Quiet Walks the Tiger (9 page)

“You seem to have pulled yourself together,” he said simply. He lit a cigarette and sat back exhaling smoke, his eyes never leaving her. “Sometimes, when people lose a loved one, they blind themselves. They forget that the person was human and turn them into a god. You remember all the good, which is wonderful, but you seem to also realize he was a man.”

Do I? Sloan wondered. She wasn’t sure. There was still that terrible ache in her sometimes, but oddly, since she had started seeing Wesley, it was fading. It wasn’t love, not as she had known it, but she respected him, admired him, and felt a wild excitement in his arms when he touched her...when she heard his voice...when she watched his powerful, lithe movements...

Wes abruptly changed the subject. “Would you like to dance? Or is that a poor question after you’ve taught all day?”

“No.” Sloan smiled. “I’d love to dance. The effect is an entirely different one on a dance floor.”

It was entirely different. She loved being in this man’s arms, inhaling his pleasant scent, feeling the rough material of his jacket and the hard muscles beneath her fingers. Curiously, he was a wonderful dancer, light and agile on his feet, especially for a man of his size.

Tilting her chin to his face, Sloan smiled with a lazy happiness. “You do quite well on a dance floor, Mr. Adams.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a shade of amusement, his hand tightening upon the small of her back and pulling her closer. “I like to think it’s because of the ballet classes I’ve taken.”

“Ballet? You?” Sloan queried with disbelief.

“Yep.” They made a dip, and Sloan found her form fitting to his with uncanny perfection. “My coach made the whole team take dance classes to improve our coordination.” He shrugged ruefully. “I’m six four and two hundred and twenty pounds—small compared to half the team. Seriously, imagine a guy we called Bull Bradford. Six foot eight, three hundred pounds. If a guy like that fell on one of his own teammates, he could put a player out for the entire season.”

Sloan laughed and her eyes met his again. It was so good to be with him, laugh with him, have him take the burdens of her life off her shoulders. Good to be held by him, even if she held herself in careful restraint. The heat of him aroused so much in her, and she wondered fleetingly if it was wrong to want a man so badly whom she didn’t love. It didn’t matter, because she couldn’t have him, not until...until he married her. She just couldn’t take risks. She had always been confident in her sexuality before, but she had loved Terry, and he had loved her. What if...what if she just didn’t have the experience or expertise to hold a man like Wesley? She shivered suddenly. She would be confident of Wesley’s love when she had his ring around her finger...when her ragged existence had been eased.

And somehow, somehow, she thought guiltily, she would repay him...

He took her to dinner again the next night, telling her in his light, easy fashion that he was staging a whirlwind courtship. He had not taken her into his arms again with the same passion he had hungrily displayed in the park; he was restraining himself. He kissed her good-night with gentle, sensual persuasion, leaving her senses reeling, her body aching for the demand she had known so briefly.

Apparently, she thought ruefully as she tossed in bed after that night, her body was unaware that a winner-take-all game was being played. Thank heaven Wesley was treading lightly. She feared an edge of pressure could bring capitulation from traitorous flesh.

Summer was a big time for tourists in Gettysburg, and on Wednesday morning Sloan noticed the traffic becoming heavy, the streets thronging with visitors. Fairly certain that Wesley would appear after her last class and ask her out for the evening, she decided to take things into her own hands. With that resolution for initiative, she planned a barbecue at her home. Wesley sounded pleasantly agreeable when she called him at the business number he had given her—they could avoid any crowds.

Jim popped his head into her half-open office doorway just as she was finishing her call. “A barbecue, eh? Am I invited?” he teased.

“Do you know,” Sloan mused, wondering if it would now be a good idea to chance being alone with Wes once the little Talletts were tucked into bed, “you just gave me an idea. Yes, you are invited. Most definitely.”

“Sloan,” Jim demurred, sliding into her extra chair and unabashedly casting his legs—covered by woolen leg warmers—over the corner of her desk, “I was teasing. The student grapevine tells me—since you haven’t bothered to”—he interrupted himself with the woeful aggrievance—“that Mrs. Tallett is running hot and heavy with Wesley Adams. Granted, I told you I was living to see this day; but seriously, shouldn’t you be alone?”

