Quiet Walks the Tiger (22 page)

“I knew exactly what they were,” Wes said irritably. “And you have a hell of a nerve taking the damn things without first discussing it with me.”

“What?”
Sloan’s exclamation of amazement was a shrill cry.

“You heard me,” Wesley snapped. Sloan could do nothing but stare at him, working her jaw, but still unable to offer a suitably scathing comeback. He returned her stare with challenging eyes, then turned to the automatic percolator. “Have you made coffee?”

“I’ve made coffee,” Sloan retorted blandly, energizing herself into action to tug on the sleeve of his robe. “Would you mind explaining your childish actions? What difference does it make to you whether or not I take pills? I would think you’d appreciate—”

“Well, I don’t,” he cut through her speech. “I told you last night I’d thought of something I could get out of our bargain.” He poured coffee into a cup and began to sip it black, his eyes implacably on her.

Again, Sloan was stunned speechless. She blinked, swallowed, and sputtered before managing, “You want me to...to...”

“Conceive,” Wesley supplied, calmly drinking his coffee. “Yes. That is the usual way to have a child.”

“You want a child,” Sloan echoed numbly.

“My, what astounding comprehension!” Wesley drawled mockingly. “Yes, I want a child. That, my love, is something I can get out of this, something I’ve always wanted. I told you last night that I had decided there was a benefit I might derive.”

“I know you told me,” Sloan mumbled, automatically reaching for the coffeepot to occupy her trembling hands, “but I thought...I thought...that you meant...”

“Let me help you with that,” Wes said, amused by her confusion. He took the coffeepot from her hands and poured the steaming brew into a cup. He placed the cup firmly into her grip, then leaned nonchalantly back on the counter. “You thought that I had decided on your lovely person as sufficient payment for a...loveless...marriage.” Sloan felt her skin begin to heat beneath his cool appraisal and choked as she sipped a burning gulp. Wes patted her on the back, laughing at her obvious discomfiture. “Darling wife,” he remarked with a small shake of his head, “you are so easy to read. That is exactly what you thought. Sorry—you were wrong.” His cool green gaze raked her mirthfully from head to toe. “Not that I don’t find your charms intricately pleasing, but in all honest reality, they are available elsewhere.”

Sloan’s hand rose automatically to slap his devilishly leering face and hopefully wipe the amused grin clean from it. But this time Wesley anticipated her action, catching her arm and salvaging her cup simultaneously. “Don’t!” he warned imperiously, twisting her wrist until a small cry escaped her. His grip eased, but he continued to hold her wrist and his jaw was rigidly set. “Lady, you will learn to control those violent little impulses of yours. Lash out at me again and you’ll be very sorry.”

Sloan clamped her teeth together and glared into his eyes defiantly, tilting her head with regal pride. He wouldn’t dare! Still...she might be wiser to learn to cut him with words as he did her. Her arm went limp within his grasp. “Perhaps, if you could learn to curb your tongue, Mr. Adams,” she challenged coldly, “I could learn to control my violent impulses.

“And if you expect a child,” she snapped, “you’d better start being a little nicer to its prospective mother.”

Wesley’s eyes flashed, and he dug his fingers into her shoulders to pull her against his heat-radiating length. “Is that a bribe or a threat?” he asked, but oddly, his voice held no menace. Something that belied his mockery was behind the question...tenderness?

Sloan’s head fell as she shivered, and she buried it into his shoulder. “Neither,” was her muffled reply. He had taken her by surprise at first, even appalled her with the suggestion of a child. But she suddenly wanted his baby very much. She loved children, and Wesley had already proved himself an excellent father with the sons and daughter of another man. He had every right in the world to a child of his own.

There was only one problem. The thought of two
A.M.
feedings again didn’t bother her, nor did the idea of diapers or the demanding attention needed by an infant. The problem was Wesley. She loved him, ached for him with her entire being. Yet, how could she bear his child when she knew his love for her had died along with his trust and respect?

Trust had to be earned, he had told her, and it might be a long road to winning back his trust. But as he began to stroke her hair gently as her head lay against his chest, she knew she was willing to traverse that long road.

“Would you like a fourth child, Sloan?” Wes asked her softly.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Be sure,” he said carefully. “I wouldn’t force you to have a child against your will. I’d rather you be honest with me than run behind my back and pick up another package of those pills.”

