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

“Oh, it was,” Rafe said smoothly, and at his look, Tara felt blood rush to her face. He turned back to George. “Ashley and I are…old friends. I came to ask Miss Hill to dinner.”

Tara jumped to her feet. “Miss Hill can’t possibly go to dinner.”

“Tara—how rude!” George protested uneasily. At that moment, she hated him. She was a model—not his damned upstairs maid! She made fabulous money, but she worked for it!

She turned on George. “George! You’re the one who’s insisting that I need sleep these days.” He looked so baffled and confused that she ended it with a smile as she swept over to the bar to deposit her glass.

He sounded curiously like Ashley had the day before as he lowered his mouth to her ear to whisper, “Tara! The man is inviting you to dinner—he’s not asking to have you for dessert!”

“Oh, yes, he is!” Tara muttered.

She turned quickly to find him watching her again. To see the amused golden light in his eyes.

“Really, Mr. Tyler. I can’t. I have an early fitting—”

“No, no you don’t, Tara!” Cassandra interrupted breathlessly. She looked at Tara, her eyes wide and innocent, and Tara decided that Rafe Tyler had hypnotized them all. “Tomorrow is Madame’s late day, remember? We’re not due in until noon. That’s right, isn’t it, George?”

“What? Ah, yes.”

“How wonderful,” Rafe said smoothly. Then somehow George had moved, and Rafe was standing beside her, folding his long fingers over hers, smiling. Pleased with himself. Like the tiger that had just consumed the canary.

“I don’t—” she began, but as she watched him, the words stuck in her throat. At his touch she felt an overwhelming curiosity, a desire to be with him. She wasn’t a teenager; she would never be innocent again.

And she would never let things get out of hand again!

She lifted her chin slightly and smiled. “Dinner. Since you insist, Mr. Tyler.”

“Good night, Monsieur Galliard,” he told George, smiling with just a trace of irony at the title, which slipped so smoothly off his tongue. Then he turned, and in a friendly, charming fashion said goodbye to the others, and told them that it had been lovely to meet them. He was certain, he said, that no man had ever been so surrounded by beauty.

“Quite poetic,” she muttered as soon as they were on the street.

He arched a dark brow to her. His reply came with a subtle grin. “Jealous?”

“No.”

“My God, you do know how to dash a man’s hopes.”

“Ashley might love to go to dinner.”

“We did go to dinner.”

She sighed softly. “I’m sure that Ashley would love to go to dinner with you—alone.”

“Ah. Because you and I have already had dinner together—alone?”

There was something about the way he said it that made her turn about and smack him on the arm. Not hard. Just hard enough.

He laughed. “I thought you were having a rather good time.”

“I was having a wretched time.”

Laughing, he caught her hands and whirled her before him.

She found herself standing there, staring into his eyes. Her hands were still held in his. People were walking by them; horns blared, automobiles snorted exhaust fumes, and everything seemed to fade slowly away.

“Why were you following me?” she asked him.

“How can you ask that?”

“Why?”

“I think I’ve been as blatant as I can.”

“Oh. Have you?”

“You know what you look like. You’re not a fool. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a man see you and feel compelled to follow you before.”

“No, Rafe. I haven’t. Of course…”

“Of course what?”

She shook her head and lowered her eyes quickly, moving to his side and hurriedly walking once again. She had almost told him about Tine. That no one had ever dared smile at her or come close to her because Tine had been there—her determined guardian.

“Hey!” he said, striding quickly to keep up with her. “We need to turn at the next corner.”

“I’m not so sure—”

“Oh, yes you are.” He caught her elbow and spun her back around. “French tonight, Miss Hill. Right this way.”

“I just said—”

“What? What is it?”

“All right! I feel like your chosen prey! As if you know exactly who I am. As if the past…” She didn’t know why, but she hesitated, inhaling sharply.

“You’re behaving ridiculously. All right—I know who you are. Tara, you’ve been in dozens of national advertisements. I was fascinated; I am fascinated. Tara, for God’s sake, what is the matter with you? Haven’t you ever dated? Gone to movies? To plays? For long walks in the park? Met someone for dinner after a long day?”

“I…” She started to make a retort, and then it occurred to her. “No.”

She had never dated. Not really. Not gone out, done all the little things to get to know someone. She had been at home, and then there had been Tine. And she had wound up with him—just as he had intended. But they had never dated. Never gone to movies. Never laughed in the park.

Rafe squeezed her hand. “It’s fun. Give it a try.”

She lowered her head again, horribly confused. She couldn’t let herself be taken in by someone, not again. She just couldn’t. Any remnants of youth and innocence had died on that last awful night in Caracas.

“La Maison,” Rafe murmured softly, and she realized that they were at the restaurant. He was opening the door, ushering her in, his hand supportive and light against the small of her back. Inside the foyer, he gave his name to the maître d’. Seconds later they were escorted along a deep-maroon velvet pathway to an intimate table of dark, heavy oak. The lighting was dim; the tables were situated so that each was private, a trellis of dark wood separating each one from the next.

They sat down; Rafe ordered wine. His interest was in the menu. He mentioned various dishes that he had tried. Tara just sat there, watching him and wondering what she was looking for. Might there be a break in his facade?

Tara realized that she didn’t want anything to be wrong. There