Bride of the Tiger Heather Graham (fox in socks read aloud txt) 📖

done a great deal of traveling. Seems his father believed that a young man should follow his calling. He could have had a cushy job from the beginning, but he joined the navy instead, then worked his way through foreign shipyards. Oh! He’s been in on a few smuggling busts.”

Tara stiffened instantly. “So that’s it! He thinks I’m a smuggler.”

Cassandra giggled. “You arrest smugglers—you don’t take them to French restaurants for dinner.”

“Mary, where did you get your information?”

“I’ve got a friend at the bank where Tyler keeps lots and lots of his money.”

“You still don’t trust him?” Ashley asked Tara. She fastened her zipper and walked idly to the door. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tara murmured.

“Give him a chance!” Cassandra exclaimed. “Do you know what happens to old models, Tara?”

She smiled. “No, Cassie. What happens to old models?”

“They shrivel up and die—all alone—unless they fall in love and get married.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, you’d better decide quickly what you’re feeling!” Ashley whispered, hurrying back over to the sofa. “He’s out there again—with old George eating right out of his hand!”

“He’s what?”

“He’s out in the showroom again.”

They all jumped up and hurried to the door. Ashley was right. He was talking to George, who was gesticulating in flushed pleasure.

Rafe was in black again. A stunning black tux with velvet lapels, a starched white, pleated-front shirt, black cummerbund and a deep maroon ascot.

Tara moved back into the room and leaned against the wall.

“I wonder where you’re going, Cinderella!” Cassandra breathed.

Tara looked over at Mary, who always seemed to be so steady and poised.

“Good God! Don’t be an idiot! Grab him!” said Mary, which Tara found no help at all.

“George is coming back here!” Ashley said. She was right again. George, wearing a wonderfully pleased expression, was hurrying toward them.

He came in and shut the door, staring at Tara. “The theater! Tyler has plans for the theater. It’s quite possible the photographers will be there. You must wear a Galliard design. The black, Tara, with the sequined flounces. That will be perfect! Sexy and austere all at once!”

Tara wasn’t sure whether to be indignant or amused. “What am I going to see, George?”

“See? What? Oh! The Albee play. What did he say the name of it was? Oh, what difference does it make? A Galliard girl on the arm of the Rafe Tyler. What matters is what you wear!”

She yawned elaborately. “I think I’ll have to give him an apology, George. I’m so tired these days. And you were commenting on how awful I looked—”

“Don’t be absurd, ma chérie!” There was mild irritation in his voice—desperation, too. “Really, Tara, how can you be so ungrateful? You needn’t worry about sleep. Your fittings are well along. You can sleep late tomorrow.”

“A day off?” Tara queried sweetly.

“What?” George blustered.

“I’m down to where I believe Madame is sticking me with pins for the fun of it,” Tara told him.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, then. Fine, fine. You’ve got the day off. Just get the black on and wear it with élan!”

“I’ll do my very best, George,” Tara promised.

He nodded, turned around in a daze and left them. They were all silent for a minute; then they burst into laughter.

“What more could you want from a man?” Mary asked, and they all laughed again.

Ashley pinched Tara’s cheek. “Well, you get into that black dress, ma chérie. And take your time. I’m going to run out and cheerfully greet tiger-man and see if old George won’t pull out that marvelous ancient Scotch of his again!”

“Sounds good to me!” Mary agreed.

Cassandra chuckled. “Now, now. We make a ridiculous amount of money. We can afford our own Scotch.”

“But it’s so much more fun to drink George’s!” Ashley retorted, rolling her beautiful eyes. “Especially with Tara’s tiger-man. If she blows this thing, I’ll be around to console the poor fellow.” She grinned at Tara. “Get out there and be beautiful, kid!”

Tara grinned as the others left her. She went to the rack and found George’s grand creation. It was a stunning dress. And it suited her coloring well.

She paused, hoping there would be no photographers around. She didn’t want the mud raked up by the press again; George should have thought of that.

She shook her head. His creations were all George ever thought about. He was internationally known—a sleeveless cotton blouse by George Galliard cost well over a hundred dollars. But it was a two-way street. Galliard clothed the rich and the famous—and the rich and famous had made Galliard because they wore his clothing.

And, she thought, smiling smugly, she had earned a day off. Not a bad agreement. Maybe she had something to thank Rafe for after all.

Minutes later she entered a scene much like the one she had encountered the day before. Rafe, totally resplendent, her three color-coordinated and bewitching friends arrayed around the bar—George amid them, the supreme ruler.

They were chattering when she came out. All of them except Rafe.

He stared at her in a fashion that was bewitching in itself.

Stared at her as if she was a goddess suddenly descended to the earth. Silent, still, a golden message of enchantment in his eyes. He didn’t move; he didn’t come toward her.

For a moment she couldn’t move either. She could only meet his eyes, feel their golden heat. Feel it move into her, enthrall and hypnotize her. Become liquid and mercurial as it swept through her, making her feel dizzy, as if the room were spinning, as if the world had faded away…as if there were only the two of them. Meant to come together, the earth itself screaming that it should be so.

Ashley broke the spell. “George! My God, that’s a stunning creation.”

“Woman,” Rafe corrected her.

And he stepped forward, coming to her. Reaching out a hand. She raised her own slowly; he enfolded it in long, strong fingers.

“My God,” he breathed, his eyes locking with hers, then moving slowly over her bare shoulders and the cleavage displayed by the silken bodice and velvet trim. Over the length