Bride of the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  Her heart suddenly took off too quickly as she gazed toward the bathroom, and she wondered painfully what Mary was talking about. Her breath came too quickly; her palms were damp.

  “No,” she murmured.

  The shower was running, but suddenly he was looking around the door frame; his seductive eyes were on her.

  “Are you coming in?”

  Her mouth felt dry. Of course! she wanted to cry.

  She shook her head and fought for speech. “I’m just going to grab your robe and slip next door. All my things are over there.”

  His expression didn’t change; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was he worried, anxious, suspicious, disappointed—or did he simply accept that she was supposed to be downstairs soon, cool and collected and ready to work?

  “Don’t leave that room without me!” he warned her darkly.

  She smiled. “No, I won’t.”

  His head disappeared back into the bathroom. She tossed the covers off and bolted out of bed, shivering miserably. She drew in a deep breath, grabbed his robe and slipped into the next room, anxious to ask Ashley if she knew what Mary was talking about.

  Ashley wasn’t there. There was still steam coming out of the bathroom; she had probably showered and gone down to join Cassandra and Mary for breakfast.

  Tara sighed. If Mary had something to tell her, she wouldn’t have told it to anyone else anyway. Mary was completely capable of keeping a secret.

  Tara hurried into her own shower. She was still shivering; still anxious, still a little bit in shock.

  And feeling miserably ill. As she stood beneath the hot spray of the shower she reminded herself that Mary had been appalled when Tara had asked if she should be frightened of Rafe. So it couldn’t be anything too bad, could it?

  She prayed not. She thought that she’d rather be thrown over a cliff by Tine than discover that she had been a fool, that she had been used when she had given in to instinct and fallen head over heels in love.

  Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready. She almost left the room alone, but then she remembered the events of the day before and slipped back into Rafe’s room. He was standing in front of the mirror, grimacing as he adjusted his tie.

  Instinct prevailed again. Tara moved over to him and took the tie in her hands, her eyes on her task, her fingers trembling only slightly. She felt the warmth of his breath and slowly looked up into his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

  She smiled. “Nothing. And everything, of course.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  She shrugged, concentrating on his tie once again. “Because you’re a little bit too tempting in the shower, and this is George’s big day before the grandes dames of South America. And I need some coffee desperately.”

  She knew he didn’t believe her. But he didn’t challenge her. When he moved to open the door for her, his jacket was slightly drawn back, and she stopped, gasping, aware that he was wearing a shoulder holster—and carrying a gun.

  The blood must have drained completely from her face.

  “Tara,” he said impatiently, “this is protection. For you. God knows what that man intends. I only know what I intend, and that is that he isn’t going to have a chance to pull anything. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t have a chance to reply; he took her elbow and led her out into the hallway. He was subtle, but she realized uneasily that he was prepared to have something jump out at them from every nook and cranny.

  Nothing did. They met the others down in the dining room. Everyone else had eaten; they were all on their second cups of coffee. Tara knew she couldn’t eat a thing. She kept staring at Mary imploringly, but Mary carefully kept looking away. George and Rafe talked, everyone asked after Tara, Madame showing special concern. Tara wanted to scream. It felt as if the tension was mounting with no break. What had she expected?

  Not for things to happen this fast! Not for the attempt against her to be made in the first few hours that she had been here.

  George rose, calling over to the assistants that they had better get started; they were scheduled to begin in an hour. He told the girls that the dressing room was stage left in the grand ballroom, and then he softly asked Rafe, “You’ll be around?”

  “Right outside the doorway,” Rafe assured him. “And we’ll have police in the audience.”

  George nodded and signed the breakfast check, and the party began to move.

  The tables in the grand ballroom were beautifully set in peach and cream, with single fluted candles and white and peach roses. A small orchestra was warming up. There was a podium for George, and a special table for the press. George had the girls walk the runway to accustom themselves to it, and reminded Madame of the order of the program. Madame listened, then muttered that she was no fool, George should realize by now that she knew exactly what she was doing—and his models weren’t dummies, either!

  Rafe stood, arms crossed, beside George while the models tested the runway. As soon as they were ready to start for the dressing room, he returned to Tara’s side, and fell into step with her. Before she entered the dressing room, he squeezed her elbow and told her that he would be right outside.

  She stared into his eyes, those fascinating amber orbs, which were studying her so intently.

  So caringly, so passionately. She sensed that he would gladly die before he let anything happen to her, and felt herself melting inside, because she loved him so much.

  What in God’s name did Mary know?

  He kissed her lips lightly. “I’ll be here. Go dazzle South America.”

  She smiled and slipped into the dressing room. She looked instantly toward Mary, but Mary shook her head, indicating that the others were all around them, Madame and one of her seamstresses, Cassandra and Ashley. And of course Ashley, bless her, kept close to Tara like a second skin, still concerned about the events at the glass factory.