“No,” Sloan said firmly. “And I’m not running ‘hot and heavy’ with anyone.” Her lips quirked into a dry smile. “I’m assuming that was a student expression?”

Jim shrugged. “Sometimes the students have apt expressions. I know you were out with him Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I think that qualifies for hot and heavy. Especially with you.”

“Damn,” Sloan murmured, “that’s some grapevine. How did you know about Sunday?”

“Jeannie Holiday—my Monday Beginning Jazz class,” Jim told her with a smile. “She saw you at the park.”

Sloan flushed a little and made a show of straightening her desk, wondering exactly how much Jeannie Holiday had seen. “And Fine Arts majors are notoriously creative,” she said lightly. “Are you going to come?”

Jim hunched his shoulders. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a broad grin. “Sloan Tallett finally gets her rich man.”

“What?” Sloan’s eyes flew to his guiltily.

“The man’s as rich as Onassis,” Jim said. “Surely you knew that.”

“I knew he was...comfortable,” Sloan said, finding it hard to hide her conscience before Jim. She returned her attention to her desk until she could compose her features into a mask of cheerfulness. “I’m going to have Cassie and George over too...and my nephews, of course. Since you’re coming, Jim”—she gave him a conniving smile—“do you think you could just assign my last class to their rehearsals? I’d like to hop out a little early and plan.”

“Sure,” Jim said agreeably. “Leave when you’re ready. I’m so anxious to see this, I’ll even bring the wine.”

Sloan graced him with a tongue-in-cheek smile. “Bring beer—Wesley’s bringing wine.”

“Will do, kiddo.” Jim stood and shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think even a millionaire could get you away from those memories of yours this fast.”

Sloan watched him leave her office with surprise. It was true, and Jim had seen it. She hadn’t lost her memories in the last few days, but she had shelved them away in a poignant past where they belonged.

Her last-minute midweek barbecue turned out to be a wonderful success. She had overextended herself a little on the preparations, but then she decided, as the saying goes, it takes money to make money.

And she wanted Wes to think her capable of hostessing a nice, if informal, affair.

The July sun stayed out a long time, enabling the party to eat on the lawn. Sloan was thankful for her sister’s appearance; with Cassie and George coming early with their two boys, she had left the supervision of all the children to them and managed to do a nice job of sprucing up the house and herself. By the time Wes had arrived, she had been cool and collected, her mad dash to collect children, clean house, and primp a thing of the past. She met him at the door with a brilliant smile, casually dressed in jeans and a body-hugging T-shirt that lent her an aura of feminine nonchalance.

When the food had been consumed and the grown-ups—including an eagle-eyed Jim—were leisurely relaxing in various stages of comfort on the back patio, George, an avid armchair quarterback all his life, talked Wesley into a football game.

“I need a handicap, though,” George admitted cheerfully, “I get Jim, and I guess I have to take Cassie”—he paused with a grimace as Cassie frowned and whacked his shoulder—“and you get Sloan.”

Wes chuckled and angled his head toward Sloan. “What do you say?”

Sloan shrugged with a slow smile. “Sure. If you can play ballerina, I guess I can be a halfback!”

“Go easy, halfback,” Jim warned, and Sloan was startled into seeing her friend’s appraising eyes on her. “Don’t forget we have a performance on Saturday. I’m not dancing with a partner on crutches.”

Sloan smiled at him, but her smile was uneasy. She felt he was warning her about more than a game.

“Touch game, only,” Wes said, a semismile, warmly insinuative, on his lips as he cast a protective arm around Sloan’s shoulders.

“And watch who you’re touching where!” Cassie interjected, giving her husband an elbow in the ribs. She looked at the group with feigned grievance. “I think the man would love to get his hands on my sister!”

“Cassie!” George and Sloan gasped the protest together.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Cassie moaned. She laughed, half in earnest, half in jest. “I don’t think he’d dare turn the wrong way at the moment, anyway! Wesley could fell him with one twitch of the finger.”

“Hey!” George grumbled as they ambled away to form their team. “I’m not in that bad a shape—am I?”

Neither Wesley nor Sloan got to hear his wife’s reply. They were laughing and forming their own huddle.