“I am being honest,” Sloan said, talking to his chest. “But would you...”

“Would I what?”

“Would you mind telling me where you’ve been for the past month?” Sloan intended her question to be bold and challenging, but fear of the possible answer added a note of pique.

Wesley laughed easily, annoying her to the core. “You mean who have I been with, don’t you?”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Sloan snapped, pulling abruptly away from him to stomp across the kitchen. He had the exasperating habit of making her want to claw his eyes out, and she was desperately trying to avoid such useless behavior.

“I was in Paris for two weeks,” Wes said, straightening and ambling slowly after her. “And since then I’ve been in Kentucky. In fact,” he mused, planting hands on her shoulders while a rakish grin settled subtly into the corners of his mouth, “that’s where I came up with my idea.” He held her at arm’s length and studied her with teasing appraisal. “One of my prize mares just produced her third colt, a magnificent animal, like the ones before him. The mare is a born breeder. Just like you, my sweet. I’m sure to get a healthy, beautiful child.”

Sloan felt as if she were strangling. Blood suffused ringingly into her head with fury. “A brood mare!” she hissed, shaking his hands from her shoulders. “A brood mare!” her voice rose shrilly. “That’s what you think of me!” Her wrath was causing her teeth to shatter. “That’s just marvelous, Wes. Just marvelous! Suppose we have this child? What happens then?”

“Then we see,” he said softly.

He wasn’t fast enough to catch her hand when it flew across his face that time, and she had whirled away from him while the stinging sensation still seeped into his stunned cheek. “Go back to Paris, Wes!” she called over her shoulder as she stalked down the hall. Aware that he had made a mess of the whole thing and willing to apologize, to try to explain...“Sloan!” he called again, more sharply.

She made no reply, and he heard the lock click in the bedroom.

“Dammit!” he roared, his apology dying in his throat as she ignored him. He followed her down the hall. “Sloan, I’m talking to you! Open the damned door!”

He didn’t ask a second time; the door gave with a single lunge of his shoulder, and Sloan, seated on the bed in a dejected huddle, straightened with wide eyes as she met the thunder of his face, features as harsh and stormy as if he were about to meet the defensive line of the Green Bay Packers.

“Get away from me!” she hissed, startled and frightened. She hadn’t ignored him on purpose; she had been so preoccupied with her inner dilemma that she had really closed out everything. She jumped as he approached her, attempting to elude him but failing.

“Sloan,” Wes tried to begin, clasping her upper arms.

She had no conception that he was still trying to apologize; she was sure from his face that his intent was dangerous, and she flailed against him heedlessly. “Sloan—” he tried once more, but at that moment her flying fingers raked against his chest, the nails clawing, creating rising welts.

They both stood stock-still, Sloan with horror, Wes closing his eyes and clamping down hard on his jaw, shaking as he tried to breathe easily and leash the steam rising within him.

“Oh, Lord, Wes, I’m sorry!” Sloan cried.

“Damn, you have a vile temper!” he muttered, opening his eyes. She was gazing up at him with eyes of liquid sapphire, naked and beautiful with remorse. The hands that held her drew her into him, and he smelled the sweet scent of her wild hair. He brushed her forehead with a kiss, lifted her chin with a finger, and kissed her lips with a hungry intensity.

“What are you doing,” she asked breathlessly as they broke, and he lifted her into his arms, cradling her to warm, sinewed muscles.

“Well,” he murmured, “my first impulse was to wring your lovely little neck. I could do that. Or I could make love to you...”

“You’re crazy...”

“Yes.”

It was a tempest, a reckless soaring into foaming rapids, riding crest after crest, twirling, whirling, crashing, rebounding.

Yet temper brought no ruthlessness. Wes harbored her, cherished her, swept her into the glory of his wild winds.

She should have denied him.

He had made his opinion of her so very clear.

But she held on to her love, clinging to the belief that no man could be so gentle and tender against such odds if there wasn’t truth to his love.

It was a matter of truth...

And learning...

And if loving was part of that trust, then she was right to love. But did any reasoning matter? He touched her, and it didn’t matter. But it should matter...She should have the strength to insist that they have more than the consuming physical need...

She didn’t have the strength...only the need. Only the desire to believe the cherishing, bend to the storm...be there as he was with her when they soared over the fall, gently guiding her to the still waters beneath...

Where she turned from him and curled into a little ball of solitude, bewildered and confused.

