Bride of the Tiger Read online

  Tara clenched her teeth and shot Ashley an evil stare. Ashley didn’t even notice.

  “Tara!”

  “What?”

  “I’ll lay you a bet.”

  “On what?”

  “I’ll bet anything that Rafe was the one who somehow managed to get our reporter friend—the old inquisitor—out of your hair.”

  A shiver rippled through Tara.

  She was convinced that Ashley was right.

  CHAPTER 9

  The cocktail party was a fun affair that everyone enjoyed—everyone but Tara.

  The captain was a charming, handsome Italian, the purser was a charming, handsome Dutchman, and the various other chief crew members were also pleasant. As Tara noticed before, people in general were simply happy to be aboard. They talked, laughed—they relaxed. She wasn’t as besieged now by questions as with dance partners, and under normal circumstances she would have been happy just because it was so nice to see so many people so comfortable and at ease.

  Except that Rafe walked in about fifteen minutes after they arrived.

  She was determined to ignore him. A difficult feat, for as soon as he walked through the doorway, she experienced the whole gamut of emotions that he always elicited. Longing...no one could ever forget being held in those arms. It wasn’t even something in the mind; it was miserably physical. A trembling in her limbs, the feeling that the place had grown warm, that she was flushed...

  Which she was, she thought, lowering her eyes from those of her dance partner, one of the distinguished, middle-aged chefs. Rafe’s very presence was a call to her senses so blatant that it was embarrassing. If she saw him, imagined his scent, heard his voice—she instantly felt a weak shivering inside her, a heat that came straight from her core.

  She ached to lie down with him again.

  Don’t look at him! she commanded herself. But it didn’t matter; she knew he was in the room.

  Everyone knew he was in the room. She had seen eyes turn when he entered. He had that quality. A presence, strong, hypnotic, fascinating.

  Beautifully powerful, like a tiger...

  The chef said something to her; she stumbled, stepped on his foot and apologized profusely, and heard his assurance that she could tread on him any time she chose.

  She kept dancing with the chef until the charming Dutch purser broke in. But even as she chatted with him about Curaço, their first port of call, where his native tongue was spoken, she thought about Rafe and could not resist the temptation to glance at him again.

  He was dancing with Ashley, whose head was cast back as she laughed delightedly at something he had said.

  Jealousy—that evil demon—slipped into Tara’s heart again. Ashley was exotic, beautiful, blazing with vitality, sweet and warm. Surely she was the better choice for any man.

  Tara lowered her eyes again. She gave the purser a dazzling smile, then felt like a fool, because she realized that she was trying to make Rafe jealous while neither Rafe nor Ashley was attempting any such thing—they were just dancing and enjoying each other.

  She stepped on the purser’s foot, too, and imagined a little bleakly that if they all got together to discuss the Galliard girls, they might shake their heads sadly and agree that the blonde had been a terrible klutz.

  At last the cocktail party came to an end. They moved down a deck for dinner. George discussed the first show with them; Tara sipped her wine idly until she noticed that Rafe was sitting at the captain’s table. The delicious dinner became totally unpalatable.

  When it was over, Cassandra, Mary and Ashley decided to try their hands in the casino—Tara begged off and hurried back to her cabin, then wished she hadn’t, remembering that somewhere along the line, Rafe would go into his own.

  Ashley didn’t stay in the casino long; she returned to the room. Tara pretended to be asleep, but Ashley didn’t fall for it; she perched on the foot of Tara’s bed. “Dreaming, huh?”

  “Trying to sleep.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re thinking about the fact that his cabin is just inches away.”

  “Not inches, Ashley. Feet.”

  “But still, he’ll be right beyond that door.”

  “Did you have a nice time dancing, Ashley?”

  “Lovely. He’s not mad at me.”

  “Why should he be?”

  “Well, I did trespass in his cabin. But then, I wonder if he even noticed I was around, what with you there. Especially dressed in that towel and all. He’s not mad at you, either.”