  Tara mechanically put on her first outfit. Madame moved around her, brushed her hair, touched up her makeup. They all talked, and Tara made conversation, too, without the least idea of what she was saying. She didn’t know if she was more distressed about the knowledge that Tine was out there somewhere...or that Mary knew something about Rafe that made her acutely uneasy. Tara wasn’t sure she could go through the whole show without knowing. She was afraid she would stop somewhere on the runway and simply start to scream.

  But she didn’t, of course. She was well trained. She moved on time; she smiled; she spun. She opened jackets, pivoted, smiled some more. Silks and gauzes flowed behind her. She even saw the audience, or parts of it. There might be a tremendous amount of poverty in South America, but not at this elite showing. The audience glittered with gold, silver, diamonds. She didn’t think she had ever seen such an array of beautiful, elegant and sophisticated women, dark-haired, demure, aristocratic. Beautiful young women, beautiful mature women.

  Each model had ten changes. Every time Tara walked around the end of the runway back to the dressing room she saw Rafe in the shadows and knew that he waited.

  The show seemed interminable. She began to pray that it would end. And, of course, like all things, it did. George finished his last speech in his French-tinged English, added a few words in faulty Spanish, and then there was a tremendous burst of applause.

  Tara knew that her employer was in his element. People were rushing up to him, complimenting his genius. He was ecstatic.

  She gave him little thought, though. They were all back in the dressing room, the Galliard creations all being carefully replaced in their garment bags.

  Mary caught Tara as she pulled her cool cotton sarong back over her head. “Dress slowly! I’ll talk to you as soon as the others are gone.”

  Tara nodded. That feat wasn’t as easy as it should have been—Ashley, concerned, kept urging her to hurry.

  “Darn! I ripped my stockings!” Tara lied guiltily. “Ashley, please go on out and wait with Rafe, would you? Keep him entertained for m
e for a minute?”

  “Okay. Mary are you going to be in here?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait for her. I won’t leave her alone for a minute, I promise.”

  Ashley went out. Madame was still fussing around. Mary pretended to have a bunch of snarls in her hair, but then at last Madame left, reminding Mary to lock the door. Though the gowns belonged to the girls, they were still to be kept under lock and key. Not just anyone could own a Galliard.

  The door closed. Tara turned to her friend. “Mary, I’m about to go insane! Damn it, tell me!”

  Mary did, quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this. Maybe I should just have left things alone. I can’t help it, though. I feel you have a right to know.”

  Tara frowned. “Mary, you’ve suspected something for a while, haven’t you? What is it?”

  Mary sighed. “Remember the captain on the ship?”

  “Of course. He was charming. Oh, you thought so, too.”

  Mary nodded unhappily. “He is a charming, charming man. And horrible at deceit of any kind.”

  “Please, Mary, go on.”

  “I tried to tell you yesterday, but you were with Rafe, and then you and Ashley were already gone when I called your room. And then, well, no one could have gotten to you last night.”

  “Mary, please!”

  “The captain let something slip when we were together. I had been casually talking about Rafe, saying what a wonderful, approachable human being he was for all his wealth and power. He agreed with me—he admires him very much. I started saying how happy I was for you—you’d had such a raw deal before. And then he told me that the whole thing two years ago had been a tragedy for Rafe, as well as you. I tried not to pounce on him, and I must have been fairly casual, because I got him to tell me the whole story.”

  “What story?” Tara nearly screamed.

  “Tara—remember Jimmy Saunders? The man the police wouldn’t believe even existed?”

  “Of course,” Tara said dully. “I could never forget him.”

  “Well, he did exist. In fact, he was born James Saunders, but his legal name was—or is—James Tyler. Tara, he’s Rafe’s stepbrother. Apparently, from what I could discover from my captain, Jimmy used his natural father’s name at certain times for business reasons, to keep his association with the Tyler company unknown—I don’t know exactly why. But he is Rafe’s stepbrother. His family.”

  The world began to spin, black and misty. Tara knew she had to sit down before she fell.

  Mary was prepared. She shoved a chair beneath Tara, who sank into it numbly, praying that she might stay that way.

  “He’s looking for his brother,” she said tonelessly. “He found me, followed me, seduced me—assuming I could lead him to his brother.”

  “He never told you, then,” Mary said unhappily.

  Tara shook her head. She buried her face in her open palms. “Oh, God.”

  “Tara, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. Thank God you knew. Oh, Mary.”

  “Tara, it may not mean anything. He might have looked for you because of Jimmy, then fallen in love with you for yourself. Tara, he can’t take his eyes off you when you’re together. And beyond a doubt, if Tine is out there, it’s a damn good thing that you have Rafe’s protection.”

  “Yes,” Tara breathed. It truly had been a good thing.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Tara took a sustaining breath. She straightened her shoulders. The numbness left her, and a horrible pain took its place, but she gritted her teeth against it. “I’m going to have a chat with Mr. Tyler,” she said.

  “Tara—”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Tara, give him a chance—”

  She shook her head. Tears clouded her eyes. “No. It took me too long to see the light with Tine. This is much worse.”

  “Of course,” Mary murmured. “Tine was only lethal to your health. The problem here is that you love Rafe Tyler.”

