Her fingers, limp at first, found life. They curled over his broad shoulders, marveling at the play of muscle, and moved on to the coarse edges of dark hair at his nape, pulling her ever closer as her mind whirled in sensation. She wasn’t sure that she still touched earth...
She never did think of her conniving that night. It was a sudden splurge of fear, spurred as his fingers slipped beneath her shirt to sear her flesh with new pleasure that finally jolted her mind. What if she wasn’t all that he wanted? What if she froze and just couldn’t...? It had been so very long...
All the terrors that flitted through her mind were unnecessary. Wesley had remembered where they were and under what circumstances, even if she hadn’t. He drew away with a shake, then pulled her close to his chest again with tenderness. Her head rested against his thundering heart as he spoke.
“There’s so much I want to say to you, Sloan. But I think your other guests are going to start speculating as to what we’re up to. I can’t wait long, though. Saturday night, when your performance and the hectic pace that goes with it is over, we’re going to leave George and Cassie early and find some place to be entirely alone. No crowded dance floor or restaurant, and no car. I want you alone. Agreed?”
Sloan nodded vigorously against his chest, not trusting herself to speak. Please God, she prayed hastily, let it be a proposal. I don’t think I can handle this much longer. And if I’m his wife, I know I’ll be okay, I’ll have to be okay, because I’ll know he wants me forever...
Everyone left shortly after they returned to the patio, Wesley brushing a quick kiss against her forehead as he helped George carry out his sleeping sons.
Sloan slept soundly. She had weighed all Wesley’s words and actions and convinced herself that he was sincere. Saturday night was sure to bring the proposal she so desperately needed.
And she had completely forgotten the other insight she had momentarily seen of the man when his temper had flared.
A man who gave no second chances and slashed offenders with a swift but merciless blow.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR SOME INEXPLICABLE REASON the traffic in town went mad on Thursday morning. Running late to begin with, Sloan found driving the short distance to work a tedious chore. Gritting her teeth but resigned, she wove her way through vehicles that appeared ridiculously confused.
Reaching the parking lot of the college, Sloan quickly collected her things and raced into the Fine Arts building. She and Jim had a rehearsal scheduled before their first classes, and they needed every second of time. The performance was only two days away. Depositing her street clothing and papers in her office, she moved straight into Fine Arts 202, where Jim was already engaging in warm-up exercises.
“Good morning,” she called quickly, making her way to the bar where she began her own series of stretches starting with limbering pliés.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tallett,” Jim returned her call, his voice laced with a teasing amusement. “Or is it soon to be Mrs. Adams?”
Sloan stretched high in a relevé, watching the graceful movement of her hand from side to over her head. “Do I detect a caustic note in that query?” she asked lightly.
“Caustic? Who me? Never,” Jim replied, leaping away from the bar to approach the tape player, where he set the music for their number—a medley of classical, jazz, blues, and rock created especially for them by the music department. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music began. Sloan whirled into his arms, then spun beneath his guidance in a slow pirouette with a high kick.
“Be careful, Sloan.”
Sloan missed a beat of the music and almost fell instead of swirling back into his arms. She kept her expression implacable and swirled across the floor, not answering until she returned to his side to be lifted high in the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve got a tiger by the tail, Mrs. Tallett.”
Sloan stopped the dance and walked purposefully to the tape player to halt the flow of the music, crossing her arms and facing Jim. “Okay, Mr. Baskins, let’s have it. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, Sloan, don’t go getting indignant,” Jim said with a sigh. “I’m your friend. I’m just warning you to be careful.”
“With Wesley?” It was really more of a statement than a question.
“Yes, with Wesley Adams. I watched you last night, Sloan, and I know you. I saw all those seductive smiles and that lazy sensuous charm. You’re snaring your beast all right; I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
She could have cut Jim off by simply telling him it was none of his business, but Sloan didn’t want to. He was a friend, but more than that, she had to see what he was reading from her behavior, because if she couldn’t convince Jim, she feared she would never get by the astute, probing eye of Wes...
“I thought you liked him,” she said innocently.
“I do,” Jim told her. “He’s the type of man you respect immediately, and he’s natural—honest. But don’t fool yourself,” Jim advised. “He’s nothing like your Terry.”
“You didn’t know Terry,” Sloan observed dryly.
“But I know of him—just like I know of Wes Adams,” Jim said with a sigh. “I just want you to be aware that you’re not dealing with the same type of man.”
Sloan frowned. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Jim. Are you trying to say Wes isn’t the nice person he appears to be?”
“I’m not saying that at all. From what I’ve read, he’s even a bit of a philanthropist. But”—the warning was clear—“he’s not the type man you cross, or play with loosely.”