  “Why should he be? I’m the aggrieved party.”

  “Because he’s here? That’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s sensible.”

  “Sensible. Nice way to spend your life. Lying here, in the dark. In this skinny, single bunk. Imagining that massive bed—just feet away. With him in it. Strong arms to hold you. The beat of his heart. The heat of his chest. The pulse, the vitality, the—”

  “Ashley, you’ve been watching the soaps again.”

  “Okay, Tara. Lie there. Suffer. I just hope you don’t talk in your sleep, because it might get a little too erotic for my innocent ears.”

  “Ashley, haven’t you got any more money to lose?”

  She laughed. “It’s much more fun to torture you.”

  Tara rolled over. “I’m going to sleep now, Ashley.”

  Ashley laughed wickedly once again. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  They were docked in Curaço when Tara awoke in the morning. Determined to get off the boat and onto the island as soon as possible, she rudely shook Ashley awake and called to have breakfast served in their cabin.

  She dressed quickly, while Ashley was still attempting to prop her eyes open with her first cup of coffee. “Come on, Ash,” Tara urged her.

  “We’ll stop for breakfast?”

  “We’ll stop for breakfast. At a lovely little café with a table beneath an umbrella.”

  “Did you call Mary and Cassandra?”

  Tara did. Mary told her that they were going to sleep in—they had stayed up until two in the casino, then danced until almost four.

  “What a way to work!” Ashley declared, laughing, and then she managed to crawl out of bed, apply some makeup, and shimmy into one of George’s coolly casual cotton jumpsuits.

  Tara was already at the door. “Ashley!”

  “I’m coming!”

  Tara was halfway down the hallway. Ashley puffed along behind her. “What’s your hurry?”

  “Nothing. The day is young and beautiful.”

  “It should be. It’s seven-fifteen.”

  They smiled at the man standing guard at the runway, collected reboarding passes and hurried down. Soon they were in the plaza, and then they were walking along past the storefronts. The buildings were all pastel and charmingly Dutch.

  “See, isn’t this wonderful?” Tara asked.

  “Sure—it’s just great. Nothing’s open.”

  Tara made a face and turned a corner, leading them back toward the sea. There was a café at the corner, facing the water. Charmingly colorful umbrellas sat over white wrought iron tables.

  “Breakfast, as you wished,” Tara told Ashley. She pulled her sun hat low over her eyes, crossed her ankles over one of the extra chairs and leaned back. A young girl came for their order; they asked for coffee and rolls and an assortment of cheeses.

  Boats were already moving on the little inlet. Fishermen were hawking their catches. A woman walked along, selling handmade dolls.

  Ashley, too, pulled her hat low and sank back. “How did you sleep?” she asked Tara.

  “Divinely.”

  “No dreams?”

  “Not a one.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “This coffee is delicious.”

  “Why did you run off the ship? Chicken?”

  “Because I didn’t want to run into Rafe.”

  Ashley chuckled. “He didn’t come near you all night.”r />
  “I know.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “Ashley—stuff a roll in your face, will you, please?”

  “Love to, darling.”

  She started to do just that, then paused, suddenly aware that they were being watched. She turned slightly. There was a lively group of five young sailors behind them.

  “We’ve got company,” Ashley said.

  Tara gazed past her, then wished she hadn’t. One of the sailors winked at her. She didn’t want to be rude, but she also didn’t want to encourage him. She smiled weakly, then pointedly turned back to Ashley.

  “Dutch?”

  “I think so.”

  “Beer for breakfast.”

  “They’re probably on a beer leave.”

  “Wasn’t that for American fighters in World War II?”

  “I think it’s for any soldier, in war or peace.”

  “They’re just a bunch of kids.”

  “Drunk kids, I’m afraid.”

  That was proved true just seconds later, when one of the young men swirled his chair and plopped down beside Ashley. He was darling, Tara thought, blond, blue-eyed—and probably no more than eighteen. It was a shame, she reflected, that it seemed all countries selected their most promising youth to offer up to the possibility of war.

