Quiet Walks the Tiger (19 page)

B
Y THE TIME SLOAN
returned to Gettysburg she had done a fair job of pulling herself together—or at least an acceptable job of creating a smooth shell to hide behind and a serene mask with which to face the world.

The mask was brittle, and beneath it she was a desolate and miserable wreck, but no one would ever know. To complicate matters, she had no idea what Wesley’s next move might be, but since he had adamantly decreed that there would be no divorce, she was nervously determined to keep up appearances on the slender line of hope that something could be worked out.

She hadn’t stayed in Belgium. After finally managing to emerge from her room, she found the memories of Brussels too haunting and beautifully ironic to bear. Besides, though of French descent, she had none of Wesley’s gift for the language, and Flemish eluded her completely. She had moved across the English channel to Dover and on to London where she had forced herself to sightsee like crazy. For hours she had gazed upon the ancient tombs and history of Westminster Abbey, toured the endless halls of the Victoria and Albert, and strolled the shops of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street. Her greatest pleasure, however, had been a day spent in the London Dungeon—a wax museum specializing in the rather barbaric practices of the various tribes and nationalities that combined to make the English people. With a spite she wasn’t quite able to contain, she thought how nice it would be to contain Wes in a gibbet, boil him in oil, or set him to the rack. Her pleasure didn’t last, however, because she knew, she had no desire for real vengeance, only a yearning to go back in time and undo all the wrong between them and recapture the wonderfully golden moments when they had both been truly in love.

Nothing could be undone. She had to brace herself for the dubious future, steady frayed nerves that threatened to snap with the pressure of wondering when she would suddenly look up and discover Wes had returned.

With just the right amount of dejection Sloan informed Florence that Wes had been held up on business. She breathed a little more easily when Florence accepted her explanation without doubt—apparently Wes traveled frequently on business.

She didn’t need to feign her happiness at her reunion with her children, nor stifle the delight that the children’s pleasure over their foreign gifts gave her.

It was hardest to see Cassie. She didn’t dare give away the slightest trauma—if Cassie were to discover that her trip of concern to her sister’s house had been the catalyst to the destruction of her marriage, she would never forgive herself. Still, it was very, very difficult to listen to Cassie’s sympathy for “poor Wes,” working two weeks after his wedding away from his bride...

Sloan was extremely grateful for her own work, and she plunged her heart and soul into her classes. But as the weeks began to pass and no word was heard from Wes, her resolve to remain cool and collected despite the inner battle played beneath her shell became increasingly arduous. She kept up a strained smile when asked about Wes, always sighing and saying that he had called and was regrettably still delayed.

Finals for the students came and went, sending Sloan into mental chaos. She would have plenty of time to spend with the kids, but Florence had the house in complete control, and since the children loved their summer day school, she would have hours of nothing to do but chew her nails and worry and give vent to the tears that always lurked behind her eyes when no one was looking.

She was looking at the mess that was her attempted cleanup of her desk on the last day of classes, when an idea that had been vaguely forming at the back of her head rose to the surface with vehemence. Leaving papers and folders to flutter in her wake, she raced into Jim’s office.

“Jim!” she exclaimed, interrupting his study of a thesis.

“Sloan!” he imitated her urgent tone with a chuckle. “What is it?”

Curling into the chair that faced his desk—an identical arrangement to her own office—she plunged right in before she could lose her nerve and determined impetus. “Have you thought any more about setting up your own school?”

Jim sighed and shrugged. “I’ve thought about it, but that’s about all. I’m not really in shape yet to try my own wings.”

“But I am!” Sloan whispered softly.

“What?”

“Think about it!” Sloan urged excitedly, planting her elbows on the desk as her dream took flight. “I can swing the financial end, you can handle administrative problems, and we both teach and eventually form a first-rate company. What do you think?”

“Sloan”—Jim shook his head—“you’re not even going to be here—”

“Oh, I have a feeling it will be a long, long time before we make the actual move to Kentucky,” she said dryly, wondering herself if she would ever be asked to accompany her husband to his home. “And besides,” she added hastily, expecting his further objections, “it will be a business, a partnership. If I do leave, you hire another teacher, and since I know it would be a success, the investment would still be worthwhile.”

