Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  “No,” she agreed scathingly. “You are not Terry. Terry was a nice man.” She spun on him before he could retaliate and sought refuge in her bedroom, staring long at the lock on the door. She pushed it in, but then released it as his voice tauntingly followed her.

  “Don’t bother, Sloan. If you’re in my—our—room, a lock isn’t going to stop me from entering.”

  He didn’t come to bed for a long, long time. Sloan lay in silent misery, her nerves and, yes, anticipation fighting sleep. Each time she heard a movement in the house, she jumped while her mind raced double-time. Damn! She did want him so badly, being near him and not touching him was like slow and torturous starvation...

  But all she really had now was a piece of paper and her pride. She couldn’t allow herself to show how vulnerable she was...

  He entered the room in the dark, and she barely breathed, feigning deep sleep, hearing the sounds as he undressed as if each piece of clothing had fallen with the burst of an explosion. He crawled in beside her, and her entire body went stiff, her heart seemed to thunder, and her flesh was painfully aware of his heat as she waited...

  And waited.

  He didn’t touch her. He plumped his pillow, adjusted his position, stretched his body out comfortably. But didn’t touch her.

  Sloan lay in shocked confusion. And, she realized sinkingly, disappointment. Whatever she had been telling herself was a lie. She had been glad that he had insisted upon sleeping together; she had been wonderfully relieved that he was going to force her into his arms so that she would have an excuse to salve her pride.

  But now she just ached, her disappointment becoming a physical agony.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, her eyes open, staring blankly into the dark, when he shifted again, and his arm grazed her shoulder.

  “What is the matter with you?” Wes demanded impatiently, obviously aware she had never been sleeping. “You’re as cold and stiff as marble and shivering like a rabbit.”

  “I—I—” Sloan stammered.

  She heard his soft chuckle; it was a gentle sound of amusement, and it caressed her warmth. “I see,” he said, and although his voice was amused, it was tender. “You thought I was going to force you into keeping conjugal rights. No, my love, I’ll not force you. I won’t sleep in another room, but I won’t force you.”

  “You...you don’t want to make love?” Sloan said in a strangled voice.

  She felt his hand on her cheek, the knuckles grazing her flesh, his whisper soft and gentle. “I didn’t say that. But I want you to want to.” He was silent for several seconds, his hand moving to smooth back her hair, to trail down her throat. Surely, Sloan thought, he must feel the terrible pounding of her heart in the erratic racing of her pulse.

  “Do you want to make love, Sloan?”

  His voice, threading through the night like deep velvet, was husky and wistful. It was the perfect touch to break her final grasp on control. Sloan lay still just seconds, her eyes closing, her fingers clawing into fists at her side. Then she turned into him, her face burrowing into the dark hair on his chest, the tenseness of her body evaporating as she melded to him, her hands freed from their convulsive grasp to tremble as they rose to his shoulders, sweetly relishing the power play of muscles beneath them. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audibly, “yes, please, Wes, make love to me...”

  “Oh, God.” She heard his groan, deep and guttural within his throat. His hands raked through her hair, his kisses rained upon her face, covering her eyelids, devouring her mouth, falling with reverence over her breasts as he rolled over her with a need as urgent and demanding as she could have possibly desired. “Oh, dear God, wife,” he murmured, divesting her gently of the silken sheath of nightgown that barely separated them, “I’ve missed you...wanted you, dreamed of you...making love to you...”

  Sloan’s shivers of agonized thirst slowly abated as he filled her with his heat, making love to her with a gentle trembling thoroughness that proved the truth of his words. Beneath the assault of hands and lips that enticed and seduced while they commanded and took, she came alive as she had never been before, craving release from her consuming madness, but savoring each touch of hungry lips upon her, lips that bruised her breasts, her thighs, sending lightning streaks of electric excitement ever closer to the core of her need. Nor could she fill herself with the taste and touch of him, drowning deeper and deeper in sensation as he rumbled groans of the pleasure she gave him.

