Bride of the Tiger Read online

  She did think—vaguely—before she was so swept up in his rhythm that nothing mattered except the culmination of the passion that raged between them.

  Today was his. Today was fantasy. And then she would withdraw, from him and—with much more effort—from herself. From the all-encompassing need he was creating.

  She almost sobbed, for so many things combined. The feel of him. The spiraling desire. The soaring emotion that told her there was more, that she loved his touch, his smile, his voice, the way he held her hand, walked with her, talked to her.

  Looked at her. With a tiger’s eyes. Golden. Possessive, wonderful, alluring, exciting.

  Mercury filled her body with heat. After all this time, to know a touch that thrilled...

  She wanted to lie beside him forever. To share his life. To waken in the morning with his head on a pillow beside her.

  She wanted to marry him.

  To hear his slightly wicked laugh and have him take her like this, anytime, and know that it was real....

  He rose above her, watching her body. Moving. Murmuring.

  “Oh, yes...Tara, you’re beautiful. Take me in, take me in. Let me see this...us...”

  A cry escaped her. Tremors began to wrench her body...his. He shuddered in his final climax, collapsing against her, slick, sated; holding her still; murmuring something that caused a milder tremor to shake her.

  She didn’t dare look at him. She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the dampness of his chest.

  It had to wait, it had to wait, it had to wait. She needed to go away, to avoid seeing him again. She’d been with him now. She knew that it was like nothing on earth, and everything that love was intended to be.

  It couldn’t be an affair. It couldn’t be casual. It couldn’t be lost. It had to be real and forever, or it could be nothing.

  Then what was it that still worried her?

  After all this, why did she feel the niggling suspicions, the remainder of mistrust?

  How could she have done this? She, who had been hurt so badly, taken in so blindly. She, who knew that love could grow bitter.

  He pulled her atop him, and she almost smiled, forgetting her fears, because the look on his face was simply so male. So triumphant, his golden eyes gleaming like topaz.

  “My God, I love you!” he declared intensely, voice low but seeming to shake slightly.

  And her smile deepened wistfully. “Do you really?”

  “I do.”

  She lay against him, her heart beating, her thoughts a prayer.

  Let it be true.

  Please, God, let it be true.

  * * *

  He was a wonderful cook, she discovered. He made fabulous omelettes with tiny shrimp and a delicious creole sauce. They ate in bed, loosely clad in robes, beneath the extraordinary blue of the sky.

  For a moment she felt as if her heart had stopped, because she realized suddenly that he was, by nature, a passionate and volatile man, and his bed had probably played host to any number of women.

  Jealousy streaked through her, painful and cruel. She lowered her eyes to her plate, then realized that he was studying her intently, smiling slightly as he noticed her change of emotion.

  He touched her chin, raising it. “What?”

  She shrugged, then laughed—because it was so ridiculous, of course. She’d only known that he existed for a few days.

  “I was wondering how many women you’d had with you in this bed.”

  He made no firm denials. He was silent, watching her for a minute. “We both have pasts.”

  It was her turn for silence.

  Once again she took refuge in staring at her food. He wouldn’t let her. He caught her chin again, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “Past. As in Tine Elliott. You’re not still in love with the man, are you?”

  The question was harsh. Too harsh, she thought.

  “No,” she said sharply, deciding that the one word was enough; he could take it or leave it.

  He continued to stare into her eyes, as if seeking something. Tension seemed to leap around them, in the air, part of them. He released her chin, sighing.

  “I think you should marry me,” he said.

  She looked up at him quickly, laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “We’re—we’re strangers!” she told him.

  He smiled as seductively as any cat, grinning with pleasure.

  “Strangers?” he said with such insinuation that she blushed.

  “We don’t know each other,” she said loftily, straightening to what she hoped was dignity, her shoulders squared.

  Dignity was lost. Her stretching had pulled the terry material of the robe taut against her form, and with no hesitation he tweaked the rise of her nipple, laughing. “I know you very well.”

  Tara clutched the robe, nearly dislodging her plate. “I’m being serious and rational.”

  “So am I.”

  She shook her head, not knowing whether to laugh, too, or to protest vehemently.

  He took their plates and set them aside then scooped her into his arms.

  “I really need to get home,” she murmured a little nervously.

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Not today.”

  “Not today!”

  “All of today, all of tonight, you’re mine. I’ll get you home in the morning.”

  “But this is so sudden. So intense.”

  “You said that we’re strangers. I’m trying to let you get to know me.” He caught her hand and brought it to his chest. “Feel my heart, my love. That’s all you really need to know, isn’t it?” The teasing quality left his voice—she felt he was speaking in earnest.

  Yet she wondered if he was querying her—or himself.

  “Really. I should simply sweep you away and marry you, and keep you forever and forever.”

  “I have to leave on a business trip.”

  “That’s all right. Your willing bridegroom will follow.”

  She smiled and wondered just what had been wrong about his words. She thought she almost had it, but then he was moving again, sweeping her into his arms as he rose from the bed.

