Bride of the Tiger by Heather Graham (best large ereader .txt) 📗

to remove her dinner, then frowned, feeling a little dizzy. Too much wine after a sleepless night, she thought. The doorbell rang. She hesitated. If she didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away.

But someone was insistent. The bell kept ringing. “All right, all right!” she muttered, pressing her palms to her forehead.

She should never have just opened the door. She didn’t usually do anything so foolish—she always checked through the little peephole to see who was there. Perhaps she had been so annoyed and so dizzy that she had thrown the door open to stop the horrible sound of the bell as quickly as possible.

It was a mistake. A horrible mistake.

Because he stood there. Her tiger-man. Arching a brow with stern displeasure at her carelessness.

He was in black again: black trousers; black vest; black jacket. But a white shirt and a red tie. Elegant, casual. He might have graced the pages of an elite magazine. Sophisticated.

And the farthest thing in the world from civilized! In spite of the suit, in spite of his totally businesslike appearance, he still resembled a tiger. Taut and vital, exuding a leashed energy, yet cool and knowledgeable, on the prowl.

“Rafe!” she said, standing there.

“Yes, and you should be glad that it is. You might have just thrown your door open to a mugger.”

The smile she gave him nearly caused his heart to stop, his blood to boil. Superior, aloof, a sensual curve of her lips.

“Perhaps that would be less dangerous. You can’t come in, you know.”

But he was already in, closing and locking the door behind him, frowning as he surveyed her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. But you can’t stay.”

“I have to stay. My dinner is coming here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, I’ve ordered us two steaks, medium rare, linguine with clam sauce, and antipasto. It will arrive any minute now.”

“Well, I’m so sorry, but you didn’t ask me, and you can’t stay!”

Did tigers smile, or did they simply grin? He leaned against the door, watching her, as comfortable in her home as a lover of many years’ standing might be.

“You wouldn’t really have me eat in the hallway, would you? And besides, your own dinner is burning.”

“What?” she demanded, and then she smelled it—her frozen dinner, burning in the oven. “Oh,” she murmured, and hurried out to remove the charred remains before the whole place smelled of smoke.

Tara grabbed an oven mitt, quickly threw the tray into the sink and flooded it with water.

Rafe was right behind her. “That was what you were going to eat? For a meal?”

“It was a fine meal!” she retorted. “Models are supposed to be slim, remember?”

She wanted to sail regally on by him and show him the door, but the dizziness overwhelmed her, and right before him, in the narrow space of the doorway, she found herself having to stop and grasp the frame to keep herself upright. She looked from the sleek material of his suit to his eyes and shivered, because it was there, that magnetism so unique, so dangerous, so appealing and sexual that her heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t for years. No, never—she had never felt this absolute attraction before in her life.

“Slim?” he inquired softly as he took her cheeks between his palms, then threaded his fingers slowly through her hair. “You’re perfect. More beautiful without makeup. Soft, like this, fragrant and natural in every way.”

“I—” Tara gripped the door desperately for help. “You—you have to go.”

The doorbell started to ring again. He smiled and went to answer it.

It was dinner. Two men in white coats brought it in on a table covered with a snowy-white cloth. They set it up in her living room. Tara couldn’t seem to speak as she watched the whole thing taking place. The men tipped their caps to Rafe, then said they hoped she enjoyed her dinner.

And then they were gone. Rafe had taken two chairs from her dining-room table. He held one out for her.

“I told you—” she began.

“It’s here. And your own meal is a soggy mess in the kitchen sink. Come on—you have to eat.”

She paused, watching him warily. “Who are you, what do you want, and why have you been following me?”

He returned her stare. “I am Rafe Tyler,” he replied. “And what I want is you. Can that be so difficult to understand? No subterfuge. I’m being as honest as I can. And civilized! I realize that what I want may not be something you…desire, so I want to get to know you. Dinner and walks and flowers. I’ll worship from afar—for a while!” he said softly. He smiled, and she thought there was an amazing tenderness in his eyes. A tenderness as great as the primal heat and hypnotic energy that drove him.

She couldn’t fight him. Wine and exhaustion were making her too drowsy, costing her too much.

“You’re rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she asked him.

“I’m a determined type of person.”

“If I sit down and eat, will you leave?”

“If that’s what you want, yes.”

“I have to sleep,” she told him primly.

He arched a brow. “Did you have trouble sleeping last night? Might it have been because of me?”

“Of course not!” she snapped.

He just smiled and seated her politely then sat down across from her. He served her, talking about the wonders of the restaurant from which the food had come. She ate, asking him questions. She learned that he really lived on Long Island but kept an apartment in the city. He told her that he had sailed quite a bit, traveling the world on steamers right after college. She was barely aware that he had poured wine for her—and that she had kept drinking—until her elbow fell off the table and she nearly lost her balance.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, sweeping around to help her.

She stared at him, shaking her head in confusion. She had heard him; she hadn’t heard him. She felt delightfully light, and terribly sleepy. Very soft, very feminine. He didn’t seem to