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

She grasped for something to hold. Her fingers raked against the water, then fell into his hair. She whispered incoherently. She begged him to stop, because it was…too good. The feelings, oh, the feelings… She would explode, burst; she would die.

He did not stop. Until she did burst…explode…die a little. Drained, drenched, nearly delirious. Clinging to him, amazed.

He smiled his triumphant tiger’s smile, and swept her from the tub, dripping wet, back to the bed. She was still limp. He moved over her and entered her, and she wrapped her arms around him, flushed, holding him.

She was amazed that as he fulfilled himself, he could bring her spiraling along with him once again.

* * *

She felt that she still burned with his touch even as she began to doze off, held in his arms, as the afternoon sun rose above them.

She was in love. Infatuated, insane—in love.

And then she remembered suddenly what had bothered her about his teasing declaration that they should marry.

He had said that he would follow her on her trip.

An odd thing, she thought, for her tiger to say. There were things that she did not know about him.

He should merely have said that he would sweep her away. From all of it. From her work, from Galliard. That he would hold her and have her and keep her forever.

That was what he should have said.

She shivered, convincing herself more thoroughly that if what they shared was real, he would be here when she returned. That he would wait.

And then the burning sensation swept through her all over again, as she remembered the way she had felt when he had…

She closed her eyes tightly.

She had to get away from him so that she could think rationally!

But as if reading her mind, he touched her again, his palm light against her flesh, drawing circles.

She’d promised him today. And tonight.

And perhaps it was something that she owed herself.

Tomorrow—away from him—she would be strong and rational. She would simply decide not to see him again until she returned, and that was how it would be.

But for the moment…

She felt his kiss against her spine, and she knew that if she had been standing, she would have been weak-kneed, ready to fall.

Today. Tonight.

A soft, strangled sound escaped her. Whatever came, she couldn’t deny herself this living fantasy.

CHAPTER 8

“Smile, ladies, smile!”

George, sweeping by them—his own smile completely plastic—voiced the command softly, then turned his charm on the next reporter to snare him. He spoke more glowingly of his “girls” than he did of the creations they wore, yet his inflections were so perfect that any woman hearing him would think that the man was entirely too modest and that it was his stunning genius with material that gave the young women their beauty.

Tara smiled obediently. Flashbulbs snapped, and, blinded, she kept smiling and moving along with the others. The ship was just leaving port; confetti was streaming over the sides, balloons were flying, and there was a tremendous bustle all about. The casinos weren’t open yet, but waiters were rushing around with free “Island Coolers,” and it seemed that everyone aboard had gathered on the aft of the lido deck to watch the first showing of either the Galliard fashions or the Galliard girls. Or perhaps the press and the critics—all gathered to pounce on Galliard.

They were all dressed in casual cocktail wear. Ashley was in flowing teal, Cassandra in a mist of soft yellow, Mary in black and white stripes, and Tara in an A-line silk of massive orchids against silver that belted at the waist. As George spoke about the gowns, he called each girl forward, describing the material, the casual air of the dress, the comfort, how easy it was to wear. Reporters questioned him; he answered them with ease.

And they just kept smiling away, pirouetting now and then on command when a new question was broached.

“It’s amazing what that man can find to say about fabric,” Ashley muttered as she passed Tara.

Tara laughed. “He’s an expert with words.”

She didn’t care. It was just after four o’clock, nowhere near dark, yet the sun was filling the sky in a way that kept the day light and bright, the heat at a minimum. The morning in old San Juan had been fun; they had gambled and shopped. And now, aboard the ship, with the tug pulling them out, a sea breeze was arising that caressed the skin with a wonderful feel. She loved ships; the crew was already proving to be extraordinary, and everything should be absolutely perfect.

And it was perfect. It was. She was going to have a glorious time. Except that…

Except that her mind was being pulled in two directions, and she was too keyed up and nervous to enjoy a thing.

She was going back to Caracas. Back to the “scene of the crime.”

Tara tossed her hair across her face, afraid that her professional smile might be slipping. What was she worried about? Tine had disappeared two years ago. He certainly hadn’t spent that time waiting for her to reappear. He had never really loved her. He had been crazy about her potential for income. It was likely that he had disappeared into Brazil or Argentina by now. Perhaps he had even moved on to Europe.

She never had to be alone. Never be a target…

But Tine wasn’t the only one who had disappeared. Jimmy had disappeared, too. Was that the real reason she had come back? Because she thought that she owed him something? He wouldn’t have been involved with Tine if it hadn’t been for her.

But that hadn’t been the truth, either, because Jimmy, it seemed, had had something that Tine had wanted. The mask.

She shook her head slightly. She didn’t want to think about it. But then, of course, it was better than thinking about Rafe, and wondering if she was a fool, if there was really something to fear, if…

This trip would have been beautiful if she could have leaned by the