  But this young sweetheart had overimbibed. He started talking to Ashley, using language learned straight from the movies. Ashley was polite but firm. It got her nowhere. The other sailors were suddenly around the table, and Tara found herself fighting off hands as if she were surrounded by a pair of giant octopuses.

  “Your mother should wash your mouth out with soap!” Ashley threatened one of them.

  Fear gripped Tara suddenly, a fear she had never really conquered since Tine. It was a feeling of being overpowered.

  She jumped up, suddenly not so sympathetic, and grabbed her bag. She tossed money on the table and took hold of Ashley.

  “Let’s go!”

  But they were followed. Panic started to seize her as they headed back toward the main street with all the pastel shops. She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. One of the young blondes was smiling away.

  “We make beautiful music, baby.”

  “No! Nyet!”

  “Tara—that’s Russian, not Dutch!” Ashley exclaimed.

  How much English did they understand?

  “Please, I know they work you hard on your ship! I know you don’t get much liberty. But I’m not interested. I’m not—”

  From behind, another hand grasped her shoulder, sweeping her around against something very hard.

  She knew the scent; she knew the touch. Rafe.

  He said something in Dutch, low, easy, but it was something the sailor understood. He blushed and bowed slightly. “Sorry. Enjoy the island, miss.”

  He turned and walked away. His friends waved a little uncertainly and followed him.

  “Rafe! Bless you!” Ashley declared.

  He was still touching Tara, who remained silent.

  “They were just a little overzealous with their freedom.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Just that you were spoken for.”

  “You didn’t threaten them?” Tara muttered.

  His hand moved away from her shoulders. “No, I didn’t.”

  Ashley laughed, completely comfortable once more. “Well, whatever you did, it worked. Thanks! Do you speak Dutch?”

  “No, only a few words.”

  “Why not?” Tara whispered. He ignored her, and she knew that she was being ridiculously rude. Absurdly, she felt close to tears. Could it really be that easy? Could she just smile and admit that she had been a fool and then everything would just be fine? It was easy to wish when he was touching her.

  What in God’s name held her back?

  “Where were you going?” Rafe asked Ashley.

  “Window-shopping,” Ashley replied. “Want to join us?”

  “Well, I have to go that way.” He pointed.

  “That way is fine.”

  They moved along the street. The shops had opened now. Ashley paused to buy T-shirts for her niece, nephew, sister and brother-in-law, and a little wood carving of a Dutch house for her parents.

  Tara didn’t know if she wanted any souvenirs or not, and she continued to feel tongue-tied. It didn’t matter—Ashley and Rafe kept up a conversation easily.

  They were in front of a dazzling window when Ashley suddenly stopped dead still.

  “Ooh! Oh, Tara! Look at those emeralds! Have you ever seen such a beautiful necklace!”

  Tara gazed into the window. The necklace was all alone, displayed on black velvet. There was one large stone in the center of a delicate gold filigree; it was surrounded by an elegant spray of diamond chips. It was simple; it was elegant. It was one of the most beautiful pieces she had ever seen.

  “Do you really think it’s good?” Rafe asked her seriously.

  “Wonderful,” Ashley replied. “Why?”

  He smiled and pointed at the sign overhead.

  “Oh! This is one of your stores!” Ashley said.

  He arched a brow. “You knew?”

  “No, no. I mean, not that you had one here. We did know that your family was in jewelry.” She blushed. Her words betrayed the fact that one of them had done some research on the Tylers.

  “Come on in. Try it on.”

  He stepped ahead of Ashley and opened the door. Tara wanted to remain in the street. Ashley hesitated just a second, then pulled Tara in with her.

  Rafe was in white shorts and a navy polo jacket; somehow, he still seemed to fit the old-world refinement of the shop. There was a young girl behind a glass counter in which other gems were artfully displayed. She saw Rafe, smiled with pleasure and came out to greet him. He took both her hands and pressed a little kiss on her cheek.

