Bride of the Tiger, Page 3

  “Ah, a woman with a mysterious past!” Now he was teasing her.

  “Not at all,” Tara lied as casually as she could. “I’m really quite dull.” She had always meant to be dull, at any rate. It was true; as a child she had dreamed of escaping the poverty that had eventually claimed the lives of her parents and that of her baby brother before he’d learned to walk. But her dream had included a house in the country, a husband who loved her, and a whole passel of children. Dreams had taken her from poverty—they had also slashed her heart.

  “I know a great Chinese place on Columbus, very casual and busy and lots of people—if you find safety in numbers, Miss Hill,” Rafe said, barely concealing a crooked grin.

  “Chinese sounds lovely,” Ashley purred.

  His eyes were on Tara. She saw the laughter in them and was suddenly, perversely annoyed. He was doing this to subdue any wariness on her part, she thought. Sure, lots of people, a totally innocent proposition! It doesn’t matter, she wanted to scream. I know you’re after something!

  But what was it?

  He could have any woman, she realized uneasily. He was just that type of man. Striking and assured, fluid and graceful, every movement hinting at a dynamic excitement that women found irresistible. Nor was she immune, and she had thought herself so savvy and smart....

  “Shall we?” he queried. Light sparked, yellow and gold, from the depths of his eyes.

  A challenge? A dare? She returned his gaze, a silent answer in steadfast silver.

  I know what you are! Lean and hard, as cunning as that tiger, and every bit as charismatic. But I’ve been that route before....

  His hand fell on her arm again. In seconds they were outside. Tara was amazed to see that darkness had fallen.

  But the fact that Rafe Tyler didn’t hail a cab did not particularly surprise Tara. He led them to a waiting limo. It was everything she might have expected—roomy and luxurious, with a bar, phone and a television. There was also a miniature desk, as if someone carried on business from the rear of the vehicle during traffic jams.

  Tara was not even seated beside him. She was on the far right; Ashley sat in the middle, next to Rafe Tyler.

  There was little traffic. In a matter of minutes, they were pulling up to a curb again. The restaurant was exactly as he had described it. Neat and clean, but very crowded, with tables almost on top of one another. Tea and noodles were served instantly. Rafe poured tea for Tara, smiling while she sipped at it, saying nothing, understanding that the hot liquid was the thing she needed most.

  Curiously, dinner went just as lunch had. Ashley and Rafe talked. She told him about modeling; he listened intently.

  And still Tara felt his eyes on her. Felt as if he were weighing her, assessing her, thinking deeply about her. Why? She wanted to scream. But then, in between bursts of panic, she felt wonderful little ripples of excitement cascade along her spine. She wanted to touch him, to feel the texture of his hair, to run her fingers along the muscled flesh beneath his shirt....

  Dinner ended, and he offered to drive them both home. Tara became uneasy, realizing he would know where she lived.

  Where—but not which apartment.

  “Lovely!” Ashley answered.

  Tara was struck with the sudden urge to run down the street—run anywhere from this sense of danger. But that would be absurd. And it would be a kind of surrender, too. Yes, I am afraid, she thought. Afraid that I can’t withstand him.

  They drew up before Ashley’s apartment building. Ashley blew Tara a kiss. “See you tomorrow at one! Don’t forget—fittings!”

  Rafe excused himself to see Ashley to her door.

  Alone in the rear of the limo, Tara leaned back, her heart pounding. There was a chauffeur in the front, she knew. A chauffeur who worked for Rafe Tyler. Long accustomed to the man’s nocturnal habits?

  Nocturnal habits! Her teeth started chattering slightly, and she twisted her fingers in her lap, wondering what she was doing, waiting alone in the back of a luxurious limousine for a man to return. Ashley was the one who had baited him all night. Why the hell hadn’t Tara insisted on being brought home first?

  Because he hadn’t intended to let her go first! And she hadn’t even fought, because she had known that she would lose....