Jim scratched his forehead thoughtfully, hesitating with his reply, but Sloan could see the light of anticipation dawning in his eyes. “Have you discussed this with Wes?” he asked.

“No,” Sloan answered slowly. Then she bit down hard onto her jaw, remembering the taunting way he had tossed the money and cards on the bed in Belgium—payment for services rendered. “I’m sure Wes isn’t going to care,” she said, biting back the taste of bitterness the words cost her. “We’ll be returning it all eventually.”

“Sloan,” Jim advised uncertainly, “you’re talking I don’t know how many thousands—”

“Don’t worry about the money,” she interrupted quickly. “I’ll handle that end of it.” She scribbled the names and addresses of Wesley’s attorney and accountant on a scratch pad and pushed it toward him. “Just be in the lawyer’s office a week from Monday.”

From that point on, Sloan gave little heed to the repercussions that might fall her way if Wes did return before she was set. He had been gone over a month without a single word, and though her heart often ached with a physical pain, she was hardening. Her ambition to set up her own school and dance company had her captured in a whirlpool she was powerless to stop or deny, and the whirlpool was swirling away with no hindrance.

Florence thought the idea wonderful; so did Wesley’s attorney and his accountant—the latter telling Sloan that if all did fall apart, Wes could take a healthy tax break. She wasn’t particularly fond of his lack of faith, but she didn’t really care as long as he was helping her.

And thankfully, Wes had informed no one that he wasn’t on the best of terms with his wife. She had feared at first that he might have put restrictions on her expenditures, but that was obviously not the case. The accountant didn’t blink an eye when she held her breath and rattled off the sums she would need.

On the first day of fall her school was opened. As she and Jim had hoped, they were besieged by past and present students of the college who wanted to engage in more serious study.

“This is going to be a success,” Jim said with awe as he looked over their records at the end of the day.

“Of course!” Sloan laughed teasingly. “We have to be the best this side of Philadelphia!”

“I hope so,” Jim said fervently, “I just wish—”

Sloan cut him off, knowing his reference would be to Wes. She had become so accustomed to inventing phone calls and conversations with her husband that she didn’t even think as the next reassuring lie slipped from her lips. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I talked to Wes last night, and he thinks the whole thing is marvelous! He still doesn’t know when he’ll be back, and this will keep me busy and off the streets.”

She was kept busy. Another two weeks saw their venture in full swing. Although the work load didn’t keep Sloan’s mind from wondering achingly about her husband, it did keep her on an even keel. The studio was beautiful—she had grown increasingly ostentatious as she discovered the flow of her seemingly unlimited funds, and they offered every amenity to their classes. A smile that wasn’t entirely happy but purely satisfied was on her lips when Jim ambled into their mutual, roomy, shag-rugged and leather-furnished office after his last tap class at five.

“Patty Smith is waiting for you down in the studio,” he advised her with a tired but pleased grin. “I’ll finish up in here while you get started with her. Then I’ll be back down, and we can lock up together.” He frowned slightly. “What’s Patty doing here now anyway?”

“Private lesson,” Sloan said with a wry smile. “She has an audition for the Solid Gold dancers on Monday, and we’re going to work on the number she’ll be doing—sprucing up at the last minute.”

“Oh,” Jim nodded sagely. “Hey,” he asked as they both walked to the connecting door, “heard from Wes? Think he’ll be impressed with the place?”

“Oh—ah, yes and yes,” Sloan mumbled as she walked past him. “I, uh, talked to him last night, and he’s still detained, but I’m sure he’ll be quite surprised by our success.” She lowered her head and winced as she hurried to the studio. Wes sure as hell was going to be surprised—if he ever returned. She was beginning to think the entire thing had been a fabulous dream that had turned to a painful nightmare at the end. But it wasn’t a dream; the gold band and diamond cluster on her finger weighed heavily to remind her of reality.

Patty was a good dancer. Her instinctive grasp of dance was a natural talent, and Sloan had hopes that her student would succeed with her audition. She lost track of thought and time as she tutored her pupil. It was a fast, rugged piece, performed to a number by a popular rock group, indicative of the work she would be doing if she got her job.

“It’s good, Patty, really good,” Sloan told the anxious girl. “Just watch your timing. Let the music be your guide.” She sighed as Patty stared at her blankly. “I’ll run it through, Patty. Listen to the music while you watch.”

