He released her, and his fingers lightly touched the small of her back as he led her to the door.
The doorman was on duty, but Rafe Tyler walked her to her apartment anyway.
The grand elevator, carpeted and mirrored, suddenly seemed ridiculously small. He filled it. They didn’t speak, and as the cubicle took them higher, Tara felt her blood race like lava. Her fingers began to tremble. Her breath came too quickly, and, God help her, surely he could hear the beat of her heart.
She wasn’t alone yet. Not yet. His arms could still come around her; his kiss could still sear her….
The door opened. She walked down the hall and stopped nervously in front of her apartment, fumbling for her keys.
He took them from her fingers and deftly opened both locks.
This was it, she thought. He would lead her in and follow, close the door and lean against it. And she didn’t know if she would long to scream or slide heedlessly into his embrace.
He stepped back. The caress of his eyes was his only touch.
“Good night, Tara,” he said, his tone low and husky.
It was a promise in itself, something that touched her as surely as fingers might, with the same effect.
“Good night.” She managed to form the words, trembling as she spoke.
And then his hand did move. He raised it slowly. His knuckles came to her cheek and brushed the soft flesh there.
He smiled and stepped away. She watched him move down the hall.
And then he turned back. His eyes fell on her curiously, disturbingly. It was a slow, total assessment. Her blood chilled, then heated. At first she felt his scrutiny touching her, like a breeze, lightly, then intimately. Velvety, vibrant and warm, knowing all of her, from head to toe.
His eyes met hers. She could tell that he had found all he saw appealing. He looked as if he could, like the great beast he so resembled, forget all convention, step back to her side and sweep her into his arms, into his very being. A savage conquest: desired—taken.
She quivered inwardly, wondering what her reaction would be. Outrage, surely.
But maybe not. The urge was almost painful. The urge to go to him, to curl into his arms…
Except that there was more to his look, something very disturbing. As if he hadn’t wanted to find her appealing, though he had stalked her. But it was as if now that he had caught her, he wouldn’t deny what he felt.
But it was only a physical appeal.
Then his eyes softened, if only for a minute. There was the slightest flame of tenderness within them.
“Tara, get inside.”
She stepped back.
He smiled. “And lock your door!”
She nodded, not realizing that she was blindly obeying his command.
She leaned against her door once she was inside, having lost the strength to stand on her own.
Tara listened to the light fall of his footsteps as he moved down the hallway, back to the elevator. She gave herself a shake, moved into her apartment, showered, made herself a cup of tea and turned on the television set to watch the late movie from bed.
Rational, normal things to do…
But they didn’t make her feel rational or normal. She was keyed up, wide-awake and very nervous.
She knew that Rafe Tyler had stepped into her life to stay for a while. What she didn’t know was what he wanted.
* * *
Rafe walked into his study and headed straight for his desk, then sat and parked his legs on the gleaming wooden surface. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then leaned forward and rummaged in his bottom drawer for the bourbon and the shot glass he kept there.
He splashed out a portion of whiskey and leaned back again, this time surveying the oil paintings on the paneled walls. There were five of them, all of ships at sea. Proud ships, rising high against the horizon.
He downed his drink, shuddering slightly as the liquor burned his throat. Then he opened the top drawer and pulled out a manila folder. He laid it flat on the desk and opened it.
Tara Hill, the woman who had occupied his day and night, stared at him once again from an eight-by-ten glossy.
It was a younger Tara Hill who looked up at him. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen in this picture. Her hair was longer and very straight; she wore little makeup, and her eyes carried a glint of dreams and fantasy and eager fascination that they lacked today.
Rafe turned sheets of paper, passing more and more photos, until he came to the most recent one he had, one that was two years old. She had changed. Her hair was far more sophisticated, feathered and sensual. She was slimmer. And her eyes carried a look of weariness that was more haunting and alluring than even the bright innocence of the earlier picture.
Rafe slapped the folder shut and readjusted his long legs over the corner of the desk as he leaned back, wincing. The photos had never touched him before. But then, he had never touched her before. She had been an object to be studied, and now she was real. He had assumed that she would be hard-bitten and cool, careless of her impact on the lives of others.
He didn’t—couldn’t—believe that anymore. Not when he had been touched by the shimmering silver in her eyes, had felt the soft and fluttering pulse of her life beneath skin as smooth and evocative as translucent silk….
He grimaced. He had touched her hand, no more. Gazed at the perfect ethereal beauty of her face. Rested his fingers against the delightful small of her back, and yet even then he had imagined he felt her heat, warm and subtle and promising