  No, it wasn’t that at all. There’d been no battle. Surely he was a respectable man, albeit a devastating one, assured and adult, and definitely male.

  Very male. Very attractive—because of that potent masculinity.

  Tara released her hands and nervously stretched her fingers. She envisioned him coming back to the car, sitting beside her, staring into her eyes with that subtle, rueful smile. There would be no need for words. He would reach for her, and she would utter a small sound of protest, but it would be no more than a whimper caught in her throat. His arms would engulf her, and she would be swallowed in heat; his mouth would be firm and persuasive, but brook no resistance, should she find the strength to offer it. His kiss would be like fire. She would feel his fingers moving over her flesh with the same tender expertise with which they had touched the silver fox, but unlike the fox, she would feel that caress, and, knowing that she was a fool, she would still delight in it, gasping when his lips left hers to trail down the bare flesh of her throat.

  No! In panic at her own vision, Tara almost gasped the word aloud. Furious with herself for being such a guileless coward—after all she had been through!—she nevertheless began to grope for the door handle. Let him think that she had run. That was exactly what she intended to do.

  Blindly, Tara leaned forward. The door handle refused to budge, then quite suddenly gave way. Ready to leap for the pavement, she looked up.

  Into his golden eyes.

  “Was I gone so long? I’m sorry,” he said smoothly.

  Tara couldn’t think of a thing to say. His foot was already inside; she had no choice but to back away.

  Still smiling, he moved in beside her and tapped on the window. He looked back questioningly at Tara.

  “Where to, Miss Hill?” he asked softly.

  She stuttered out her address, furious at the sound of her voice, more annoyed still with the amusement on his features.

  He repeated her address to the driver, and the limousine pulled out into the traffic. Rafe sat back, idly folding his hands before him, watching her with his slight, devilish grin.

  The city lights flickered around them, giving occasional glints of substance and bursts of shadow. For a moment she tensed, remembering her fantasy. His arms around her, the potent kiss. The sleek feel of the rugged planes of his face beneath her fingers...

  He didn’t touch her. He didn’t lean toward her.

  “You’ve just come back to the city?” he asked casually.

  “Yes.”

  “Long vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  They passed beneath a streetlight. Tara noted that his eyes were really green, with brilliant pinpoints of topaz around the pupil that gave them their compelling quality of yellow gold.

  Shadow came between them again. In that shadow he seemed to move slightly. His gaze appeared to change slightly, to become as gentle as the darkness.

  He was going to touch her....

  She could feel the air grow tense between them. Little shocks seemed to leap through her, seemed to flame and warm her blood, heat her skin. She wanted to cry out, to leap away....

  Or into his arms.

  “This is it,” he said suddenly, and she started violently.

  His lip twitched, but he said nothing, and merely opened the door. He stepped to the curb and turned, offering his hand. She took it, swallowing sharply, keeping her eyes lowered as she gained her footing. His hand was so warm. Hot and alive with power.

  He released her, and his fingers lightly touched the small of her back as he led her to the door.

  The doorman was on duty, but Rafe Tyler walked her to her apartment anyway.

  The grand elevator, carpeted and mirrored, suddenly seemed ridicu
lously small. He filled it. They didn’t speak, and as the cubicle took them higher, Tara felt her blood race like lava. Her fingers began to tremble. Her breath came too quickly, and, God help her, surely he could hear the beat of her heart.

  She wasn’t alone yet. Not yet. His arms could still come around her; his kiss could still sear her....

  The door opened. She walked down the hall and stopped nervously in front of her apartment, fumbling for her keys.

  He took them from her fingers and deftly opened both locks.

  This was it, she thought. He would lead her in and follow, close the door and lean against it. And she didn’t know if she would long to scream or slide heedlessly into his embrace.

  He stepped back. The caress of his eyes was his only touch.

  “Good night, Tara,” he said, his tone low and husky.

  It was a promise in itself, something that touched her as surely as fingers might, with the same effect.

  “Good night.” She managed to form the words, trembling as she spoke.

