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

“Hey, it’s easier to get away with murder than a few other crimes I could mention,” he said lightly. “I think that’s about enough talk. It never was a high point with me. I missed you. That’s the truth, you know. There’s always been something special about you—”

“Don’t be absurd. There’s something special to you about anything in skirts,” she said harshly, inching away.

She stopped when his fingers wound into her hair and jerked roughly.

“No, you aren’t the only one, but you are special. I felt it when I watched you on that runway the other day. I had a hard time doing things slow and right, you know.”

He tightened his hold on her hair as tears stung her eyes. He was laughing at her helplessness. She felt sick, almost overwhelmed by the panic that was sweeping through her.

“Come here, Tara!”

She was so close to the cliff—but she didn’t care. Blind instinct made her wild and furious. He wrenched her around by the shoulders; she brought her hands to his face and raked furiously, bringing a sharp cry of pain to his lips.

“You stupid little bitch—” he began.

And he released her for just one second.

The second had been enough. She was on her feet, still wild, unaware that she had nowhere to go. She tried to retrace her steps. Tried to race away from the dangerous cliffs so she could find a way down the mountain.

There was someone on the path before her. Coming toward her. She halted, then gasped and started racing forward again, relief singing through her. It was George Galliard.

Tara cast herself straight into his arms. “George! How did you get here? Oh, thank God! Are the police here? Tine is right behind me. George—”

He held her stiffly, looking over her shoulder. She turned, gasping and crowding closer to him. Tine was almost on her, wrath and cruelty on his features; along with the blood-red gashes she had torn across his face.

“George…?” The name escaped her in a gasp. Tine kept coming closer. George’s grip tightened—then he pushed her toward Tine. She stumbled; he caught her in a grip so venomous that she cried out.

“George?”

“Sorry, love,” Tine said softly, with an edge of malice. “You hadn’t guessed? How do you think dear George got his start? No one would buy his damn fashions. I never worked for him; he always worked for me. Gems, gold, artifacts, in and out so easily, because who would think to check up on a world-famous designer? He arranged this nice trip back very carefully, right after he talked to you and discovered that you were running a little low. He had a hell of a time squeaking by the authorities last time.”

“Idiot!” George accused Tine suddenly. “Neither of us will get out of it this time! What the hell did you have to take half the town hostage for?”

“I only did what was necessary. Quit sniveling like an old woman. Go back to town. I hope you weren’t foolish enough to be followed!”

Tara’s knees suddenly gave out with shock. George! What had looked like salvation had been a merciless trick. She couldn’t believe she had run to him for help and he had handed her right back to Tine.

“Get up!” Tine yelled at her. “George, get out of here! I’ve been waiting for the return of my love so patiently!”

He turned, dragging her with him. She screamed; she kicked; she fought.

And she knew he wouldn’t loosen his hold for a minute. Not this time.

* * *

Rafe took five different cabs, stopping at five different places and coming out on five different streets before taking the final cab to Costello’s office. He chafed at the time it took, but knew that he had to take the precaution. He burst in on the lieutenant so wildly that in retrospect, it was a wonder that the man had listened. But he did, and it was probably another miracle that he studied the ridiculous map with Rafe, stroked his chin and agreed that they could probably find the location.

“I’ll call in one of my men—Juan Ortega. He’s from the mountain, a farmer. But if it is not the place, Rafael, then—”

“It has to be the place,” Rafe said hoarsely. “Jimmy is alive, and he wouldn’t have done this without being certain.”

They sat down and went through the particulars. The only way to get up there without being seen would be to take the back roads. That would take time. And they’d have to count on surprise. Neither knew if Tine Elliott was ruthless enough to start shooting or not. Since the woman had died last time, Costello didn’t think that an effort at negotiation would be worthwhile.

Four of them would go: Ortega, who knew the mountain so well; a sharpshooter; Costello; and Rafe.

It was nearly ten o’clock when they set off.

They followed the city lights, then turned into the mountains. They could only go halfway by the main road. Soon they were climbing, and Rafe stared out the window at the mountain. Purple and haunted and shadowed, wild and primitive, and anything could be hidden there.

They reached a point where they could no longer take the car. They would have a long walk, he was warned, and they’d have to study the situation when they reached their objective—a hostage situation was always tricky.

Ortega did know the mountain. He walked easily; Rafe and Costello were panting.

“Here, this path,” Ortega said. “If the map is accurate.”

They walked until Rafe’s muscles ached, though not as badly as his heart. Time was his enemy. And it was passing so swiftly. All he could see was the forest. Tree after tree, branch after branch. Eternal darkness.

Ortega stopped short. Rafe saw the lights seeping through the trees. Costello gestured, and the four of them scattered, circling the hut, which seemed to blend into a crevice of the rock and the forest.

It was the sharpshooter who found the right window. He beckoned silently to the lieutenant. Costello went around the front;