Sloan smiled slowly but surely. Jim wasn’t doubting her emotion—he was just wondering how far she planned to carry it. Scampering back across the floor to him, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You can stop worrying—Dad,” she teased. “I’m not playing loosely with him at all. And I haven’t a thought in the world about crossing him.”
Jim flushed. “Okay—lecture over. And please! Put the music back on! We have about fifteen minutes left.”
But it was Jim who kept talking as they rehearsed. It seemed he was as well-read on Wesley Adams as Cassie. Wes, according to Jim, was a veritable tiger when it came to business. He was considered one of the most ethical men in the field of Thoroughbreds, but demanding in return. He dealt fairly, and expected the same in return. Woe to the man who attempted anything less.
Sloan paid little attention to his dissertation. She was wondering if she had judged Wes to be similar to Terry. Not really, she decided. Terry and she had been little more than children at first, growing together, but still squabbling like children together. Both men were courteous, but Terry had been completely carefree, without a serious bone in his body, without that piercing vitality that was part of Wes.
She was startled to realize that in her comparisons, Wesley was coming out by far the stronger man. Silly, she told herself. Terry had died at twenty-eight...he had never had a chance to really be a man...not in that assured, virile sense that Wes was.
It was strange, she noted vaguely late that night as she sat with Wes on her sofa sipping coffee, that Jim had asked her if she was comparing Wes to Terry. Because Wes brought up the same subject, suddenly, abruptly.
He set his mug on the coffee table and took both her hands in his. “You know, Sloan, that I’m not Terry.”
At first confused and disoriented, Sloan made a quick comeback. “Of course you’re not.”
He shook his head with a tender smile. “I’m mean, I don’t think—in fact, I’m sure that I’m nothing like Terry. I want you to understand that.”
Still confused, Sloan smiled, quivering inwardly at both the electricity that shot through her with the sear of his gaze and the implications of the deep sincerity of his words.
“I know you’re not Terry, or not like him,” she said softly. The right answer w
as important now she knew; every man—or woman, for that matter—wanted to be loved for what he or she was. “Terry was part of another lifetime. I loved him, but I’d never look to replace him.” A slight beading of perspiration broke out across her forehead, and her hands went clammy. She needed to say more...“I love you, Wes.” There. It hadn’t been hard, it had been incredibly easy.
And it was out...it was said. He intended to have her, he had told her, so she waited with anxious anticipation for his response. Surely he would take her into a passionate embrace...or make a new declaration in return.
Wes responded neither way, yet the intensity of his voice and the tender reverence with which he lightly lifted her chin to meet his eyes left her trembling, her mouth dry, her senses paralyzed.
“I can’t tell you what hearing that means, Sloan. I think I’ve waited half my life to hear those words from you, and I would have waited another eternity.”
Sloan tried to smile but found that she couldn’t. His eyes burned into hers, deeply green, deeply charged with electric emotion. She was unable to look away, unable to release herself even as she wondered once again if he was seeing through her, reading all the thoughts and sins that existed within her soul. No, he couldn’t be, because if he could read her soul, he would not be sitting there, he would be racing out the door.
He did stand, breaking the moment’s spell. “I’d better run,” he said, his hand settling gently on the top of her head and lightly massaging her hair against her temple. “Tomorrow is a workday for you, and I have an eight A.M. meeting a few miles out of town.” He reached to grasp her hands and pull her to her feet. “Come on, walk me to the door.”
Rising and slipping into the easy shelter of his arm, Sloan allowed her worry to cease. Her mind turned to the comfort and pleasure she found with his touch and easy camaraderie.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked at her with a rueful grin. “I guess this is it until Saturday night,” he murmured softly.
“Oh?” Sloan queried, somewhat surprised that he wouldn’t be with her the next night—and startlingly disappointed. Had she come to depend on him so much that a night away seemed like endless time?
“I have another meeting tomorrow night,” he explained. “One that might not end till midnight.”
“You’re welcome to stop by.” Sloan murmured, hearing herself say the words without thought.
“No.” He smiled broadly, his eyes very gentle, as if the thought on her part had meant very much. “Your dance is on Saturday—I’m sure it’s quite a rush with the children and then the students. I don’t want to be the one to keep you from a peak performance, and”—he brushed a kiss against her temple—“I also have selfish reasons for wanting you well rested. I want to keep you out till all hours on Saturday night!”
“Oh,” Sloan repeated, aware that her pulse was racing madly and she was anticipating his mind-numbing good-night kiss.
But again, he did the unexpected. Instead of pulling her into the tight embrace of his arms, he brushed her forehead again with the briefest of feather-light caresses. And yet, the passion was there, barely hooded by sensuously lazy lids over the ocean-deep eyes as he pulled away. “Till Saturday night,” he said huskily.
