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

but she knew instinctively that she was being stalked. Therefore, she told herself, don’t see the man. The next time he appears, keep the door shut. Don’t answer the summons. Simply don’t see him. The decision was made, so it would be easy.

He wasn’t in black today. He wore a loose off-white jacket, tan slacks and a navy silk shirt casually open at the neck. His hands were in his pockets as he leaned casually against the golden oak bar at the rear of the store, nearly parallel to the models’ dressing rooms.

He seemed to be listening politely to whatever George was saying.

“Is that him?” Mary whispered suddenly.

Tara discovered herself nodding reluctantly. Ashley had dragged it out of her that he had stopped by the night before, and the group of them had been teasing her all day.

Tara heard a soft whistle. She twisted and saw that Cassandra had come up behind her, too.

“That’s spectacular,” she murmured.

“Cassandra!” Ashley joined the group. “Get your tongue back into your mouth before you trip on it!”

“He might be worth the risk,” Mary said philosophically. “Don’t get too involved, of course. But his type is…rare.”

“What type? Two arms, two legs?” Tara asked nervously. And then she laughed. “We must look like a group of high school girls standing here.”

“Right you are!” Ashley proclaimed. “And since I do have the privilege of knowing the man…”

She smiled sweetly at Tara.

“Wait! I’ve got to get out of here first—” Tara began.

Too late—she made a grab for Ashley’s arm, but Ashley was already on her way out, smiling graciously.

Cassandra and even the world-weary Mary followed behind her.

Rafe was charming. Tara still had not budged from the doorway, but she watched him. He met Cassandra and Mary, shaking their hands, making polite inquiries. George must have decided that he was a man of wealth and influence and, therefore, should be entertained and impressed. He himself was charming, solicitously telling his models what a long day they had endured, asking if they wouldn’t like a drink—a question usually reserved for clientele at showings—whether they shouldn’t all sit, and where Tara was? Obviously George knew that Rafe had come specifically for Tara, because he went on about how much Galliard Fashions had once done for Tara—and what Tara Hill had come to mean for Galliard Fashions.

“Ashley, where is she?”

“In the doorway,” Ashley replied blandly, winking mischievously at Tara from her relaxed perch on one of the well-padded Greco-Roman settees—also customarily reserved for their affluent clientele.

The tiger eyes were instantly upon her. Warm and glowing, golden, and burning with a certain devilry. Damn him! He’d known she would never have opened her door to him again, and so he was here.

“Hi.” He lifted his glass to her.

She really had no option. She left the security of the doorway and wandered out. It seemed that a silence fell. He watched her; she watched him. And her little audience of friends watched them both.

“Tara?” Only George seemed oblivious to the sparks. “Ah, ma chérie! What will you have? Hmm. We have an excellent Bordeaux.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

George poured her a glass of wine. She avoided Rafe, nearly sitting on Ashley’s foot in the process. Ashley emitted a little yowl of protest, but Tara ignored her.

If Ashley didn’t move her damned foot, she would sit on it! Ashley had gotten her into this predicament to begin with.

Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he would have found her and followed her no matter what.

“So tell me again, Mr. Tyler, about this lady friend of yours who is so interested in a showing. We won’t be taking any more appointments after Friday—for two weeks, that is—but I’d certainly squeeze her in before, if you wish. Or after, of course.”

“Oh? Why are you closing the shop?” Rafe sounded totally engrossed in George’s words, but he didn’t take his eyes off Tara. There was something totally unsettling about the way he swirled the ice in his glass while he surveyed her with his half smile. She felt herself flushing uncomfortably, wondering what he was thinking.

Whether he was mulling over their last moments together, laughing because the sophisticated and aloof image had proved to be nothing more than a pawn to be taken in the easiest of moves.

“We’re having a showing in Caracas,” Ashley answered for George, but George went on with enthusiasm.

“Yes, South American buyers. It should be very exciting. Oh, I know, there’s a great deal of poverty down there, but I’ll tell you, there’s no woman better dressed, more feminine, more enchanting than a true Colombian lady. And the aristocracy of Venezuela! Some of the Mexican señoras—the Brazilians! And Argentina! None know so keenly the allure of a truly wonderful fashion!”

“Is that so?” Rafe said.

Cassandra laughed. “Actually, we’re all looking forward to it. We’ll be aboard a wonderful cruise ship for seven glorious days, all in all. And only three sessions aboard the ship! George’s—” she hesitated, smiling sweetly at George “—grande showing is in Caracas, and we’re free as birds the rest of the time.”

“Are you really? Fascinating,” Rafe murmured.

George cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Tyler, shall I make an appointment for this lady?”

What lady? Tara wondered. And she hated herself because she was sick with the thought that he might be married. But if she intended to stay away from him, what difference did it make?

“Certainly. This Friday, if at all possible.”

“Certainly, certainly. The lady’s name?”

Rafe arched his brows. “Mrs. Tyler, of course. Mrs. Myrna Tyler.”

“Your wife, sir?”

“My stepmother, Monsieur Galliard.”

“Oh, of course, of course, of course!” George said. “You do seem enraptured with Miss Hill. Should Tara model—?”

“No.” He turned full face to George. “I would love to have Ashley model for her, if it’s possible. Of course, I realize she is busy preparing for her trip—”

“I won’t mind at all,” Ashley murmured.

Tara kicked her.

“Well, then. Friday—say at three? Would that suit Mrs. Tyler, do you think?”

“Perfectly,” Rafe murmured.

George chuckled softly, clearing his throat. “Strange, Mr. Tyler—wasn’t it Miss Hill you asked for when you came