Bride of the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  Still confused, she searched out his eyes. His fingers wrapped around hers as he met her eyes, seemingly about to speak, and studied the ring on her finger again.

  “Tara, I’ve been around the world a half dozen times; I know a hundred ports. I’m in love with you. I’m old enough, experienced enough, to know that I have never felt anything like this before in my life. I doubt if I ever will again.”

  His expression was a little rueful when he looked at her again. “Really. Any man would know that you’re beautiful. Any man would want to touch you. Beauty has its own fascination. I don’t know where it changed. When it was exactly that I started to long just to hear your voice. When I thought about you from the time I awoke to the time I went to sleep, and then again in my dreams. I couldn’t breathe without imagining your scent. I couldn’t look anywhere without imagining you there. It wasn’t just the wanting anymore. It was the knowing—albeit not without more than a bit of an internal battle—that I would never get you out of my soul. I love you. The ring is offered in all sincerity—I want you to marry me. I’d marry you today, this very hour—this second. But I understand you, too, Tara. I think that you love me. I know that you’re frightened, and I don’t blame you. But I’m frightened, too. For you. I don’t know if it can help or not, but my ring will mark you as a woman who isn’t alone, and that may protect you, telling others that they can’t harm you with impunity.”

  Tara stared at him, speechless, as his words fell over her like the softest, most enchanting velvet mist. He loved her; she believed it. No man could speak so tensely, so softly, so deeply from the heart—and be lying.

  It was just so hard to believe in fantasy. In magic.

  And they were coming closer and closer to Caracas.

  He ran his thumb down her hand, then closed his fingers over it, encompassing. “Tara, say something. You’re making me feel like a fool.”

  “I don’t believe anyone could ever make you feel like a fool.”

  “You’re doing a good job, Miss Hill.”

  She smiled, her throat constricting.

  “Do you love me, Tara? Or are the things you whisper just lies in the dark?”

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t quite get that.”

  “I love you.”

  “Then?”

  “I just wish...I don’t know. I wish you weren’t quite so rich. Or powerful. Or something.”

  He smiled. “You’re not exactly poverty-stricken.”

  She laughed. “Oh, but I am! My bank accounts were so low that I had to come back to work.”

  “That’s because you give away more than you earn. I’d love to be your tax man.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Oh, but I do. I wasn’t born wealthy.”

  “You weren’t?”

  He grinned. “My father was actually a fireman in Glasgow. He had a penchant for the sea. He joined the navy, and he loved it. He found some backers and bought his first ship. He started in the Mediterranean. The first ship was successful, so he was able to fund another, and so on. Then he discovered that there was money to be made in gems and artifacts. By the time he died, well, he had gone from rags to riches. But I still remember the early days. He never forgot them, either. He left half a dozen trust funds to be used for scholarships and other incentive programs back in Glasgow.”

  “Did he really? I’d love to have known him!”

  “He was an all right guy,” Rafe murmured.

  “That’s your accent!” she said suddenly.

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “Only a slight one.”

  “You’re avoiding the issue.”

  “I know. I don’t have an answer.”

  “Tara...” He took her hand again, as if he was going to speak. Then he shook his head. “We’ve got to get back. The ship is going to sail.”

  “Oh, yes! And we have a showing this afternoon!”

  Tara jumped to her feet, making a move to take off the ring.

  It wouldn’t budge. It was just that shade too snug.

  “Divine justice!” Rafe laughed, taking her arm. “You see, you’re supposed to accept.”

  “Oh, Rafe, I really can’t—”

  “It seems you have to, for the moment.”

  “But—”

  He pulled her close. She felt as if she sensed everything around her acutely: the birds flying against the sky; soft clouds against the mountains; the buildings below them; the hawkers in the streets; the ships out in the sea; the ground beneath her feet.

  His arms around her. She was in love. As she’d never been in love before. Knowing bliss just because they were together, because she could rest her face against his chest. She was dizzy with the feeling of it. The ring was stuck on her finger, where it belonged.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  Arm in arm, laughing over everything they saw, laughing just for the pleasure of it, they returned to the ship. He left her at her cabin door, since she had to go to work. The Galliard girls were skipping dinner that night; the fashion show was set to begin at ten.

  Of course, Ashley instantly saw the ring, and of course, being Ashley, she broke into a spate of endless congratulations, gasping in an occasional breath of air. Tara was convinced that at least ten minutes passed before she could get a word in edgewise.

  “Ashley, I don’t think I’m keeping it.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think you’re keeping it? It’s an engagement ring! A man asks you to marry him. You say yes, or you say no. You don’t say maybe, let me try the ring for a while!”

  “I didn’t, Ashley. He put the ring on my finger, and it’s stuck.”

  “Serves you right! What kind of a fool would turn him down?”

  “I didn’t turn him down.”

  “Then you’re engaged.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Oh, God! I’m going to try Vaseline.”

  She did, but to her amazement, she still couldn’t get the ring off.

  “You are engaged!”

  “My finger is swollen because I’ve been tearing at it so long,” Tara sighed.

  “You’re engaged.”

  “We’re both going to be unemployed if we don’t go and dress!”