  “What—”

  “A shower. We’ll have eaten together, walked together, laughed together—and showered together. ‘Getting to Know You.’ I’d sing it for you, but I can’t carry a tune worth a damn.”

  With her arms about his neck, her eyes imprisoned by the passion in his, she could do nothing but laugh. “Whistle, then,” she commanded, and he obeyed, and she laughed all the while that he brought her into the elegantly modern and squeaky-clean bathroom. He set her down to start the water, then he turned, eyes growing dark as amber, and untied the belt of her robe and eased it from her shoulders.

  The shower stall was of beige marble, with curving seats cut into each end. As he plucked her from her feet to set her beneath the stream of water Tara noted that his taste was wonderfully attuned to hers. She loved old things, but she also loved the contemporary flair of his apartment.

  Then she wasn’t thinking about the apartment at all, because his hands were full of soap and moving over her body. Over her breasts, along her hips, between her thighs.

  Gasping for breath, laughing, she tried to elude him, tried to elude the evocative sensation. Finding soap, she returned the caress, catching his eyes as she slowly sudsed his chest, his abdomen, his tightly muscled buttocks, in swirling circles.

  Steam whirled around her, and she was absolutely fascinated as she heard the sharp rasp of his breath and watched the sexual tension seize his features, sharpening them, darkening his eyes, straining his cheeks.

  Then she was left to gasp, for he caught her beneath the arms and spun around, setting her on one of the marble seats, kneeling before her. Suddenly, passionately, aggressively. Laving her navel with his tongue, parting her thighs and moving lower.

  She cried out at the excruciating sensation, at the intimacy. Never...never... />
  She grasped for something to hold. Her fingers raked against the water, then fell into his hair. She whispered incoherently. She begged him to stop, because it was...too good. The feelings, oh, the feelings... She would explode, burst; she would die.

  He did not stop. Until she did burst...explode...die a little. Drained, drenched, nearly delirious. Clinging to him, amazed.

  He smiled his triumphant tiger’s smile, and swept her from the tub, dripping wet, back to the bed. She was still limp. He moved over her and entered her, and she wrapped her arms around him, flushed, holding him.

  She was amazed that as he fulfilled himself, he could bring her spiraling along with him once again.

  * * *

  She felt that she still burned with his touch even as she began to doze off, held in his arms, as the afternoon sun rose above them.

  She was in love. Infatuated, insane—in love.

  And then she remembered suddenly what had bothered her about his teasing declaration that they should marry.

  He had said that he would follow her on her trip.

  An odd thing, she thought, for her tiger to say. There were things that she did not know about him.

  He should merely have said that he would sweep her away. From all of it. From her work, from Galliard. That he would hold her and have her and keep her forever.

  That was what he should have said.

  She shivered, convincing herself more thoroughly that if what they shared was real, he would be here when she returned. That he would wait.

  And then the burning sensation swept through her all over again, as she remembered the way she had felt when he had...

  She closed her eyes tightly.

  She had to get away from him so that she could think rationally!

  But as if reading her mind, he touched her again, his palm light against her flesh, drawing circles.

  She’d promised him today. And tonight.

  And perhaps it was something that she owed herself.

  Tomorrow—away from him—she would be strong and rational. She would simply decide not to see him again until she returned, and that was how it would be.

  But for the moment...

  She felt his kiss against her spine, and she knew that if she had been standing, she would have been weak-kneed, ready to fall.

  Today. Tonight.

  A soft, strangled sound escaped her. Whatever came, she couldn’t deny herself this living fantasy.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Smile, ladies, smile!”

  George, sweeping by them—his own smile completely plastic—voiced the command softly, then turned his charm on the next reporter to snare him. He spoke more glowingly of his “girls” than he did of the creations they wore, yet his inflections were so perfect that any woman hearing him would think that the man was entirely too modest and that it was his stunning genius with material that gave the young women their beauty.

  Tara smiled obediently. Flashbulbs snapped, and, blinded, she kept smiling and moving along with the others. The ship was just leaving port; confetti was streaming over the sides, balloons were flying, and there was a tremendous bustle all about. The casinos weren’t open yet, but waiters were rushing around with free “Island Coolers,” and it seemed that everyone aboard had gathered on the aft of the lido deck to watch the first showing of either the Galliard fashions or the Galliard girls. Or perhaps the press and the critics—all gathered to pounce on Galliard.

  They were all dressed in casual cocktail wear. Ashley was in flowing teal, Cassandra in a mist of soft yellow, Mary in black and white stripes, and Tara in an A-line silk of massive orchids against silver that belted at the waist. As George spoke about the gowns, he called each girl forward, describing the material, the casual air of the dress, the comfort, how easy it was to wear. Reporters questioned him; he answered them with ease.

  And they just kept smiling away, pirouetting now and then on command when a new question was broached.

  “It’s amazing what that man can find to say about fabric,” Ashley muttered as she passed Tara.

  Tara laughed. “He’s an expert with words.”