  Tara shook her head vehemently. “Then I’ll just have to stop loving him.”

  “Talk to him. Give him a chance. Oh, Tara! Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No. Thank you, Mary.”

  She stood up. “Help me get out of things gracefully if anyone insists that we all lunch together or something. I have to talk to him. Right now.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I never intend to speak to him again.”

  “Tara, you’re forgetting! It’s dangerous for you here. And I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think you can just go home. You know that Tine is alive. And he knows that you’re alive, and he’ll be able to trace you eventually, even if you leave right now. You can’t believe anymore that he’s just gone under cover, hoping to survive and escape arrest.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do right now,” Tara murmured miserably, adding in a whisper, “except confront Rafe. Help me.”

  Mary lowered her head and nodded miserably. “Tara, listen to him, though, if he defends himself.”

  Tara didn’t argue with Mary; she was too wounded. She still didn’t want to believe the obvious; she didn’t want to feel the pain. She had to end it.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  Outside the dressing room, George was indeed trying to talk everyone into staying together for lunch. He was still concerned about Tara.

  She struggled to stay calm, a difficult task, for as soon as Rafe touched her she wanted to scream, to burst into tears, to beat her fists against him.

  She smiled. “George, I’ll have to pass on lunch. I’m exhausted.”

  Rafe looked at her curiously but didn’t dispute her decision.

  “You’ll be with her?” George asked.

  “I’ll be with her.”

  Tara smiled. She kept smiling as they moved away. She kept her head high, her hand lightly on Rafe’s arm.

  They entered the elevator and went up to his room. He opened the door, then closed it, standing behind her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She turned around and smiled at him, then sat on the foot of the bed and patted the spot beside her. “Come here.”

  He raised one dark brow high. He came to her.

  She gazed at him, and stroked his cheek. “I’m still amazed,” she murmured softly.

  He caught her hand and kissed her fingers.

  She shivered. With love, with hate that he could have used her so well.

  “Amazed at what?”

  She lifted her shoulders, still half smiling. “That you saw me in that museum. That you were so taken—with me!—that you followed me. That you fell in love with me. That you’re with me now, when I have a cunning criminal after me.”

  He didn’t reply.

  She twisted slightly, aching. He leaned back, bringing her with him, half atop him on the bed. Ragged, jagged edges of agony scraped at her heart, stopped her breath.

  “Love is amazing,” he told her softly, his fingers moving into her hair in a soft caress.

  “Yes, when it happens so quickly.”

  One last time. One last time, she had to stroke his face. Give him a wistful and alluring smile. Ease her fingers over the tautly muscled breadth of his chest. Hear the sharp intake of his breath. Know that he wanted her.

  That had been real, at least. The passion. The physical thing that had sprung up between them.

  In that he hadn’t lied. He had wanted her. Still wanted her.

  Just as she wanted him...

  “Tara...”

  His body tensed and tightened beneath her, his flesh heating. The touch of his fingers betrayed the urgency he felt. His lashes were low over the glimmering fire in his eyes, and by God, she wanted her revenge, something to still the anguish that twisted and burned inside her.

  “You were just captivated by me, weren’t you, Rafe?” she whispered softly.

  “Yes. God, yes.”

  “And it really is...love.”

&
nbsp; “Yes. You know how I love you.”

  She pushed against his chest, wrenching his hands from her body, slamming them away from her.

  “You filthy liar. You’re looking for your brother.”

  Amazement lit his eyes; then they turned hard, as hard as flint.

  But she knew. She knew from that one second that it was true, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out.

  “Tara, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand perfectly well. And I never want to see your face again, as long as I live.”

  She tried to move. He caught her, shifting his weight with startling agility. She was pinned down, a powerful thigh thrust between hers, an arm around her waist.

  “Damn you—”

  “Well, Tara. That was charming. Tease the man to death, then deliver your blow. But it’s not that simple.”

  “Stop it!” she cried out. She was trapped. The fear was rising again. The panic. This was force, and she was overwhelmed. “Rafe! You know how I feel about—”

  “Any feminine ploy in the book, huh? It won’t work, Tara, because you know I’d never hurt you. I’d never force you.”

  She closed her eyes in absolute misery—but not fear. It was true! True, and horrible. She wasn’t afraid. Not of his strength, nor of the power that held her there. It was different. She hated him; she had to hate him. But she didn’t. She wanted to cry. She wanted to reach up and touch his cheek and feel all his wonderful fire. It was still there, the tension, the wonderful, explosive tension between them. The absolute dizzying need to touch him when he was near, and then, after that touch, to explore the simmering fire...

  “Rafe, it’s all a lie! I want to go; I don’t ever want to see you again. I don’t want you touching me.”

  What a lie. But he had to believe her. Because if he didn’t, she would burst into tears of fear and uncertainty and misery. She would throw her arms around his neck. She would want him to comfort her, to soothe her, to make love to her....

  How she wished there had been no past.

  But there had been. And that was the only reason for the present.

  “Rafe, let me out of here,” she managed to whisper coolly.

  “Not until you’ve listened to me!”

  “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”