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

down a deck for dinner. George discussed the first show with them; Tara sipped her wine idly until she noticed that Rafe was sitting at the captain’s table. The delicious dinner became totally unpalatable.

When it was over, Cassandra, Mary and Ashley decided to try their hands in the casino—Tara begged off and hurried back to her cabin, then wished she hadn’t, remembering that somewhere along the line, Rafe would go into his own.

Ashley didn’t stay in the casino long; she returned to the room. Tara pretended to be asleep, but Ashley didn’t fall for it; she perched on the foot of Tara’s bed. “Dreaming, huh?”

“Trying to sleep.”

“No, you’re not. You’re thinking about the fact that his cabin is just inches away.”

“Not inches, Ashley. Feet.”

“But still, he’ll be right beyond that door.”

“Did you have a nice time dancing, Ashley?”

“Lovely. He’s not mad at me.”

“Why should he be?”

“Well, I did trespass in his cabin. But then, I wonder if he even noticed I was around, what with you there. Especially dressed in that towel and all. He’s not mad at you, either.”

“Why should he be? I’m the aggrieved party.”

“Because he’s here? That’s absurd.”

“No, it’s not. It’s sensible.”

“Sensible. Nice way to spend your life. Lying here, in the dark. In this skinny, single bunk. Imagining that massive bed—just feet away. With him in it. Strong arms to hold you. The beat of his heart. The heat of his chest. The pulse, the vitality, the—”

“Ashley, you’ve been watching the soaps again.”

“Okay, Tara. Lie there. Suffer. I just hope you don’t talk in your sleep, because it might get a little too erotic for my innocent ears.”

“Ashley, haven’t you got any more money to lose?”

She laughed. “It’s much more fun to torture you.”

Tara rolled over. “I’m going to sleep now, Ashley.”

Ashley laughed wickedly once again. “Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

They were docked in Curaço when Tara awoke in the morning. Determined to get off the boat and onto the island as soon as possible, she rudely shook Ashley awake and called to have breakfast served in their cabin.

She dressed quickly, while Ashley was still attempting to prop her eyes open with her first cup of coffee. “Come on, Ash,” Tara urged her.

“We’ll stop for breakfast?”

“We’ll stop for breakfast. At a lovely little café with a table beneath an umbrella.”

“Did you call Mary and Cassandra?”

Tara did. Mary told her that they were going to sleep in—they had stayed up until two in the casino, then danced until almost four.

“What a way to work!” Ashley declared, laughing, and then she managed to crawl out of bed, apply some makeup, and shimmy into one of George’s coolly casual cotton jumpsuits.

Tara was already at the door. “Ashley!”

“I’m coming!”

Tara was halfway down the hallway. Ashley puffed along behind her. “What’s your hurry?”

“Nothing. The day is young and beautiful.”

“It should be. It’s seven-fifteen.”

They smiled at the man standing guard at the runway, collected reboarding passes and hurried down. Soon they were in the plaza, and then they were walking along past the storefronts. The buildings were all pastel and charmingly Dutch.

“See, isn’t this wonderful?” Tara asked.

“Sure—it’s just great. Nothing’s open.”

Tara made a face and turned a corner, leading them back toward the sea. There was a café at the corner, facing the water. Charmingly colorful umbrellas sat over white wrought iron tables.

“Breakfast, as you wished,” Tara told Ashley. She pulled her sun hat low over her eyes, crossed her ankles over one of the extra chairs and leaned back. A young girl came for their order; they asked for coffee and rolls and an assortment of cheeses.

Boats were already moving on the little inlet. Fishermen were hawking their catches. A woman walked along, selling handmade dolls.

Ashley, too, pulled her hat low and sank back. “How did you sleep?” she asked Tara.

“Divinely.”

“No dreams?”

“Not a one.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“This coffee is delicious.”

“Why did you run off the ship? Chicken?”

“Because I didn’t want to run into Rafe.”

Ashley chuckled. “He didn’t come near you all night.”

“I know.”

“Poor baby.”

“Ashley—stuff a roll in your face, will you, please?”

“Love to, darling.”

She started to do just that, then paused, suddenly aware that they were being watched. She turned slightly. There was a lively group of five young sailors behind them.

“We’ve got company,” Ashley said.

Tara gazed past her, then wished she hadn’t. One of the sailors winked at her. She didn’t want to be rude, but she also didn’t want to encourage him. She smiled weakly, then pointedly turned back to Ashley.

“Dutch?”

“I think so.”

“Beer for breakfast.”

“They’re probably on a beer leave.”

“Wasn’t that for American fighters in World War II?”

“I think it’s for any soldier, in war or peace.”

“They’re just a bunch of kids.”

“Drunk kids, I’m afraid.”

That was proved true just seconds later, when one of the young men swirled his chair and plopped down beside Ashley. He was darling, Tara thought, blond, blue-eyed—and probably no more than eighteen. It was a shame, she reflected, that it seemed all countries selected their most promising youth to offer up to the possibility of war.

But this young sweetheart had overimbibed. He started talking to Ashley, using language learned straight from the movies. Ashley was polite but firm. It got her nowhere. The other sailors were suddenly around the table, and Tara found herself fighting off hands as if she were surrounded by a pair of giant octopuses.

“Your mother should wash your mouth out with soap!” Ashley threatened one of them.

Fear gripped Tara suddenly, a fear she had never really conquered since Tine. It was a feeling of being overpowered.

She jumped up, suddenly not so sympathetic, and grabbed her bag. She tossed money on the table and took hold of Ashley.

“Let’s go!”

But they were followed. Panic started to seize her as they headed back toward the main street with all the pastel shops. She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. One of the young blondes was smiling away.

“We make beautiful music, baby.”

“No! Nyet!”

“Tara—that’s Russian, not Dutch!” Ashley exclaimed.

How much English did they understand?

“Please, I know they work you hard on your ship!