  Ashley agreed. Moments later, they were climbing into their first outfits of the evening. They were in a crew lounge just off the main ballroom. Cassandra was going on about the romance of it all.

  Strangely, Mary was silent.

  Madame told Tara that she was an idiot if she didn’t marry the man. “Beauty is a fleeting thing, young woman.”

  Tara laughed. “Madame, these are the eighties! Marriage is not a woman’s only option.”

  “Being alone is no great picnic either!” Madame retorted. She sighed wistfully. “I was in love, once. I wanted my career, though. That was years ago. Men weren’t terribly liberated then.”

  “What happened?” Cassandra asked.

  “Well, I had a glorious career.”

  “And hasn’t it been satisfying?”

  “Not as satisfying as a handful of grandchildren would be right now. But then, you young things, you know how to do it all. More power to you. You only go around once, you know. When you see something out there, grab it! Take it all, everything you can see!”

  “What about love?” Cassandra asked.

  “But she is in love with him!” Ashley stated.

  “Talk about having your cake and eating it, too!” Madame said, laughing. “Young lady, you’ve had some bad breaks. Looks like the good ones are coming your way now. He’s a nice man, all right. All the way around. You marry him. Be happy. You haven’t been really happy since I’ve known you.”

  “She was once—” Cassandra said, then broke off awkwardly.

  Mary continued for her. “No, she wasn’t,” she said bitterly. “Not with Tine. She was always fighting him. Right from the very beginning. She was ju
st so young that she had to learn how.”

  “We get to Caracas tomorrow,” Ashley murmured.

  “Would you all stop it!” Tara begged. “You’re making it sound like a death knell. Madame, I think something is wrong with one of the hooks in the back. Could you check, please?”

  She hopped up on a chair. The gold lamé she was wearing was nearly backless, and it didn’t feel at all secure.

  “Oh, dear! Someone caught this on something. The button is missing. I’ll have to use pins.”

  “Breathe carefully!” Ashley laughed.

  “Oh, hush!” Madame told her.

  But it was the truth. Everyone knew that Madame was lethal with pins. Tara stood still while the back of her dress was fixed.

  There was a knock at the door. Cassandra went off to answer it, then came back in with Rafe. He was greeted with a burst of congratulations.

  He was in black. Tara would always love him in black. He wore a vested tux, white shirt, black tie. Smooth, elegant. The black accentuated his hair and eyes and the sleekness of his build. The white shirt made his features look all the more bronzed, all the more striking. All men, she thought, looked good in nicely tailored suits.

  But no one looked as good as Rafe.

  He listened to the chatter from Cassandra and Ashley, then glanced curiously at Tara. He thanked them and came over to her, then placed his hands around her waist, lifted her from the chair, and kissed her lightly.

  She gasped, “Ohh...my God!”

  He drew away. “The kiss was that good?”

  “No—I’ve got pins sticking in my back.”

  He shook his head. “Tara, you’ll certainly never overinflate my ego.”

  The others laughed. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “Are we engaged?”

  “I—”

  “We’ll talk about it later, huh? I just came by to tell you that I’d be in the audience. George caught me in the hallway. He wants to buy us all some champagne in celebration.”

  “George knows?”

  “Tara, everyone knows.”

  “Oh,” she said a little weakly.

  “Love me?” he queried, and she felt all the gold and amber tenderness in the eyes that demanded an answer.

  “Yes. But—”

  “Then it seems that we are engaged. Since the ring is stuck and George is buying champagne, and since I love you and you love me...”

  She paused, but could not control the radiant smile that illuminated her features.

  The magic was real.

  He kissed her quickly. “I’ll be waiting for you, gnashing my teeth each time I hear some guy sigh when you waltz by him!”

  He smiled and left.

  Ashley plopped into a chair. “That you could even think about turning him down is a sin! He looks just like Gable tonight! I can just see him at the foot of a stairway! If he were going to carry me off, I’d probably expire at the thought before I even got to enjoy it!”

  “Ashley, I’ve seen you turn your nose up at a dozen adoring hunks!”

  “Never the right hunk!” Ashley complained.

  Tara smiled, still wrapped up in her happiness. Just before they left she noticed that Mary was still silent, and she made a mental note to talk to her later to see if anything was wrong.

  * * *

  Rafe stood at the back of the ballroom to watch the show.

  The place was packed—this was an experience few people were ever likely to witness again, unless they were with the press, or wealthy enough to visit Galliard’s showroom.

  And Galliard’s shows were all good, Rafe knew. Galliard was not of the belief that a model should be wooden. His models moved fluidly; they smiled. He always addressed them by name, and in a tone of voice that would lead anyone to assume they were people to him, not objects. This added something special.

  Along with the lights, the music, the flowing magic of the gowns...and the women themselves.

  Not that Rafe really noticed the others. Once he had gazed at her and noted merely that she was beautiful. It had been with an objective, even cold, eye.

  Had that ever really been so?