  She didn’t care. It was just after four o’clock, nowhere near dark, yet the sun was filling the sky in a way that kept the day light and bright, the heat at a minimum. The morning in old San Juan had been fun; they had gambled and shopped. And now, aboard the ship, with the tug pulling them out, a sea breeze was arising that caressed the skin with a wonderful feel. She loved ships; the crew was already proving to be extraordinary, and everything should be absolutely perfect.

  And it was perfect. It was. She was going to have a glorious time. Except that...

  Except that her mind was being pulled in two directions, and she was too keyed up and nervous to enjoy a thing.

  She was going back to Caracas. Back to the “scene of the crime.”

  Tara tossed her hair across her face, afraid that her professional smile might be slipping. What was she worried about? Tine had disappeared two years ago. He certainly hadn’t spent that time waiting for her to reappear. He had never really loved her. He had been crazy about her potential for income. It was likely that he had disappeared into Brazil or Argentina by now. Perhaps he had even moved on to Europe.

  She never had to be alone. Never be a target...

  But Tine wasn’t the only one who had disappeared. Jimmy had disappeared, too. Was that the real reason she had come back? Because she thought that she owed him something? He wouldn’t have been involved with Tine if it hadn’t been for her.

  But that hadn’t been the truth, either, because Jimmy, it seemed, had had something that Tine had wanted. The mask.

  She shook her head slightly. She didn’t want to think about it. But then, of course, it was better than thinking about Rafe, and wondering if she was a fool, if there was really something to fear, if...

  This trip would have been beautiful if she could have leaned by the rail with his arms about her, felt the sea breeze while returning his kiss, laughed and talked and looked at the stars far out on the ocean.

  She had avoided him. Carefully, completely. He’d come after her at work; she’d slipped out the back. He’d come to her door. She’d ignored him. She’d answered the phone only once, to tell him quietly and determinedly that she was frightened of what was growing between them and that if the feelings were real, they would last. He had laughed and promised to be on the trip, and she had been glad to inform him that the cruise had been sold out for months and months and months—ever since the press had broken the news about Galliard’s showings aboard ship.

  He had been strangely silent. She’d wished she could have seen his face, his eyes. Then he had spoken softly. “Tara.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s important that you know this. The feelings—they are real. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. I’m just—afraid.” She inhaled sharply, held her breath for a second, then rushed on. “And you know why. You told me yourself. You know who I am—you know about my past.”

  “Tara, take care.”

  “I will.”

  “I need to be with you.”

  “Rafe, even if there were a way for you to get on that ship, I wouldn’t want you to come.”

  “Unfinished business?” he queried softly, and she didn’t know if there was an ironic insinuation in the words or not.

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe you should be. All right, take care, Tara.”

  And he’d hung up. He hadn’t said that he’d call her as soon as she got back. He’d simply hung up.

  Then, in a frenzy, she’d called the cruise line, checking to see if he’d obtained a reservation. No, he was not listed as a passenger. And no, there wasn’t a single booking left.

  So she was alone. No, not alone—good heavens, not alone! George was with her, and Ashley and Madame and Cassandra and Mary, and five other employees who ran around and bowed down to George.

  There was suddenly a smatteri
ng of applause. Ashley nudged Tara. “Move! This is it! We’re free! Piña coladas on the foredeck. Sun, wind, sand—”

  “There’s not a grain of sand anywhere near us,” Tara interrupted her.

  “But there will be!”

  Tara laughed and started to follow her friend through the lounge, but just then she heard one of the reporters call out a question to George, and it was a query that stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “I see that Tara Hill is back with you, George!”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” George responded briefly.

  “Going back to Caracas. Tell me—was Miss Hill ever cleared of all the charges?”

  “Of course,” George replied.

  Bless him, Tara thought, but she decided that she was tired of praying that the media would forgive her the past. This was one interview she wanted to handle herself.

  “Tara!”

  Ashley tried to stop her, but Tara swung around and moved to George’s side, linking an arm with him.

  “You’re Sandy Martin—L.A.? Yes, I thought I remembered you!” She gave the man a bewitching smile. “Mr. Martin, all the charges against me were dropped.”

  “What about the woman who was killed? You still claim that you didn’t know her?”

  “I had never seen her before that night.”

  “And what about the man? The man with no known identity—who you claim existed?”

  She laughed, as if the reporter was missing something entirely.

  “Mr. Martin, obviously you think that someone existed—you ran dozens of pictures of the back of his head!”

  A ripple of laughter broke through the crowd. She felt a sway of warmth, as if she had brought this particular audience to her side. Martin had turned red—and for once he seemed to be out of words.

  “Do excuse me,” Tara murmured.

  George gave her a wink. She hurried off after the other girls; they hadn’t gone far. Linking arms, they hurried through the lounge, smiling at passengers who gave way for their group.

  “Bravo,” Mary murmured.

  “You think I’m off the hook?”

  Ashley laughed. “No. You’ll never be off the hook. But you did real well back there, kid. Real well.”

  “Oh, let’s forget that nasty man, shall we?” Cassandra pleaded. “There’s an absolutely beautiful-looking, tall, dark officer out there in the most becoming uniform. Let’s change and get back on deck, shall we?”