Wesley spelled out their plans for action to a giggling Sloan, who didn’t understand a single play. “Woman,” Wes groaned, “I’m glad you were never on the team. However”—his arms tightened excitingly around her and his whisper, warm and moist against her ear, inflamed her body from head to toe—“I never enjoyed a huddle like I’m enjoying this one.”

The mini football game was fun. She and Wes had the advantage of his speed and prowess, and George had the advantage of a third person. Even with her frequent fumbles, though, she and Wes won the game. Or rather, Wes won the game. She was almost useless, but all of Wes’s grumbling was good-natured. Eventually, as the summer sun faded entirely, they all wound up back where they had started—lazily sprawled around the patio, hot and pleasantly tired and thirstily finishing up the beer.

The talk was casual. Sloan, drowsy from an entire day of physical activity and rushing, didn’t say much, but listened to the chatter with a feeling of well-being. She was vaguely pleased that Jim and Wes had hit it off so well. Even if she were to leave her teaching job at the college—which she intended to do if her scheming worked—he was a dear friend, one she would like to keep. Perhaps—and she allowed her mind to wander off to dreams—the two of them could form their own school one day without the miles of red tape...

“Sloan?”

“Ummm!” She was nudged from dreamland by Wesley prodding the shoulder that rested against his knee.

“I’m sorry.” He chuckled with affection. “I hate to disturb you with that sweet smile on your face, but I need to use the phone.”

“Oh!” She jumped up quickly and excused them both from the group to lead Wes through the living room, where Cassie’s boys were curled asleep on the couches, to her room and the extension. “I’ll leave you to your privacy,” she said, starting to close the door.

“No, stay,” he said huskily, his intense green gaze demanding and sensual. “This will only take a minute, and I want to talk to you.”

Sloan’s heart began to flutter with anticipation and the combination of wild excitement and fear that always seemed to assail her when she was alone with him. She forced herself to smile and shrug casually before sitting idly at the foot of the bed to await his call.

It was half social call and half business, she realized quickly. It was his brother he talked to, and he started off in a warm humor. He rattled off a few names which she assumed belonged to horses, and discussed prices and breeding stock.

Then he was silent for quite a while, listening. Sloan literally saw all warmth leave his eyes—they became hardened crystals of smooth green glass. The muscles in his face tensed and tightened; a vein began to pound furiously in the whipcord strength of his neck. His jawline was hard and squared, the total quality of his handsome features suddenly transformed into something more chilling than she had ever seen before.

A face more fierce and ruthless than she had ever imagined. Wesley Adams furious.

Despite his metamorphosis, he remained silent, his hand tightening around the receiver until his knuckles went white.

But not as white as Sloan was feeling. It wasn’t directed at her, but his anger was the type that froze a person’s blood. Just watching the apparent control he wielded, allowing only muscles to tighten, started a shivering inside of her that would not cease.

He spoke low—a deathly growl. “Fire him. And make sure he’s off the place before I get back.”

Apparently the person on the other end of the wire knew there was no mercy when that restrained, bloodcurdling hiss was used. Wesley listened again, but Dave Adams had little else to say.

The tension in Wes ebbed somewhat as he said good-bye, his anger not directed at his brother, but at the party being fired. Sloan would hate to be that person, but if she was the employee in question, she would definitely be long gone before Wes got back.

The receiver clicked precisely back into its holder, and Sloan found herself wishing he had not asked her to stay in the room. She didn’t think she wanted to hear anything he had to say at that moment, not with that look of ruthless authority still on his face.

Wes turned to her suddenly, as if just realizing she was still with him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We had a problem with a trainer.”

For some ridiculous reason—perhaps her own shivering apprehension—Sloan felt pity for the unknown man and came to his defense, stuttering, “Wh—what happened? Perhaps you should give the man a second chance—”

Wesley interrupted her, his lips drawn in a tight white smile. “I don’t give second chances. I gave him a chance when I hired him. He came in drunk, decided to take one of our most promising three-year-olds out, and caused the mare to break her leg. She had to be destroyed.”

“Oh,” Sloan murmured weakly. Besides the anger, she could sense the pain in his voice.

But Wes could make incredible changes. His smile and eyes became lighter as he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, then tilted her chin toward his. “There’s nothing more to be done about it,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, I seem to have put a damper on your evening.”