  Each time she appeared now, his heart quickened. He couldn’t seem to breathe; his collar tightened. Whenever he saw her smile, he melted inside. Her hair trailed behind her in skeins of silk and gold, and he remembered how it felt to his fingers, when it brushed against his chest. Each time she turned his way, he recalled the way her eyes had glinted silver in the moonlight, silver with innocence, silver with trust, with passion, laughter.

  He had to tell her. He had to get the words out now, before it was too late. If he lost her...

  He swallowed, amazed at the pain that wrenched him. He had been so certain of himself, of his experience, of his immunity. He had told himself that she was just another beautiful woman. But she wasn’t. She was unique. She had held away from him; she had come to him. Slowly she had smiled, taken his hand, and still, to his once hardened amazement, he couldn’t quite believe that she was now more important to him than air, than water.

  He had to make her understand.

  But not tonight, he cried inwardly. The ring was on her finger. They would be with others, but then they would be alone, and he just couldn’t take the chance of giving up this night.

  Rafe blinked suddenly; the lights had come up, the show was over. He stood there, feeling the heat that rushed through him.

  No, he couldn’t tell her tonight. Tomorrow they would reach Caracas, and once they were there, he would find a way to tell her that Jimmy had been—was—his stepbrother.

  He moved through the crowd, ready to wait in the hallway for the girls to appear.

  He was still standing there when Sandy Martin, the ruffled, tawny-haired reporter from L.A. came upon him.

  “Mr. Tyler!”

  Rafe didn’t like the man—he was a sensationalist. Rafe quirked a brow, waiting for him to go on.

  “You promised me an exclusive,” the reporter complained. “The whole ship knows that you and Tara Hill are engaged.”

  “Sorry, Martin. I wasn’t really thinking about the press when I asked the lady.”

  “Lady,” Martin said softly. It sounded a little bit like a sneer. Rafe’s fists tightened at his side, and he clenched his teeth, reminding himself to be civil.

  “Excuse me, Martin. What was that?”

  Martin backed away a little. “I didn’t say anything, Mr. Tyler. Nothing at all. But tell me, are you aware that she was accused of murder two years ago in Caracas?”

  “I am aware of everything about her, Mr. Martin. And I believe in her innocence of any wrongdoing.”

  Sandy Martin snickered. “Did you ever know Tine Elliott?”

  “No, I did not. What’s your point?”

  “Oh, nothing. He was as smooth as silk. Some people speculated that she’d bide her time and go back to him. It was supposed to have been a real hot and heavy romance. Which is easy to understand. I mean, Tara Hill has a lot more than beauty. She’s like a walking, uh—well, you know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Nothing bad.” He laughed a little awkwardly. “She just kind of makes a man think of the best time he ever had in his life, you know?”

  If he clenched his teeth any tighter, they would crack. He reached deep within himself for every ounce of self-control.

  “Martin, I can’t exactly ask you to leave my ship. I promised you an exclusive—you’ll get it. But until then, do us both a favor, huh? Keep out of my way. If I ever hear you so much as whisper her name in your leering little fashion, I don’t think I can be held responsible for my reaction. Now, if you’ll excuse me—there are a dozen other places where you could be on this ship.”

  Sandy Martin didn’t hesitate. He paled enough so that his freckles stood out on his face, backed away a step or two and started stuttering. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t mean anything. Just that you’re a lucky man. You know what I mean. Never mind.” He turned ar
ound and fled just as the doors opened and Tara came out.

  Smiling. Her silver eyes were only for him. Rafe caught her against his chest for a second, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling her warmth, her heartbeat.

  I’d throttle him if he touched her! he thought savagely.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, suddenly worried, and it touched him deeply that she could read all the subtle nuances of his body.

  “Nothing. When I hold you, nothing in the world.”

  They went downstairs, where Galliard’s party took up half of the smallest, most intimate lounge. A few of the ship’s officers occupied the remainder of the room.

  The captain and Mary were together, Rafe noted, and he grinned, thinking that the man certainly seemed to have a bad case of infatuation.

  George bought the first bottles of champagne, then declared that it was Rafe’s ship and Rafe’s engagement, and Rafe laughed and ordered the next round.

  They danced beneath spiraling lights, oblivious of everyone else.

  When the wee hours came, Rafe suggested that Tara retire with Ashley, then slip through to him.

  She didn’t bother with any pretense; they said good-night to Ashley in the hallway.

  And then they were alone, she in his arms.

  “It’s amazing,” he told her. “George creates the most bewitching clothing. This gown is fabulous on you—and I can’t wait to get it off you.”

  She laughed, a breathy, wonderful sound that mingled with the rest of her to arouse him to a fever pitch. Something on the gown ripped.

  “I’ll buy it,” he groaned against her hair.

  “You can’t. I own it.”

  “Good.”

  She fumbled with his tie, brushing his throat with the engagement ring. He carefully stepped out of his trousers, yelping slightly as she caught him again across the belly with the ring.

  “Damn! Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on that thing!”

  “It doesn’t come off.”

  “From now on, it had better not.”

  “Stop moaning, then.”

  “You wounded me.”

  “I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

  “Wound me, then, wound me.”

  And, laughing, she began to kiss him, and he began to kiss her, and their laughter subsided into the sound of their heartbeats and the ragged whispers they exchanged.