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

of her body, hugged and draped by fabric. To the slit along her thigh, the froth at the ankles.

It must have been at that precise moment, she would think later, when magic entered the night. It was the way that he looked at her, the way that he looked. So tall, so elegant and so darkly masculine.

Suddenly she wasn’t aware of anything around her. She knew only the light in his eyes. The subtle but persuasive scent of his after-shave. The shivery feel of heat and energy that surged around him, engulfing her. She felt his hand on hers; she felt that this was a fantasy, that this was magic. And maybe she did feel a little bit like Cinderella at the ball—she’d danced that first dance with the prince of her dreams, and she was falling in love. There was something so right about him. Not in appearance, not in height or stature or any other tangible way. Just him. His touch. The message in his eyes.

Had he been dressed in rags, she would have felt it. The absolute need to put her hand in his, and with that, the trust she couldn’t logically give him.

“Shall we?” he murmured, and she nodded, unsure of her voice.

George said something to her; the others all waved and called goodbye. Ashley came running out with Tara’s silver fox fur, and she accepted it gratefully.

Then they were out on the street, where his limousine awaited them. He ushered her in.

“Are you cold?” He adjusted the fur more closely around her shoulders. She shook her head.

He sat back. Day was still with them, fading to twilight. She could see his features so clearly: all the hard and handsome planes; all that was rough and rugged; all that was keenly beautiful. All that created that most intricate animal—man.

And still the magic held her. Held her so firmly that she could not find words to speak.

He reached over and took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it with a bewitching reverence. His eyes had not left her.

He touched her cheek. “Do you really want to see a play?”

“I love plays.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you really want to see a play right now?”

God help her. She shook her head. She knew what she was saying, what she was doing. She hadn’t had a single drink; but she knew exactly what she was saying by not speaking.

He watched her for a moment. Something inside her cried that she should protest, that she should ignore all she felt and gaily say that she was just dying to go to the theater.

He wouldn’t have protested. He would have gone ahead. And he would have been a charming companion for the whole evening. He would have taken her to dinner, and then he would have taken her home, and he would have left her at her door with a good-night kiss that would have left her aching for more.

But she didn’t speak.

He tapped on the dividing window and murmured something to the chauffeur, then sat back.

They stopped in front of an apartment complex that was nearly as well known as Rockefeller Plaza. Dear Lord—she couldn’t think of the name of the place. It wasn’t far from hers.

The chauffeur didn’t appear. Rafe himself helped her from the car.

The doorman greeted him deferentially. Tara felt her lips lift in a smile as he nodded to her.

The lobby was muted luxury. Marble and oak, ferns and pillars. The elevators were subtly etched in gold.

She still didn’t speak as they entered and rose high above the world, high above any normal concerns.

The elevator door opened. Tara would have stood still, staring blankly at the door. But her hand was still in Rafe’s, and he was walking, so she followed.

A few steps brought them to a set of double doors. Rafe opened them and released her, standing slightly behind her to turn on a light.

She blinked, seeing the place arise from the darkness.

They were up on the roof, on the corner, and both sides of the back wall were glass, looking out on a panoramic view of the city, of the park. The stars were reachable through those sparkling panes. Even the moon—she could stretch out a hand and touch it, and she reflected that perhaps she already had.

It was contemporary, completely so. Mexican tile flooring in the entry gave way to deep pile beige carpet, white leather sofas, and a redbrick and copper fireplace. To the far left of the windows was a door, so artfully planned by some architect that it blended with the open beauty of the room yet led out to the balcony, where the heavens would seem even closer.

A little breathlessly, Tara stepped into the room, down from the Mexican tile to the sunken carpeting beneath. The fur trailed from her shoulders.

Watching her, Rafe could barely breathe. As usual, she was part real, part fantasy, her hair a golden contrast against the black of her gown, the silver fur just dangling over her shoulder. Her other shoulder bare.

Long, lithe, slim, elegant. He swallowed. What was it that she had? Whatever it was, it went far beyond the obvious. Was it the silver mercury of her eyes, the timbre of her voice? Motionless, poised, she might have been Tara the model, the face and shape that had seduced and enticed from a million pages of print. And that alone could humble a man.

But it was in motion that she had enchanted him. In motion that she had gazed, spoken, whispered, touched. It was the essence of the woman that had been his downfall. Something inside her, something undiscernible.

He followed her, reaching for her coat. “Do you like it?”

“It’s spectacular.”

“I like the sky.”

“Yes.”

Rafe set her fur over a chair. He moved to the left, to the kitchen, which was done in white and chrome. His fingers were shaking when he opened the refrigerator.

“Wine?”

It seemed that she hesitated, that she trembled.

“Yes, please. May I—may I go out?”

“Of course. I’ll