Tears pricked her eyes behind her glasses; it hurt even now. She wanted to fight, just as she had always fought Tine. She wanted to rage out that her mother had been one of the kindest women on earth, that she had always been poor because she had taken in any stray, any child, and that her father’s only crimes had been his lack of education and tireless efforts to make other men rich by his labor and sweat….
“Mon Dieu! Take those glasses off and get over to see Madame Clouseau! Schedules, schedules! Ma chérie, we leave in ten days!”
His tone had grown gentle, and Tara sighed, aware that George really did care for her; it was just that he had become accustomed to treating his models either like little children or slaves. He had a remarkable ego—and perhaps it was justly deserved, for it was his fashions that had given them all their tenuous claims to fame.
“I’m going, George,” she began. “And I really am sorry—”
“Tara!” he exclaimed, looking at her closely for the first time and frowning. “What have you done to yourself? You look like—like absolute hell!”
She grimaced dryly—she didn’t look great, but she didn’t look all that bad, either! She hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before and had a few shadows under her eyes. All because of that damned Rafe Tyler! He had triggered something in her, and all she had done, hour after hour, was toss and relive her life and…
Dream. Dream of something different from anything she had ever known. A man with the grace and power and fluidity of a tiger—who loved her with the gentle, tender manner of a kitten.
“I, uh, I slept badly last night, George, that’s all. I’ve only been back about a week now; my apartment still seems a little alien and—”
“Alien!” George snorted in disgust. “It has been yours for eight years! Tonight you will take the pills I give you—they will ease you into sleep.”
Tara sighed wearily. “I don’t take sleeping pills, George.”
“You will not work, Tara, unless you learn to sleep. Now, I am serious—I cannot have you looking like a refugee! Like an emaciated pauper. Like—”
“All right!” Tara snapped. “I’ll sleep, I promise! But no pills!” She continued to mutter her opinion of sleeping pills as she stepped past him to the rear of the showroom, then to the fitting rooms beyond. He chuckled softly behind her. If nothing else, she was at least off the hook for her tardiness, she thought.
Madame Clouseau was there amid a tangle of measuring tape and sporting a mouthful of pins as she worked over Cassandra Law, a stunning young woman with a headful of nearly blue-black hair. Perhaps, Tara mused, George had taken her back as an employee only because she was a blonde. George, as well as having a flair for color in clothing, loved to play the artist with his models’ hair. There would be only four of them on the trip, and they were entirely different in their natural coloring. There was Cassandra, with her raven locks and indigo eyes; Ashley, with her brilliant red curls and green eyes; Mary Hurt, a brunette with deep mahogany eyes; and Tara, with light-blond hair and silver-tinted eyes. Colorful, different—just the way George liked things.
Cassandra was standing on a stool, a white satin strapless gown molding itself around her luscious form and ending elegantly in a froth of rhinestoned tulle around her ankles. She grimaced at Tara in pain as Madame stuck her with one of her countless pins.
“It sounded loud out there,” Cassandra murmured, looking anxiously at Tara. “You okay?”
Tara nodded. “Fine, thanks. I’ve learned to weather the storms around here quite well.”
“You’re late!” Madame Clouseau snapped, pushing a straying tendril of steel-gray hair behind her ear.
“I’m sorry.”
“Start with the black velvet evening gown, please,” Madame said. “Cassandra, get this off. Now where is Ashley?”
“I’m here, I’m here! And I’m not wearing this!”
Ashley appeared in a burnt-orange concoction that clashed horribly with her hair. She didn’t wait for a reply—Ashley was marvelous at ignoring Madame’s imperious manner—but smiled at Tara. “You’re late! Does that mean that something erotic happened last night?”
“No, it means I overslept.”
“You will wear the dress! George has said so!” Madame exclaimed angrily.
“Damn!” Ashley swore to Tara. “I certainly will not!” she told Madame. “I shall go see George right away and handle the situation myself!” She started for the front, then turned back. “Tara, I want to hear all about it later!”
“I’m dying to hear about it, too!” Cassandra laughed.
“Will you please get to work!” Madame called out, clapping her hands sharply.
“What a wonderful kindergarten teacher you would have made!” Tara told her sweetly, then, secretively smiling and giggling to one another, Tara and Cassandra hurried to the back. They passed Mary on the way; she was mumbling under her breath as she tripped over the hem of the elegantly seductive peignoir she was wearing.
It was a long day. Tara went through outfit after outfit and appeared before George—pinned to perfection by Madame—with a multitude of purses, evening bags, shoes, coats, hats and stockings. He picked everything apart and redesigned each complete ensemble until he was satisfied. He did the same with the others. Ashley and Cassandra complained, while Tara and Mary remained silently amused. In between, Ashley described the tiger-man to Cassandra, and the two of them plagued Tara to death with questions regarding her few minutes alone with the man. Cassandra swore that Tara led the most exciting life, and Tara silently reflected that excitement had brought her nothing but misery before. Mary seemed to be on her side, though.
“Don’t ever trust a man like that! If he’s that devastating to you, he’s that devastating to all women. And he probably