  Tara hated herself for the familiar jealousy that washed through her. But she found herself wondering about his wide-ranging life. He had been so many places. Would she always wonder about his past? Always feel these little twinges?

  Always? There could only be an always if she gave in.

  He spoke to the girl for a moment; she answered him cheerfully. He turned back to them.

  “Would you excuse me for just a second? I want to look in on our bookkeeper. Frieda will bring you whatever you would like.”

  He disappeared toward the back. Frieda gave them a sweet, earnest smile and asked if they would like coffee or tea or something stronger.

  Tara asked for coffee, just for something to do with herself. Ashley did the same.

  But when they were seated in cushioned oak chairs around a small oak table, Frieda returned to them, the emerald necklace in her hands.

  “You wished to see this, madame?”

  Ashley almost choked on her coffee. Their incomes meant that their lives were definitely comfortable, but the size and perfection of that emerald put the necklace’s cost into more digits than either of them could easily handle.

  Rafe suddenly reappeared. On the soft carpeting, his footsteps had made no sound. He watched Tara, and he watched Ashley, and he smiled a little secretively. The necklace might well have been made for Ashley—sweet Ashley who had been in his corner through blind faith all along. He realized two things; he wanted Ashley to have the necklace because he was so genuinely fond of her, and he wanted her to have it because it was perfect for her. She appreciated its beauty with evident pleasure.

  “Here, let me, Ashley.”

  He stepped behind her, clasping the emerald with its beautiful filigree and diamonds around her neck. Tara felt a twinge as his fingers brushed her friend’s neck.

  Frieda brought a mirror. Rafe stood back, surveying the necklace.

  “It’s perfect. A redhead in emeralds.”

  “It’s stunning,” Tara agreed, her heart aching a bit. It was. The necklace fell just above Ashley’s breasts in a subtle brilliance. And Rafe had put it there.

  “You make
beautiful things, Rafe,” Ashley murmured.

  He laughed. “I don’t make them. My jewelers do. But I’m glad you like it. After all, I hire the jewelers. And I’m convinced that you have impeccable taste.”

  Frieda handed him a memo board with a paper on it. He signed it.

  Ashley stared at him suddenly, mischievously. “If emeralds are for redheads, Rafe, what about blondes?”

  He looked straight at Tara.

  “Diamonds. Nothing less,” he said softly.

  Again he turned to Frieda, exchanged a few words, then turned back to them. “Shall we go?”

  “Wait!” Ashley said desperately. “I’ve still got the necklace on.”

  “Oh, yes. Frieda, could you get the lady a box, please.”

  “Oh, Rafe,” Ashley gasped, her jaw dropping as she realized his intention. “I couldn’t. Really, I couldn’t. It just wouldn’t be—I can’t. I—”

  He smiled with mild amusement while she faltered. “Ashley, if I were a florist, you would think nothing of accepting a rose. Trust me—I have a multitude of stones. Please, keep that one. Just please be sure to tell any admirer that it was created by my company.”

  He touched her again, taking the necklace, brushing his fingers over her flesh. Once again Tara unhappily realized that it had not been a gesture made for her benefit. Ashley had loved the necklace, it had looked exquisite on her, and he had taken pleasure in giving it to her. Like a florist with a rose.

  They left the shop. Ashley continued to protest, glancing guiltily at Tara now and then. But Tara wasn’t upset. Not at her friend, anyway. Rafe had a talent for giving a gift. He and Ashley walked ahead, while he told her how to judge an emerald, how to seek out the flaws, how to search for good color.

  They came to another café; Rafe suggested a cool drink.

  Tara had several, sitting silent while the two of them talked.

  At last he glanced at his watch and warned them that it was nearing time for the ship to sail. He paid for their drinks and they returned.

  As they walked up the steps, the captain was there—almost as if he had been waiting for them.

  He had been.

  Rafe excused himself to speak with the man.