Sloan set the stereo and moved into Patty’s dance, allowing the beat of the music to permeate her limbs and guide her. Her concentration was entirely on the harmonious tempo of movement; she was heedless of anything around her. As the song neared its end, she rose in a high leap, one leg kicked before her, the other arched at her back, her toe touching her head.

It was then that she saw Wes, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway, his dark suit impeccably cut, hands in his pockets, his eyes glittering with a hard jade gleam as he watched her, that crooked smile that wasn’t a smile at all set pleasantly into his features as he listened casually to whatever it was that an enthusiastic Jim was saying to him.

Sloan almost fell. She had a streaking vision of herself crumpled on the floor, her limbs twisted and broken.

But she didn’t fall. She landed supplely and finished the piece for Patty, her thoughts whirling at a speed more intense than the rock music. She should have been prepared, but she wasn’t. She was in shock.

Her eyes clenched tightly as she struggled to hold back tears of uncertainty. Had he finally come to call it quits? To tell her he had extracted whatever revenge he had required and that their best course now was a divorce?

Her heart was pounding tumultuously, and she knew it was more than the dance. She had learned painfully to live without Wes, but seeing him cut open every wound. He seemed to exude that overpowering masculinity which had first entrapped her senses as he stood there, so tall, so broad and yet achingly trim, the lines of his physique emphasized by the tailored cut of his suit. The profile, though hard, was still the one she had fallen in love with...Her eyes flicked from the full sensual lips that could claim hers with such mastery to the hands that dealt pleasure even as they mocked...

If only his eyes weren’t so cold and hard...relentless, ruthless, and condemning now, contemptuous when they lit upon her.

She was shaking as the music ended, and she struggled for control. She loved him, and she wanted their marriage to work no matter how the odds appeared to be irrevocably against them. Now was her chance to at least show that she was willing...

“Patty, keep working,” she told the girl hastily, rushing to the doorway. She forced herself to be calm even as she longed to throw herself into his arms, even as her eyes glimmered brilliantly with hope.

She stopped a foot away from Wes, halted by the chill in his eyes. She had no chance to take the initiative—he had already taken it and thankfully quelled her desire to throw herself at him before she made a fool of herself.

“Darling,” he said coolly, brushing frigid lips against her forehead and encircling a cold arm of steel lightly around her waist. “Jim was just thanking me for sanctioning this little venture.”

Sloan stiffened miserably within his grasp, knowing how he mocked her. She met his gaze with crystal defiance, miserably praying he wouldn’t defrock her series of lies before Jim and that she wouldn’t hit the end of her nerves and burst into the tears she was sure he would love. And still he had her hypnotized, trembling beneath her barrier of ice, wishing so desperately that she could forget everything and curl into his arms, satiate herself with the male power and light dizzying scent that radiated from him...

“We are a success, as you can see,” she said quickly, forcing a stiff smile. “Your investment will be made back in our first year.”

“Will it?” Wes inquired politely.

“Yes, I really believe it will!” Jim said with innocent enthusiasm. He laughed as he realized neither Sloan nor Wes really paid attention to him. “This must be some surprise for you both. Sloan said you didn’t think you’d be in for some time when you spoke to her last night!”

“Did you say that, darling?” Wes asked Sloan, his dagger gaze turning fully to her and his lips curling sardonically.

Sloan moistened her lips, hating him at that moment, ready to scream if he didn’t clear things one way or another.

“Yes, I decided to surprise her,” Wes continued in his pleasant tone with the iron edge. “And I certainly am surprised myself, darling. I never expected such professionalism when we, uh,
discussed,
your business.” He brushed a damp strand of hair from Sloan’s face. “That was quite a dance you were doing when I walked in, Sloan. ‘Cold As Ice,’ wasn’t that the tune?” he inquired politely, his sardonic smile still nicely in place. He had missed his wife’s expression of pleading when she saw him; she had carried off her reserve and dignity so well as she approached him that he had no idea that she was longing to see him, praying for his loving touch. All he saw was the woman who had admittedly married him for his money, who now appeared to be annoyed that he had come home to watch her spend it...the woman he had loved half his life...still loved...“‘Cold As Ice,’” he repeated pleasantly, not waiting for her reply and murmuring his last comment as if he teased someone. “What is it, sweetheart, your theme song?”