  He burst within her and she was filled, so sweetly gratified that she was at peace, realizing only then how sorely empty she had been. And he whispered softly that he loved her, and she clung to the words because she wanted more than anything to believe them.

  Wes did mean his ardent whispers, uttered with passion in the dark because he was afraid to face them by day. Her sighs of pleasure made him tremble. The darkness had hidden the shattering joy in his eyes when she had come to him...a humble joy...his wife was perfection...a potion that slipped into the blood and intoxicated for life.

  There was so much he wanted to say to her. He wanted her to know how sorry he really was, but it could never be explained, only felt.

  And he couldn’t explain anyway. She had taken him so easily once, cut him to the bone. She had the power to destroy him; he couldn’t let her do it a second time. He couldn’t talk to her as he wanted, until he could begin to believe, until time healed. They were wary opponents, ever circling...

  He couldn’t even assure himself that insecurity would keep him from striking out again...But now, as he held her close in the darkness, they had precious moments of mutual need...and caring. The battle tactics were out of the bedroom. Here he could love her.

  And he did.

  All through the night. He took what was his and cherished it, knowing morning could bring dissension and inevitably the light of day. Here, in the shadows, he could even accept her tentative whispers of love in return as the lazy comfort of satiation held them both in a spell and he cradled her to his form, softly stroking her hair.

  “I do love you, Wes,” she murmured softly against him, her voice so hesitant, so beseeching, that it hurt and he stiffened. Very, very faintly, he thought he heard a muffled sob.

  “I love you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t trust you, Sloan.”

  “Then where do we go from here?” she murmured bleakly.

  He was silent for a long time, but he continued to stroke her hair gently. “Trust is something that has to be earned,” he said very softly, and fell back to silence.

  Dawn was streaking through the windows, dispelling the guardian shadows of darkness, when they both slept, held together by the first tenuous thread of communication.

  Wes was grateful that he held her in his arms against him, but his sleep was still not content or easy. He still had to wonder if she didn’t wish that she slept with another man, a man she had also called husband and formed a relationship with that was her dream of near perfection...

  And he had to wonder if she really loved him, or if she still gave her love only to the ghost who remained in her dream.

  She was a wonderful actress. He had learned that already. She could be protesting love for the mere convenience of saving the wealth she had plotted to obtain...

  Thank God she didn’t know that any further acting was unnecessary. He loved and needed her so desperately that he would stay with her, give her anything in his power, no matter how she felt, just as long as he could be with her...

  CHAPTER TEN

  “WHAT IN HELL ARE you doing?”

  Wesley’s voice, rasping over her shoulder, startled Sloan so badly that the pill she had been about to take flew from her hand and sailed into the kitchen sink. Whirling to face her husband, she stated the obvious with confusion. “I’m taking a pill.” He stared at her stonily for a moment, his arms crossed over the white terry of his robe, then brushed her aside to pick up the packet she had left on the table. Very deliberately, he punched each pill from its plastic s
ocket and flung them down the drain, one by one.

  “What in hell are you doing?” Sloan demanded, astounded by his behavior. She had left him peacefully sleeping, confidently believing that the ardent lover of the night would awaken in a decent, if not loving, frame of mind. But he didn’t appear to be in a “decent” mood at all. The tension in his sinewed body that she was learning to read so well was all too apparent. She wasn’t sure how, but she had seriously angered him. “Wesley,” she repeated more softly, “what are you doing? I need those.” Had the man gone mad?

  The last pill swirled down the drain, and Wesley tossed the packet into the garbage bag beneath the sink. “Where’s your purse?” he demanded.

  “Why?”

  “I want the rest of these.”

  “There aren’t any ‘rest.’ I get them each month.” Sloan planted her hands on her hips and added crossly, “Except now I’ll have to run by today and replace what you just threw away. What in God’s name did you think you were doing? Did you think they were some type of drug—”

  “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 dyi
ng 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.