  And then his hand did move. He raised it slowly. His knuckles came to her cheek and brushed the soft flesh there.

  He smiled and stepped away. She watched him move down the hall.

  And then he turned back. His eyes fell on her curiously, disturbingly. It was a slow, total assessment. Her blood chilled, then heated. At first she felt his scrutiny touching her, like a breeze, lightly, then intimately. Velvety, vibrant and warm, knowing all of her, from head to toe.

  His eyes met hers. She could tell that he had found all he saw appealing. He looked as if he could, like the great beast he so resembled, forget all convention, step back to her side and sweep her into his arms, into his very being. A savage conquest: desired—taken.

  She quivered inwardly, wondering what her reaction would be. Outrage, surely.

  But maybe not. The urge was almost painful. The urge to go to him, to curl into his arms...

  Except that there was more to his look, something very disturbing. As if he hadn’t wanted to find her appealing, though he had stalked her. But it was as if now that he had caught her, he wouldn’t deny what he felt.

  But it was only a physical appeal.

  Then his eyes softened, if only for a minute. There was the slightest flame of tenderness within them.

  “Tara, get inside.”

  She stepped back.

  He smiled. “And lock your door!”

  She nodded, not realizing that she was blindly obeying his command.

  She leaned against her door once she was inside, having lost the strength to stand on her own.

  Tara listened to the light fall of his footsteps as he moved down the hallway, back to the elevator. She gave herself a shake, moved into her apartment, showered, made herself a cup of tea and turned on the television set to watch the late movie from bed.

  Rational, normal things to do...

  But they didn’t make her feel rational or normal. She was keyed up, wide-awake and very nervous.

  She knew that Rafe Tyler had stepped into her life to stay for a while. What she didn’t know was what he wanted.

  * * *

  Rafe walked into his study and headed straight for his desk, then sat and parked his legs on the gleaming wooden surface. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then leaned forward and rummaged in his bottom drawer for the bourbon and the shot glass he kept there.

  He splashed out a portion of whiskey and leaned back again, this time surveying the oil paintings on the paneled walls. There were five of them, all of ships at sea. Proud ships, rising high against the horizon.

  He downed his drink, shuddering slightly as the liquor burned his throat. Then he opened the top drawer and pulled out a manila folder. He laid it flat on the desk and opened it.

  Tara Hill, the woman who had occupied his day and night, stared at him once again from an eight-by-ten glossy.

  It was a younger Tara Hill who looked up at him. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen in this picture. Her hair was longer and very straight; she wore little makeup, and her eyes carried a glint of dreams and fantasy and eager fascination that they lacked today.

  Rafe turned sheets of paper, passing more and more photos, until he came to the most recent one he had, one that was two years old. She had changed. Her hair was far more sophisticated, feathered and sensual. She was slimmer. And her eyes carried a look of weariness that was more haunting and alluring than even the bright innocence of the earlier picture.

  Rafe slapped the folder shut and readjusted his long legs over the corner of the desk as he leaned back, wincing. The photos had never touched him before. But then, he had never touched her before. She had been an object to be studied, and now she was real. He had assumed that she would be hard-bitten and cool, careless of her impact on the lives of others.

  He didn’t—couldn’t—believe that anymore. Not when he had been touched by the shimmering silver in her eyes, had felt the soft and fluttering pulse of her life beneath skin as smooth and evocative as translucent silk....

  He grimaced. He had touched her hand, no more. Gazed at the perfect ethereal beauty of her face. Rested his fingers against the delightful small of her back, and yet even then he had imagined he felt her heat, warm and subtle and promising a blaze of love and passion, an inferno....

  Rafe slammed his feet to the floor, uttering an exclamation of self-disgust. Was this what Jimmy had felt? This overriding, uncanny desire? This lure that had to be followed, this hunger that had to be appeased?

