any woman can look great with an entourage of dressers and makeup experts. Ashley, he wasn’t staring at me for my looks.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t staring at you at all?”
“I did, didn’t I? I—I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m glad about one thing.”
“What?”
“You noticed him. You never notice men. You talk to them, you’re polite, but you gaze right past them.”
“I don’t—”
“There’s hope! And I’m ever so glad that it’s come now! This trip will be marvelous. I’m convinced we’ll have a wonderful trip! Twelve hours of work, and the rest of our time free! And maybe you’ll actually be willing to dance with someone.” Ashley sobered. “I just—”
“What?”
“Oh, Tara! What happened affected you so drastically that you’ve hidden away from the world for two years! I just wish we weren’t going to Caracas. It’s our main port of call. Are you sure you want to go back?”
Tara smiled a little unhappily. “No. But after what happened, George Galliard might be the only one who’d give me work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Oh, come on, Ashley! Admit it—I was involved in a horrible scandal. Guilty or innocent doesn’t mean a damn thing once your name hits the media! And maybe it will be the best thing in the world for me. Once we’re aboard the—”
“Rafe!” Sam suddenly cleared his throat loudly. “I say, Rafe, I think I’d like another one of those Jack Blacks on the rocks!”
Rafe stared at Sam, ready to throttle his old friend. “Damn it, Sam!” he exploded, quietly but vehemently. “I just missed something important.”
“You told me to talk!”
“But softly, Sam, softly!”
“Damn kids these days. Can’t make them happy, one way or the other!”
Rafe ignored him. He was a thirty-seven-year-old “kid” but maybe to Sam’s seventy-eight that was young.