She couldn’t understand her own behavior, much less begin to comprehend his. They could reach the borderline of friendship, and then all was lost with a reckless word or deed. Then they were mortal combatants, then the most tender and passionate of lovers.

But when it was over, they were on the defensive again. And it would be hard to go back and see just what had triggered what...

“Sloan.”

A quality in his tone compelled her to look his way, but she stubbornly denied herself. With obstinate willpower she kept her head in her pillow.

“What?”

“Look at me,” he persisted with firm patience.

She turned slowly, wincing as she realized that countless muscles were sore. If his mood were similar to the one that had precipitated the broken door, she reasoned with herself, it would be plain old stupid to disobey his soft-spoken order.

His head rested in his hands, and his eyes were on the ceiling, seeming strangely to reflect her own emotions. As she watched him, his gaze riveted sideways to her.

“I never mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t hurt me.” She frowned, adding bitterly, “You know you didn’t.” She winced at the sight of the scratches she had inflicted. “I hurt you.”

He grunted impatiently and leaned over on his elbow to face her. “That’s not what I mean. I acted without thinking—or discussing, rather. I said things in haste, and although I was teasing you about the mare bit, I’ll admit I was crude.” He smiled ruefully. “I was scared.”

“What?” Sloan whispered incredulously.

“You might have turned me down,” he said flatly.

“Oh!” Sloan murmured, shocked that it meant so much to him.

“I goad you a lot, Sloan, and I’m usually quickly sorry,” Wes continued, “but still too late. We all say things in anger, and the problem is that they can’t be taken back. If I could undo half the pain I caused you in Belgium, I gladly would. But I was hurt, Sloan, and that hurt was like a knife wound in the back that made me angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. You can’t imagine how I felt to reach your house and find you telling your sister how you had planned to marry me for my money. It was crippling, I had never felt so used and betrayed...I planned to surprise you with a kiss and instead I got the surprise. I slammed the door because I couldn’t stand to hear any more of it...Damn, Sloan,” he muttered fiercely, running a knuckle down the length of her arm, “I really wanted to throttle you that night. I had to leave...and then, I still had to have you, but I had to let you know too that I was well aware of your motives.”

“Oh, God, Wes,” Sloan moaned, longing to reach out and touch his cheek with its slightly rough edge of overnight shadow, but rubbing her own temple instead. “I’d give anything to take back that night—you only heard half a conversation. It was true, but it wasn’t true...and I can’t take any of it back or undo it...” she trailed miserably.

He was silent for a minute, then shifted so that he was sitting to draw her head against his side and take on the task of rubbing her forehead himself. When he spoke again, it was with the thread of silk she loved.

“I don’t want to spend my days in constant battle. We have major problems, but I don’t want a divorce. I don’t believe that you do either—especially not while you’re still financing that new dance school of yours.”

“Wes...” Sloan implored.

“Sorry, I was doing it again.” Wes grinned ruefully. “But we are going to set down a few ground rules. Legitimate deals. I promise no more wisecracks, and you promise to control your temper—no more slaps. I won’t go anywhere without your knowing exactly where I am—and we both make a pact to say what we really mean instead of striking out below the belt when we’re bothered. And please, no more businesses that I know nothing about! How about it?” His soothing fingers moved from her temples to tug gently at the ends of her hair.

Sloan nodded slowly. “Wesley,” she said, biting down on her lip. “You
didn’t
hear the whole conversation. I told Cassie that night that I did love you...had loved you...” Taking a deep breath, Sloan tried to explain the whole thing. “Cassie came over that night because she didn’t want me marrying you because she was afraid it would be a disaster. She knew I wasn’t crazy about seeing you in the first place, and then things moved so fast...She is my sister, but she thinks the world of you...” Sloan lamely sought the right words. “I was trying to tell her the truth—that yes, at first the money had been the draw, but only at the
very
first. I had no idea that you had heard any of the conversation, but when you left, I really didn’t need to explain any further to her! She knew that I loved you, really loved you...” Again, her voice trailed away feebly. “I won’t suggest that you just ask Cassie,” she started again with quiet dignity. “I realize that she is still
my
sister—and that you could well imagine I’ve had plenty of time to warn her that you heard what we were saying...I can understand that...but, God, Wes, it is the truth! I did love you, and I did tell her that night...I wish you would believe that!”