  He groaned aloud. Jimmy had been younger. Easily led, easily tricked. And by God, Rafe determined, he wasn’t Jimmy. He’d seen the world in all its facets; he knew the harlots and the whores, the ladies and the thieves. The world had molded him, touched him with its many cultures, given him a wisdom about human nature that defied country and custom.

  But tonight he might as well have been as raw and naive as Jimmy. He had ached, yearned to reach for her, touch her, hold her, caress her—and forget everything. And if he had touched her, she would have surrendered to his hold. Or would it have been he who surrendered, to practiced wiles, to a known beauty?

  Rafe raised his hands to his temples. What was she, then, a lady or an elegant tramp? And in that moment he knew the truth. He had touched her but done no more because though she might have gone to him for the moment, she would have run in time. And he still had enough of his wits about him to know that he had to treat her carefully, building her trust, until she decided to talk.

  Rafe started suddenly, aware that there was a hesitant tapping at his door. He stood, crossed the room and threw it open. Before him stood a slight woman with silver-dusted chestnut hair and enormous blue eyes. She appeared to be no more than a very attractive forty, but Rafe knew her to be a year or two over fifty.

  “Myrna!” he exclaimed, startled at her presence. He moved, inviting her in. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  Myrna smiled wanly and moved restlessly into the room, wandering to the window to stare blankly out at the darkness before turning back to Rafe.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be disturbing you. I hope you don’t mind—I planned on spending the night. I came around eight. You were out.”

  “I just got back and—”

  “Yes, yes, Maggie went up to her room hours ago—I told her to.”

  Maggie was his housekeeper.

  “Myrna, you know you’re always welcome,” Rafe told his stepmother gently.

  Her smile became a little less hesitant. “You mean that, don’t you, Rafe?” she said a little wonderingly. “I’ve—I’ve been very blessed to have you.”

  Touched, and slightly embarrassed, Rafe grinned ruefully. “I don’t know about that, Myrna.” He continued quickly, “But what’s wrong? You seem upset.”

  “Upset” was an understatement, but Rafe was at a loss for a better word. Myrna had been upset for the past two years, and Rafe sure as hell couldn’t blame her. She’d los
t her husband to heart failure and her son to mysterious circumstances within a month.

  “I, uh, I am upset, Rafe,” Myrna murmured. Then she smiled and crossed the room, staring up at the oil painting of the Highland Queen. She turned back to him suddenly and chuckled girlishly.

  “I was awfully afraid that I’d...interrupt you. I take it you were out with some exquisitely beautiful woman?”

  Everything in his body tensed, but Rafe was careful not to let emotion show in his face. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest, and grinned in return.

  “Yep,” he answered, and she nodded, pleased.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re alone now.”

  Rafe walked around his desk, indicating that she should sit on the soft white leather sofa across the room. “I think you need a drink, Myrna. Bourbon okay? I can call Maggie and have her make us some tea if you’d rather—”

  “Oh, heavens no! Maggie played nursemaid to me long enough tonight!” Myrna protested. “I’d love a good shot of bourbon. A manly drink, isn’t it?”

  Rafe grimaced. “I don’t know about that. It does seem to go down smoothly.”

  He poured them each a shot, then took a seat beside her. She gulped down hers with a toss of the glass, shuddered, then faced him squarely.

  “I saw her picture, Rafe. That model who disappeared. She’s back with Galliard Fashions.”

  Rafe drained his glass quickly, dismayed that Myrna already knew that Tara Hill had emerged from obscurity.

  He set his glass on the coffee table and faced his stepmother squarely. “I know,” he told her honestly.

  “Oh, Rafe!” She clutched his hand, and her fingers were shaking. “I know that you did everything you could, that you searched and searched, that you left your profession behind you, that you did everything already. But I have to know! I just have to know what really happened. If Jimmy is—”

  “Myrna, Myrna,” Rafe said softly, clasping her fingers tightly, wrenched anew by the bright tears he saw hovering in her eyes. “I’m going to find out,” he promised.

  She nodded, looking down to her lap. “You’re not even my blood, and I’ve asked you to give up everything—”