Bride of the Tiger Read online

  She’d been only dimly aware of the hallway, vaguely, from some distant frame of consciousness. She was acutely aware of Rafe’s eyes, for during the passage from living room to bedroom, she never lost contact with his golden gaze. It was something from a dream: a tall, dark, handsome stranger sweeping her into his arms, carrying her up a short flight of steps from one level to the next.

  And then there were the stars.

  She saw them instantly, of course, when he laid her on the bed and stretched out beside her.

  Larger than life, vivid, eclipsing any other sensation she had ever known.

  Something, some logical swell of reason, warned her that he was a stranger—a man she barely knew. But raw emotion cried out against logic and won. She had known this was coming; she had wanted it. From the first time she had seen him, she had felt fascination, excitement, even a touch of fear at the power he had. And she was drawn....

  She felt his hand on her cheek, and she swallowed slightly, bringing her eyes from the stars to meet his.

  I barely know him! she reminded herself in desperation.

  But it did no good, for she felt at that moment that she knew all that she needed to, that she knew him very well. She knew that he was somehow aware of her fear, that he would handle that fear like fine crystal and ease it from her. She knew it all over again, meeting his gaze, feeling his absolute hunger....

  And a fascination to match her own.

  He leaned over her, slowly. Then touched her lips with his, gently, then searingly. His mouth over hers, his tongue a sensual promise of everything to come. The sudden change was strident, like the sweeping wind of a storm. She caught her breath; she knew no more fear, for the passion as he delved into her mouth with heat and fire was something that demanded to be met, and meet it she did.

  The wanting that had begun in fantasy, that had been denied, now spilled out through her. She felt his kiss not with her mouth, but with her body. She responded instantly, fingers digging into the rich dark length of his hair. She was tense, but completely alive, a drumming sounding through her blood, through her limbs, like lava, running, playing....

  Wanting.

  He moved away from her. In the starlit darkness she watched him swiftly shed his clothing, fluidly, each movement innately graceful.

  Like a smoothly muscled cat, so beautiful in form, graceful in any motion, vital, corded, unique.

  She stared at him and didn’t know that she did so; she recorded in memory all the little things she could catch with the stars as illumination. The breadth of his shoulders, his long torso and longer legs, sinewed, sleek. A thick forest of dark hair on his broad chest, which tapered downward to the point where his sexuality so brazenly, urgently appealed to her senses.

  She closed her eyes, shivering, thinking that she should be frightened. That she should have inhibitions, natural reservations, since it had been so long, and the last time had been...

  Her mind blocked out the thought. Blocked out everything but the wonder of him. The tiger, the hunter, the magnificent beast, as captivated as she, a vow that he swore with his eyes, that leaped silently into her heart.

  He didn’t think he’d ever trembled before a woman, yet he quivered now. Then again, he, who was not whimsical at all, wondered if she was really a mortal woman. No one had eyes like hers, silver like the glow of the stars. Hair that touched his pillow like spun gold. A face like the finest porcelain, heart-shaped, classic, innocent...

  Trusting.

  So exquisitely beautiful that it was haunting. As anxious as he was, he could have stood like a spellbound kid, fascinated because she lay on his bed.

  He lowered his eyes from hers, stopped at the foot of the bed and unlaced her high-heeled sandals. That contact alone sent his heart thudding.

  She made a slight sound. He kissed her again, savoring the kiss, savoring her scent. He knew the perfume, but on her it was unique.

  He drew her up to him as he kissed her, finding the zipper of her gown and pulling it down, and with that rasping sound, he felt his excitement increase, rushing and roaring like a tide, sweeping from his loins to his limbs and back again. She was so light. Easy to maneuver, easy to divest of Galliard’s magical gown. No, it wasn’t the gown. It was the woman.

  Beneath the gown was some other magical creation. A strapless teddy thing in sheer, midnight silk. A sound escaped him as he saw her breasts hugged, outlined, erotically draped by it, and he dipped his dark head, taking her nipple, material and all, into his mouth. He heard an answering moan escape her, vaguely, distantly, for the feel of her nipple tautening and swelling within his mouth was almost more than he could bear. Another sound escaped him, and he swept away the material, once again impatiently maneuvering her form, stripping off her clothes with quick resolve.

  He burned to hold her, but he held back.

  Never, in picture, in substance or in imagination, had there been so perfect a woman. Slender neck; firm, full breasts; slim waist; a provocative flare of hips; and shapely legs that knew no end. No artist’s brush needed to touch her to soften flaws, for there were none. She was beautifully, passionately formed, golden and glowing. In wonderful, elegant color, cream and gold, silver and rose. And her eyes...

  A rain of diamonds, shimmering silver. Beckoning, trusting, innocent, vulnerable. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, the slightest sign of movement.

  Was this what Jimmy had felt? Had his brother, once upon a time, fallen in love with those eyes, with the innocence, with the vulnerability, with the trust?

  His hands knotted into fists at his sides. This was it; this was everything that he had planned. Coldly, meticulously. He’d needed to get close to her. This close. Now he needed to know her, to win her trust, to follow her, to find the truth.

  His fingers loosened.