Sloan watched as his tall form disappeared down the path and into his car. She was dismayed to realize that she was hopelessly frustrated. Her anticipation had taunted her senses unbearably. It was with a raw, physical pain that she watched him leave, a fervent prayer on her lips; let it be soon...please, let it be soon.
But could she force a wedding soon enough while still pretending to be the one to fall heedlessly under the spell of a relentless pursuer?
Sloan would have never admitted it to herself, but no matter what appearances were, no matter what Wes said or did, no matter how much confidence she felt in herself as a human being and a woman, she was running a little scared. At first Wes had been little more than an appropriate pawn, but the more she saw of him, the more she became aware that she had stepped a little out of her league without really realizing it.
She would have to be very careful never to take him for granted, make any type of assumption. Ironically, where she often felt old at twenty-nine, he, just five years older, was young—no, not young, but at a “prime” age for a male. Twenty-nine wasn’t old, she reminded herself—it was being a “widow” that so often made her feel so—that and the responsibility of the children.
Nevertheless, Wes had everything to offer someone, while she had nothing.
She slept in a torment that night, altering between the conviction that he really did love her, and the fear that he would wake up and discover that she was nothing but a liability. And then again she would be plagued by guilt—because all she had to offer was love—and even that she wasn’t sure she could ever give, even though she enjoyed him, respected him, admired him.
The morning went all wrong, and she was glad Wes wasn’t making an appearance at her house. Trying to keep up “perfect” appearances all week, she had let many things slide. She had “cleaned” every night by stuffing things under the beds or into closets—and now, as she tried to dress the children, she discovered that she seemed to be missing the mate to every shoe she found.
And she didn’t seem to have a clean sock in the house for Jamie.
But eventually everyone was ready. Sloan dropped the kids off at Cassie’s—they would attend the performance with their aunt, uncle, and cousins—and hurried to the school, past the Fine Arts building today, and on to the main auditorium.
Where once again she met pandemonium. The dance was a major function for the school, and the students finally chosen to be a part of the performance were, naturally, nervous and jittery. They all needed a pat on the back as Sloan went over the program.
She had heard that time could stand still, but it dismayed her to discover today that it could flash by. She barely found the minutes to slip into her own costume, a mist of striking red and blue silks, before Jim was rushing past her to announce the students. The music department was out in full to lend support with accompaniment, and Jim waited with patience while the crowd quieted after the houselights dimmed.
She and Jim were the finale. As always for Sloan, she was immediately lost in the music. She loved to dance; she lived, came alive when she danced.
But today it was something more.
She knew that Wes watched.
Every movement was for him. Each kick was a little higher, each whirl and dip and spin a touch more sensual. For the first time in her life, her dance was a calculated one, planned to seduce one man into believing she was something special, that he couldn’t live without her.
The lie came home to her as the music ended and the auditorium rang with applause. Sloan, her head bowed over her knee in a split, lost the magic that had been hers as she danced. She was just a widow with three children, scrambling for a dubious existence—not in the least special.
But Wes was for real. A football hero matured into a very special man, a man with dignity, pride, compassion, strength and humor and love...And she couldn’t let him fall out of love with her. He had to keep believing and loving. She would make it up to him.
“Sloan.” Jim nudged her with a laugh. “You can get up now—I’d hate to see you stiffen in that position. Makes walking rough.”
She gave her boss a dry grimace and accepted his hand to rise. Smiling along with him, she curtsied to the audience, and together they seemed to float off the floor. “So how did we do?” she inquired briskly, lest he inquire into her mind wandering.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Adams?” Jim suggested with an inclination of his head.
“Wes!” Sloan fought hard to keep her voice from shrieking as she saw him over Jim’s shoulder. “I—I thought I wasn’t going to see you until tonight!”
He was impeccable as he approached her in the busy backstage wing, his tan suit a striking complement to his dark hair and deep eyes. The bronze tone of his arresting profile wa
s never more apparent, nor the muscle tone that lurked beneath its covering. Sloan was suddenly aware that her coiled hair was damp from exertion—as was her costume. But she didn’t have much time to reflect on her own appearance; he was already at her side, already talking.
“You weren’t going to see me,” he murmured huskily, as if temporarily unaware that Jim—or anyone else for that matter—still hovered near. “But I couldn’t leave without telling you that you were magnificent. Superb. Beautiful—”
“Thanks,” Jim chimed in, drawing abrupt looks from them both. Sloan frowned with annoyance, but Wes laughed. “Sorry, Jim, you weren’t beautiful, but it was a hell of a performance.”
The two men shook hands, and Sloan was split between being glad of their friendship while also annoyed that Wes accepted the interruption so easily. He should be a little jealous of Jim, Sloan thought fleetingly. I was dancing with him. If Wes really loved me...
He did love her. Really love her. And he trusted her. He knew she needed room for her own self-expression to be all she could be, and he had the confidence to allow it.
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