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

steam coming out of the bathroom; she had probably showered and gone down to join Cassandra and Mary for breakfast.

Tara sighed. If Mary had something to tell her, she wouldn’t have told it to anyone else anyway. Mary was completely capable of keeping a secret.

Tara hurried into her own shower. She was still shivering; still anxious, still a little bit in shock.

And feeling miserably ill. As she stood beneath the hot spray of the shower she reminded herself that Mary had been appalled when Tara had asked if she should be frightened of Rafe. So it couldn’t be anything too bad, could it?

She prayed not. She thought that she’d rather be thrown over a cliff by Tine than discover that she had been a fool, that she had been used when she had given in to instinct and fallen head over heels in love.

Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready. She almost left the room alone, but then she remembered the events of the day before and slipped back into Rafe’s room. He was standing in front of the mirror, grimacing as he adjusted his tie.

Instinct prevailed again. Tara moved over to him and took the tie in her hands, her eyes on her task, her fingers trembling only slightly. She felt the warmth of his breath and slowly looked up into his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her.

She smiled. “Nothing. And everything, of course.”

“Why did you leave?”

She shrugged, concentrating on his tie once again. “Because you’re a little bit too tempting in the shower, and this is George’s big day before the grandes dames of South America. And I need some coffee desperately.”

She knew he didn’t believe her. But he didn’t challenge her. When he moved to open the door for her, his jacket was slightly drawn back, and she stopped, gasping, aware that he was wearing a shoulder holster—and carrying a gun.

The blood must have drained completely from her face.

“Tara,” he said impatiently, “this is protection. For you. God knows what that man intends. I only know what I intend, and that is that he isn’t going to have a chance to pull anything. Let’s go.”

She didn’t have a chance to reply; he took her elbow and led her out into the hallway. He was subtle, but she realized uneasily that he was prepared to have something jump out at them from every nook and cranny.

Nothing did. They met the others down in the dining room. Everyone else had eaten; they were all on their second cups of coffee. Tara knew she couldn’t eat a thing. She kept staring at Mary imploringly, but Mary carefully kept looking away. George and Rafe talked, everyone asked after Tara, Madame showing special concern. Tara wanted to scream. It felt as if the tension was mounting with no break. What had she expected?

Not for things to happen this fast! Not for the attempt against her to be made in the first few hours that she had been here.

George rose, calling over to the assistants that they had better get started; they were scheduled to begin in an hour. He told the girls that the dressing room was stage left in the grand ballroom, and then he softly asked Rafe, “You’ll be around?”

“Right outside the doorway,” Rafe assured him. “And we’ll have police in the audience.”

George nodded and signed the breakfast check, and the party began to move.

The tables in the grand ballroom were beautifully set in peach and cream, with single fluted candles and white and peach roses. A small orchestra was warming up. There was a podium for George, and a special table for the press. George had the girls walk the runway to accustom themselves to it, and reminded Madame of the order of the program. Madame listened, then muttered that she was no fool, George should realize by now that she knew exactly what she was doing—and his models weren’t dummies, either!

Rafe stood, arms crossed, beside George while the models tested the runway. As soon as they were ready to start for the dressing room, he returned to Tara’s side, and fell into step with her. Before she entered the dressing room, he squeezed her elbow and told her that he would be right outside.

She stared into his eyes, those fascinating amber orbs, which were studying her so intently.

So caringly, so passionately. She sensed that he would gladly die before he let anything happen to her, and felt herself melting inside, because she loved him so much.

What in God’s name did Mary know?

He kissed her lips lightly. “I’ll be here. Go dazzle South America.”

She smiled and slipped into the dressing room. She looked instantly toward Mary, but Mary shook her head, indicating that the others were all around them, Madame and one of her seamstresses, Cassandra and Ashley. And of course Ashley, bless her, kept close to Tara like a second skin, still concerned about the events at the glass factory.

Tara mechanically put on her first outfit. Madame moved around her, brushed her hair, touched up her makeup. They all talked, and Tara made conversation, too, without the least idea of what she was saying. She didn’t know if she was more distressed about the knowledge that Tine was out there somewhere…or that Mary knew something about Rafe that made her acutely uneasy. Tara wasn’t sure she could go through the whole show without knowing. She was afraid she would stop somewhere on the runway and simply start to scream.

But she didn’t, of course. She was well trained. She moved on time; she smiled; she spun. She opened jackets, pivoted, smiled some more. Silks and gauzes flowed behind her. She even saw the audience, or parts of it. There might be a tremendous amount of poverty in South America, but not at this elite showing. The audience glittered with gold, silver, diamonds. She didn’t think she had ever seen such an array of beautiful, elegant and sophisticated women, dark-haired, demure, aristocratic. Beautiful young women, beautiful mature women.

Each model