  It was impossible to be cold. Impossible not to believe.

  In her. In magic. In the waves that engulfed them, that radiated between them.

  He’d promised tenderness. He’d promised patience. He hadn’t said a word tonight about love, but that was hers, too, because he was falling, falling. He despised himself for a fool, but it was the simple truth.

  He returned to her and engulfed her in his arms. Took her lips again in fire, plied his tongue within her mouth as he would his body within hers.

  And touched her. Oh, yes, he touched her. Her shoulders, her breasts, the elegant line of her back, the thrust of her hips. He felt her kiss, her tongue inside his mouth, her lips, against his. Breaking from his, nibbling his.

  He stared at her again. Brought his palm against the line of her cheek.

  Her lashes fell. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, in a tone of awe, not of protest.

  “It was inevitable,” he murmured. He couldn’t endure even those seconds away from her flesh. He kissed the upper swell of her breast, then the lower curve, and finally took the delightful pink crest of her nipple into his mouth.

  Her fingers dug into his hair, holding him close. “Since the museum,” she said, trembling.

  “The museum.” His words were throaty against her flesh. He moved against her softness. She could feel him, hard, hot, against her thigh.

  “Since the museum,” he agreed.

  “You were stalking me.”

  “I was watching you.”

  “Stalking. Like the tiger.”

  He paused, and she was horrified that she had spoken, for she thought she might truly die if he left at that point.

  He lay at her side once more and caught the wings of her hair in his hands, staring intently into her eyes.

  “Stalking...as if I were prey,” she whispered, and, again, wondered why she had spoken when her whole body burned for him, when all the terrors of the past had been forgotten, when she had put blind faith in instinct and intuition, knowing that she was hopelessly—if foolishly—falling in love.

  A rueful smile curved his lips as he gazed at her, his body so hard against hers, his eyes so intense, muscl
es taut.

  “No, Tara, I am your prey. The hunter is the hunted.”

  His lips touched her ear, his teeth teased the lobe, and he murmured as if in awe, “My God. I wonder how I’ve lived without you. Without this...feeling. This wonder.”

  She wound her arms tightly around him. Something vague reminded her that she hadn’t trusted him.

  She knew that she could trust his words now. That whatever mysteries there might be about him, this much was true. Here was reality. Here was magic. Between them.

  And sensation.

  “Ohh...” The gasp escaped her as his kisses, ragged, urgent now, roamed her breasts again, and then beyond.

  He touched her, moved her. Gently, demandingly, softly—urgently. She arched to him; she could lie still no longer. She rose, flinging her arms around his neck, feverishly kissing his shoulders, his chest, nipping slightly, testing his reactions to her lips and tongue against his nipples, her hands exploring the length of his back. He groaned softly and let her play, until the groan began to come from somewhere deep in his chest and the heat seemed to spew and sizzle between them. She found herself once again on her back, her fingers entwined with his, her eyes locked with his.

  His face taut, beautiful, above her. His body wedged between her thighs. He lowered himself, not entering her, teasing, testing, watching her expression, savoring the little sounds that escaped her, the wonder on her face, making it glow, making it ever more beautiful.

  Then she cried out; her fingers eluded his, and she touched him, shivering slightly, a little unsure, brought back to a delirium of passion by his husky whispered words of pleasure, of encouragement.

  “Yes, take me. Oh, yes....” He raised himself slightly, watching as they joined together. Holding his weight, holding himself, sinking into her fully, completely, then holding tight once more as her body absorbed him, and watching her face again.

  “Yes. Take me. Hold me. Tara...”

  She thought that she would burst, that she would scream, and yet her body absorbed him, adoring him. She marveled at the slow, painstaking way he held her and then plunged, withdrew, and stroked....

  “Ohh...” She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck, almost ashamed of the terrible rush of pleasure that consumed her. He stroked her hair; he held her; he whispered.

  And lost control.

  Deliciously, for by then she was arching to him, reaching. She wanted to hold on forever; she was almost desperate for that intangible thing she craved.

  It was the best thing in the world. The best feeling. Being a part of her. He wanted it to go on forever. He held and held, and then release swept through him in great, erratic waves, trembling, pulsing.

  From him to her. Like the heat that had brought them together. He arched in his turn, strained, taut, muscles rippling, felt that great fall of unbearable sensation, so great that he nearly collapsed, yet did not. The shudder that came rippling from her, washing him with the flow of her ecstasy, was sweeter still.

  Only then did he take her tightly in his arms and roll with her, still a part of her, and determined to be so as nature brought them both back slowly from her splendor.

  They were sleek, damp, breathing heavily, and still one. Their hearts pounded. Their breathing eased first, and then the drumbeats of their hearts.

  Neither spoke. He had to touch her hair, so golden in the starlight.

  And still she didn’t speak.

  “It was inevitable,” he told her very softly.

  “I know.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  She moved at last, rising above him. He saw the beauty in the classic lines of her face, the passion in her eyes.

  “No, Rafe, never. Never sorry for tonight!”

  He smiled and placed an elbow beneath his head, pulling her back to his chest.

  “Never—for tonight. Does that mean that I’m supposed to get up and take you home now?”

