Tiger, Tiger

‘Yes. It means gladness.’

He picked up his water glass. Lecia’s gaze followed the lean, strong hand—long-fingered, tanned and confident. Sensation shivered the length of her spine.

‘And are you glad?’ he asked quietly.

No, terrified.

And even worse, excited.

She managed to produce a shrug. ‘I’m reasonably optimistic—quite even-tempered,’ she said. ‘It probably does describe me.’

‘No highs, no lows, just a pleasant state of wellbeing?’

‘Mostly.’

And she’d fought to achieve that state, had spent years struggling towards it. However intriguing this situation—and this man—she refused to risk her contentment.

Gripped by the uncomfortable feeling that she was admitting things, giving herself away, Lecia embarked on another round of silent warnings. Keane himself was no threat to her. What she had to fear was her helpless, headlong response to the forceful masculinity that prowled behind the bars of his will.

‘How about you?’ she asked, ignoring the secret messages from her body, trying desperately to sound relaxed and calm and only idly curious about this distant cousin. ‘Are you a typical tycoon, working all day and into the night?’ She glanced at the leather briefcase at his feet.

His smile should be banned, she thought; it was challenging and utterly compelling and a threat to womankind. Humour lurked in it, and danger spiced the hint of arrogance that illuminated his angular features with a special magnetism.

‘It sounds as though you’ve been doing a little research of your own,’ he said blandly.

Lecia ate another scallop, appreciating the rich, delicate flavour with less than her usual enjoyment. ‘The friend I was with at the opera in the park gave me an article about you from one of the business magazines.’ Andrea had tracked it down and faxed it through the day before. Lecia had no intention of telling him she’d read it then thrown it in the rubbish. ‘There was a photograph too. It gave me quite a jolt,’ she confessed.

‘How do you think I felt, seeing my face in the crowd? I wanted to drag you out and ask you what the hell you were doing with it!’

Lecia’s brows shot up. ‘You didn’t move a muscle. I’m sure your—the woman with you didn’t notice.’

‘No, she didn’t.’ An edge of mockery sharpened his tone.

She’d been beautiful, the woman in the park, with subtle, clever style when it came to clothes. Well, Lecia thought, she herself wasn’t bad-tooking—

Whoa, there! This was not a contest, with Keane the prize!

The way her mind was running shocked and bewildered her. All right, she was attracted to Keane Paget; she could cope with that. It wasn’t even so surprising. He exuded an innate air of disciplined authority, of uncompromising competence. Allied to his obvious intelligence and unfair, far too potent charm, it made him, she thought shrewdly, a walking, talking summons to most women.

What scared her was the hint of risky decadence that cast a dark shadow across her response. Was part of this unsettling, goaded attraction a prohibited thrill at their close resemblance, the way her features were manifested in his more chiselled, hard-edged face?

Damn it, she thought, pushing the last scallop around her plate, she’d been interested in men before and never felt as though she stood on the brink and one step could fire her into heaven—or drop her straight into hell.

Not even with Anthony, the man she’d once loved so violently, who’d made her feel that all control of her emotions. was being wrested from her by forces too strong for her to resist.

Because she’d hated that helplessness, she’d learned from the whole, horrible experience, developing both judgement and the prudence to pull away from danger before she got in too deep. Her eminently satisfactory life was not up for grabs.

Besides, Keane could be another woman’s lover. And Lecia never poached.

So she’d call a halt. Tactfully, she’d refuse any invitation to meet his aunt. It wouldn’t take long, she thought, avoiding those penetrating eyes, for Keane to get the message.

She found something else to talk about, hoping she’d managed the switch of subject smoothly enough to appear sophisticated, and was relieved when the meal ended. Logic—and pragmatic, boring old common sense—warned her that the more she saw of Keane the more difficult it would be to refuse his invitations, to stop thinking about him—dreaming of him...

Not that he wanted to linger. After she refused a cup of coffee he glanced across the room and almost immediately a waiter headed towards them.

This ability to summon waiters from the void fascinated Lecia. Perhaps it was because Keane was well-known in the restaurant and a good customer.

Perhaps, but she thought wryly that it probably happened whenever Keane Paget looked up. He had presence, the sort of aura that caught people’s attention.

Paying for the meal took little time, and when they rose Keane once more took Lecia’s arm. Scoffing that the tingle of electricity that leapt from nerve-end to nerve-end when he touched her was not only improbable but a cliché, she allowed herself to be steered across the Italian tiled floor towards the bright sunlight outside.

From somewhere close by a man said something and laughed.

Lecia felt the colour drain from her skin in a clammy rush. Blinking, she forced her gaze in the direction of the voice.

Of course it wasn’t Anthony. A perfectly strange man with a blond moustache leaned across a table and lifted a woman’s hand to his mouth. Anthony had been dark and sophisticated, and he’d no more have kissed her hand in public than he’d have taken his shoes off.

As she registered the sweet rush of deliverance Lecia realised that it wouldn’t have mattered if the stranger had been Anthony. She no longer loved him—had never loved the real Anthony, the married man whose mistress she’d been for a few short weeks until someone had told her about his wife.

Without missing a step, she walked on.

‘Are you all right?’ Keane asked, the sensuously rough timbre in his voice suddenly transmuted to harshness.

Remotely she said, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

But she wasn’t, because when he said, ‘I’ll drop you off,’ she nodded and thanked him and went into the parking building with him.

In the car, Keane asked, ‘What happened?’ He didn’t switch on the engine, so the words hung heavily in the dim quietness.

Lecia drew in a painful breath. ‘It was just—I was surprised.’

‘Is he the man you were engaged to?’

‘No!’ And before he could probe further she said aloofly. ‘I’m surprised your detective didn’t discover that Barry lives in Wellington now.’

Keane ignored that. ‘Then who was the man who laughed inside the restaurant?’

‘A total stranger. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

‘But he reminded you of someone you’re afraid of.’

‘No!’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone.’

Only of herself. Of this weakness that made her fall in lust with a certain sort of man.

‘Do you usually go white so dramatically whenever a man laughs?’ Keane touched her cheek. ‘You’re still cold,’ he added judicially, his sharp, perceptive eyes relentless.

His hand slid to the pulse beneath her ear, lingering there for a second. Lecia’s breath clogged her throat so that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think above the fast chatter of her heartbeat in her ears.