Robyn Donald - Tiger, Tiger

“Why are you afraid of me?” “Why are you afraid of me?” “I’m not!” “Afraid of yourself, then?” Keane’s swift sideways glance caught the truth. “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? Why?” “It’s got nothing to do with fear,” she said, grabbing desperately at some semblance of calmness. “It makes me feel strange to look at you and see my own face. I feel—invaded. No, cloned. Oh, I don’t know what I feel, but I don’t like it!” “If we’d had brothers or sisters, we’d be accustomed to it,” he said imperturbably. “Well, yes, but...” Again her voice faded. She certainly wasn’t going to explain that she couldn’t control her wildfire, unwanted attraction to him. About the Author ROBYN DONALD has always lived in Northland in New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty where she lives today with her husband and an ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and now spends any time not writing in reading, gardening, traveling and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends. Title Page Tiger, Tiger Robyn Donald www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not!”

“Afraid of yourself, then?” Keane’s swift sideways glance caught the truth. “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? Why?”

“It’s got nothing to do with fear,” she said, grabbing desperately at some semblance of calmness. “It makes me feel strange to look at you and see my own face. I feel—invaded. No, cloned. Oh, I don’t know what I feel, but I don’t like it!”

“If we’d had brothers or sisters, we’d be accustomed to it,” he said imperturbably.

“Well, yes, but...” Again her voice faded. She certainly wasn’t going to explain that she couldn’t control her wildfire, unwanted attraction to him.

ROBYN DONALD has always lived in Northland in New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty where she lives today with her husband and an ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and now spends any time not writing in reading, gardening, traveling and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends.

Tiger, Tiger

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘LECIA, look at that man! The tall one walking towards us with the very chic blonde beside him. He could be your twin!’

Lecia Spring’s clear green gaze followed her friend’s discreet nod towards the man coming up the marked path between the thousands of people who’d decided that watching opera in the Auckland Domain was the perfect way to spend this summer afternoon.

Broad-shouldered in a well-cut shirt, and with legs that seemed to stretch for miles, he strode through the press of people, apparently expecting them to part in front of him and his companion like the sea before Moses. Which was exactly what was happening.

That formidable confidence was something Lecia envied. He stood about six inches taller than her five feet eight inches, and except for a pronounced male toughness his face was the one that looked out from her mirror every morning.

Primitive, superstitious apprehension kicked her in the gut.

‘Same bone structure,’ Andrea was muttering excitedly. ‘Same straight, long nose with the tiniest bump on the bridge and—heavens, yes—the same cleft chin! I can’t believe it! You’re fairer, but you both have honey-coloured hair. Dark manuka honey in his case, closer to clover in yours! He must be related to you.’

‘He can’t be,’ Lecia returned, prickling all over with absurd diffidence. ‘I agree, he looks just like Dad, but Dad had no relatives except his parents.’

‘Cousins? Everyone has cousins.’

‘Not in Dad’s family. They were a most unproductive lot. Just one child each generation back as far as anyone remembers—and always a son until I turned up to break the pattern.’

Lecia’s glance travelled to the woman beside the unknown man. Slim, with a patrician face, she wore clothes that were exactly right. As befitted the occasion, they were casual, although she’d dressed the outfit up with a gold chain and supple Italian sandals. The floaty silk shirt and trousers, cool, expensive and elegant, suited her. And she knew it.

Repressing a sudden twist to her heart, Lecia concentrated on what she was about to say. ‘Anyway, Dad was an Australian and this is New Zealand.’

‘What a shame.’ Andrea sighed and murmured throatily, ‘If he was a relative you could introduce me. Talk about the it factor! That woman’s staring at him as though she’d eat him if she had the chance.’

Andrea was right. Although nothing but relaxed interest showed in that lovely face, the man’s companion couldn’t hide the awareness surrounding her like an aura.

Switching her gaze back to the strong bones and hard-honed masculinity that stamped the stranger’s face, Lecia observed, ‘He’d be a tough mouthful.’

‘Those calories I’d really enjoy,’ Andrea said suggestively. ‘I lo-o-ove the way he walks! As though he expects the whole world to scuttle out of his way. I’ll bet he’s a tiger in bed.’

Lecia forced a smile into her tone. ‘You can tell that by looking at him?’

‘And so can every other woman here. You’re just obstinately refusing to read the signals.’ Andrea put on her sunglasses and assumed what she thought was an English accent. ‘Note, my dear Watson, the way those muscles work together, so powerfully smooth and sure. He’s coming up the hill without even sweating, so he has stamina.’ She growled the final word with comical lasciviousness. ‘Terribly important is stamina. And because he’s wearing clothes that cost more than half my salary—and we know how rare inherited wealth is in New Zealand—we can deduce that he’s not only rich, he’s intelligent enough to hold down a very good job. Intelligence, dear Watson, is another vital attribute in a lover.’

Lecia’s amusement was diluted by another emotion, a kind of shocked bewilderment. Hypnotised, she gazed at the man, absorbing greedily the cool, commanding presence, the way the sun was imprisoned in the tawny amber hair, the golden hue of his skin.

Beside her, Andrea continued, ‘As for passion—well, just take a quick glance at that mouth! It’s kept very firmly under restraint, but it’s there.’ Shuddering enjoyably, she pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head and surveyed the approaching man with bright, intrigued eyes.

Lecia swallowed. ‘It’s uncanny,’ she mumbled, assailed by an odd feeling of connection, a bond forged only by their shared features. ‘And very unsettling.’

Reluctantly, Andrea dragged her gaze away to scan Lecia’s taut face. ‘I suppose it is,’ she said slowly. ‘Come to think of it, I wouldn’t like to meet my double, however gorgeous he was.’

By this time it was plain that the man and his companion were making for the corporate tents on the low hill behind the crowd. All his attention seemed to be on the woman at his side, but when a small child barrelled out in front of him and tripped, he stopped in mid-stride and picked the child up, setting her on her feet with a gentleness at variance with his autocratic air.

The toddler puckered up her face and let out a wail. Immediately the man swung her to his shoulder and turned so that the people in the crowd could see the child. A woman scrambled to her feet and began to shuffle through the blankets and picnics and umbrellas and seated people.