  “I can go by myself—”

  “No way,” he told her flatly, then spun with a fluid motion, bringing her beneath him, eyeing her with determined passion, and a bit of devilry, too.

  “Don’t tell me that you have to be anywhere. You have tomorrow off. And you’re going nowhere, love. Magic may only come once in a lifetime—I’m not letting mine slip away. I’m going to wake up beside you and know that you’re real, and then I’m going to make love with you by daylight.”

  For a moment he thought that she was going to protest. That she was going to panic and insist on going home.

  But she smiled. Slowly. A sensuous smile, a beautiful smile that played upon the senses and sent his pulse reeling once again. Lazily, languidly, gracefully, she stretched out her arms, then wound them around him, arching her body slightly, wickedly taunting him with the thrust of her exquisite breasts.

  “We’re waiting for morning?” she inquired innocently.

  “No. Oh, no!” he told her.

  And as his arms tightened around her once again, he lowered his head, his mouth moving hungrily over one of those exquisite mounds that had tortured him with such pleasure.

  She responded with a gasp and then a soft siren’s moan, sending him spiraling into an endless sea of sensation....

  * * *

  There were no longer stars overhead when they awoke. The sky was a beautiful blue, just touched by soft white clouds.

  Tara was staring at that sky, and Rafe watched her silently, not moving.

  His first thought on waking was wonder—that she should be there. Blond and luxurious, awakening from sleep in his bed. Innocent again, for though their legs were entwined, the sheet was cast just below her shoulder, and despite the abandon of the night, she appeared as sweetly virginal as Venus rising from some magical seabed.

  Innocent...

  He closed his eyes fleetingly, wondering if his resolutions of the evening could stand up to daylight. There would always be that infinitesimal difference between night and day. Darkness always brought a gentle velvet cloak to hide scars—and suspicions.

  He shook his head slightly, a smile ruefully curving his lips. No. Nothing was gone. He was still in love. If he was a fool he was a fool, and the hell with it.

  But then there was Jimmy.

  He inhaled. There was only so far a fool could go. He couldn’t tell her anything, not yet.

  He exhaled. The great, momentous changes inside him couldn’t really mean anything. He still had to follow her. To find out if she was a victim, or a catalyst, perhaps.

  His heart pounded. Now he had more reason than ever to follow her. To be with her. If she was innocent, if she was returning to the scene of past tragedy, more than ever, so much more than ever, he had to be with her. To guard her against—

  Whatever might come.

  And then, of course, when he gazed at her again, he saw how she watched the sky above her.

  What were her thoughts? Regret, as she mulled over the implications of the night? Strangers and lovers. Was she wondering how to escape? Wishing desperately that she had smiled and said, Oh, dear, no! I wouldn’t miss the play for anything!

  He touched her cheek. Her eyes, those silver eyes that might have launched a thousand ships, met his instantly. And to his vast relief she offered him a smile, soft and somehow shy, and touched with the same wonder he had known himself.

  But there was something more. As if she denied nothing and gave him all—except some thought, some resolution, something that she was holding back.

  “You’re not sorry?” he murmured.

  “No, never sorry,” she replied.

  He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “George is going to be furious,” she murmured. “No pictures of his elegant gown in the society pages.”

  “We’ll see that he gets his pictures eventually.”

  “Oh!” she said suddenly, fumbling to pull her arms from the sheets to gaze at her watch. “It’s nearly twelve—”

  “You’ve got the day off,” he reminded her.


  She laughed easily, relaxing on the pillows. But then she bolted up again, driving him half mad, because the sheet slipped and he was reminded in full, glorious daylight that she had the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen.

  “You’ve got an appointment! At twelve. Remember? You’re supposed to be taking your stepmother in for a showing.”

  “Are you trying to destroy a magnificent day?” he asked her, only half teasing. “Myrna is a grown woman. She’s quite accustomed to going into the city.”

  “Shouldn’t you call her?”

  “I never intended to accompany her.”

  “Oh.” She paused a minute, studying him, arching a brow slightly. “Curious, isn’t it? You wanted Ashley to model for her.”

  He chuckled softly, rising above her. “What’s so curious? I wanted you with me.”

  “You planned the whole thing?”

  “Not exactly. I really had planned on the theater.”

  “And after?”

  “It’s always been your choice,” he told her softly.

  Tara wondered if she believed him or not. His dark lashes had fallen over his eyes with his words, and she shivered slightly. Was she mad...falling in love so quickly, so completely, when it seemed that there were still mysteries here? Things unsaid that she couldn’t begin to pinpoint? A sense that...

  He caught her hands and brought her back to the bed. He kissed her vibrantly, passionately, impatiently kicking the covers aside and laying the urgent hardness of his body against hers, brazen, bold, so sensually demanding that she responded in kind. He called to her, aggressive and sure; she sighed quite naturally. Her breath caught as he touched her. Excitement surged through her, and feelings of love and need overwhelmed her again.

  He was impossible to deny. He was a force of high, windswept excitement. She loved the excitement, the absolute intensity. The male power that called on everything female within her. The feeling of his tongue within her mouth, the warm, living power of his body pulsing against hers, joining them.