He was staring at the tiger. Tall and lean and as dark as the beast, in his black cords and leather.
She turned, smiling ruefully at her foolishness, and hurried out of the Roman section to the stairs. He’d had no interest in her whatever—just in the treasures of the museum.
Too long in the country, girl! she chastised herself. Well, that was all changing now. She had run, and she had hidden, but it was time to face the daylight.
She had started off rather well. Only a few days in the city and her apartment felt like home again, she was ready to start work on a fascinating assignment, she had come to the museum, and she was meeting Ashley for lunch.
Her smile broadened as she thought about telling Ashley all about her encounter with the tiger-man. Ashley would love it. Paranoid, Ashley would call her.
And, of course, she had been. To have thought of the man as being as ruggedly beautiful, powerful and dangerous as the tiger.
And to have thought that he might actually be stalking her. As if she were prey.
Ashley would definitely be amused.
Tara ran down the steps of the museum to the street, still grinning as she hailed a taxi.
She didn’t see the tiger-man tread lightly down those same steps behind her, following her every movement with his eyes, carefully noting the direction of her cab.
Then advancing to the car that awaited him at the corner.
CHAPTER 2
Rafe Tyler had no need to hurry. A shift in the wind had brought the soft sound of her voice to him; he had heard her instruct the cabdriver to take her to the Plaza.
As soon as the taxi pulled away from the curb, he raised his hand to the hovering limousine. He hopped in beside the driver.
“Where to?” the snowy-haired chauffeur inquired.
“Follow her cab,” Rafe said. He leaned back to rest his head against the seat and closed his eyes. He was tired from a month of constant travel, but this lead on the girl had been too good to ignore. She was the last avenue of discovery he had left.
“Damn traffic!” the chauffeur grumbled impatiently.
Rafe opened his eyes again, grinning. “Don’t let it worry you, Sam. I want a few minutes to pass anyway.”
“What if we lose her?”
“We won’t. She’s obviously got a luncheon appointment.”
“How do you know?”
“Sixth sense?” he teased, then admitted, “I overheard her. She’s heading for the Plaza, probably the Oak Room. She’ll be easy to find.” He frowned suddenly, turned to push aside the glass barrier behind him, and leaned halfway over the seat to rummage in a storage cabinet.
Warily, Sam glanced in the rearview mirror to watch his employer’s movements. “Rafe? What are you up to there, boy? Now I’m not going into that place with you—”
“Sure you are, Uncle Sam!” Rafe laughed, returning to his seat, a dignified suede jacket in his hand to replace Sam’s uniform coat.
“I’m not—”
“Hey, I can’t walk in alone! I have to have a lunch appointment myself, right?”
Sam started to grumble under his breath. Already the collar that hadn’t bothered him all morning had begun to bother him. “I swear, if I hadn’t been working for the Tylers since they first set foot in the States—”
Rafe’s smile faded. He interrupted his old employee and friend with a flat reminder. “This is all about Jimmy, Sam. I wouldn’t be asking you, otherwise.”
They fell silent until the limousine pulled up in front of the Plaza. Sam was doffing his cap and changing jackets even as the doorman opened the back door. A little confused at finding no passengers in the rear of the elegant vehicle, he scratched his chin.
In the meantime Rafe had left the car, smiling pleasantly as he approached the doorman with a generous tip. By the time Sam was out—now clad as nondescriptly as any businessman, Rafe had been assured that the limo could sit just where it was until he and Sam were ready to retrieve it.
Rafe rested a hand against Sam’s shoulder to steer him through the lobby. Sam always felt uncomfortable at the Plaza. “Too much opulence!” he muttered, shaking his head at the display windows full of gems.
“Sam! We’re just going to have lunch. We’re not moving in!” Rafe chastised him.
“Ostentatious!” Sam said under his breath.
“Ah, come on! It has warmth and character!”
“It’s better than some,” Sam admitted. Then he sniffed. “The waiters always look at me as if they think I don’t know which fork to use!”
“They don’t care if you use a fork at all—as long as you leave them a decent tip,” Rafe assured him dryly, stopping Sam at the entrance to the Oak Room. Before the maître d’ approached them, Rafe had already found Tara Hill. She was sitting with a redhead who was as svelte and fashionable as she was. Luckily, the table behind Tara, which angled to her right, was empty. He could study her easily, but she would have to twist to see him. He should even be able to hear her conversation fairly easily.
“Mr. Tyler,” the maître d’ began.
“Afternoon, John. My uncle is here on holiday. He’d enjoy a view.”
“A view?”
Rafe grinned. “The blonde and the redhead. Think you could arrange to get us behind them—the table right over there?”
“Certainly, Mr. Tyler. Certainly. Gentlemen, right this way.”
“The man reminds me of a penguin,” Sam murmured.
“Sam,” Rafe groaned, “anyone in a tux looks like a penguin.”
He helped his aging “uncle” into a chair, then drew up his own for a nice view of Tara Hill. Engrossed in conversation with the redhead, she hadn’t noticed their arrival.
He was glad to see that her silver fox fur was gone—obviously left in the cloakroom. He could study her more thoroughly without the fluffy garment, which concealed her throat and chin. She wore a simple gown, a teal silk with a scoop neckline, her only ornament a gold chain belt about her waist. He was certain, though, that she would look just as
