Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  “So tell me more about you,” he said suddenly, disarming her with the question thrown casually into general conversation.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” she said, fiddling with her empty coffee cup as he lit a cigarette. Remembering what she was up to, she batted murky lashes with a sweet smile. “You’ve spent the day here; you’ve seen it all.”

  “Why did you give up dancing?”

  She feigned a cough. She certainly couldn’t tell him her strained finances were the cause. “I haven’t given it up. I teach now. As for going back and joining a company full time...I’d have to head for a larger city, and with the children small, I like the size of Gettysburg.”

  “You danced when your husband was alive.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. Sloan replied slowly, puzzled at his sure knowledge.

  “Yes, when Terry was alive he could be with the children nights. He painted at home, and his work was doing very well—” She broke off swiftly, frightened that she had come so close to giving herself away. Falling into another radiant smile, she hastily turned back his question. “How did you know that I was dancing when Terry was alive?”

  Tiny dimples appeared in Wesley’s bronzed cheeks. “I saw you in Boston. About seven years ago.”

  “Oh!” His revelation was startling. “What were you doing in Boston.”

  “Celebrating with friends. My team won the Super Bowl that year, and we were about crazy after the hectic season and grueling training.” The dimples flashed again as he grimaced. “I think I fell in love that night. You were absolutely magnificent. Half the audience must have known from my shouting that you were a girl from my own town.”

  “Really?” Sloan laughed, but she eyed him nervously. He was teasing her, of course, flattering her. “Why didn’t you come backstage?”

  “Because I knew you were married.”

  “Oh.” A silence hung heavily on the air between them. Sloan reached awkwardly for the tray to return it to the kitchen, but Wesley’s hand came over hers. She started nervously and met his probing green gaze. His touch had felt like an electrical charge.

  “Tell me about your husband,” he said softly. “It’s obvious that you loved him very much. I’d like to hear about him.”

  “Terry?” Sloan’s eyes clouded to a misty blue. “Terry was a dreamer, a happy-go-lucky dreamer. He was a wonderful man; he loved the world. He was very talented and”—she couldn’t lie about Terry—“yes, I loved him very much.”

  “Do you have any of his work?”

  “Only one piece,” she said lamely. How could she explain that she’d had to sell the others? She couldn’t. She’d have to spin another notch in her web of lies.

  “Terry lost most of his paintings in the accident.”

  “I’d like to see the painting that you have.”

  “I’m afraid it’s of me,” Sloan said apologetically, rising. “It’s in my bedroom.” She turned to lead the way quickly, annoyed to find that she was blushing again.

  The painting, she believed, was Terry’s finest piece. He had caught her in a graceful pirouette, her hair spinning red and gold around her, her dress of sheer gauze fluttering in touchable folds. The painting seemed to live, the radiance of the dance immortalized for eternity in the vibrant blue exuberance of her eyes. No amount of poverty could ever bring her to sell the painting. It had been a special gift from Terry, a tangible link to the essence of what they both had been.

  Wesley stood staring at the painting for a long time. “He was a very fine artist,” he finally said, “A brilliant one.” He turned to her suddenly. “I assume it’s not for sale.”

  “No,” Sloan said. Then she moistened very dry lips. It was time to take a shot in the dark. “No,” she repeated with what she hoped was a sensuous smile. “I’m afraid the painting goes with me. You can’t have one without the other.”

  “Oh?” His brows raised slightly, and there was a definite, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, I have already determined to have the one.”

  Time hung suspended, and static rippled the air as Sloan stared at him, not breathing, mesmerized. Who is seducing whom here? she wondered briefly.

  Wesley broke the invisible bonds that stretched between them. “I’ve got to get out of here.” He chuckled, glancing at his watch. “I’ve way overstayed my welcome.” He glanced back to Sloan, his eyes light yet strangely guarded. “What do you do on Sundays?”

  “Uh...laundry, usually,” Sloan stammered, annoyed that she should give him such a humdrum reply, but not as quick as he to break the spell of the unnerving moment.

  Wes grinned with lazy ease. “Could I twist your arm into doing something else?”

  Sloan laughed sheepishly. “You could twist my arm easily, but I’m afraid I still can’t go out. Cassie and George spend the day with his parents and—”

  “And the children would need a sitter,” Wes finished for her. “But they might as well meet Florence and get to know her early.”

  Not quite sure what he meant by such a comment, Sloan offered another weak protest. “Wesley, how can we just spring three children upon this lady? I’m sure she’s busy with your house—”

  “Florence would rather be busy with kids any day. And I promise you, she’s a wonderfully unique person. She doesn’t just tolerate little ones—she loves them.”

  Sloan lifted helpless hands. “What did you have in mind?”

  “That, Mrs. Tallett, is a loaded question!” Wes warned teasingly. “If I answered you honestly, you’d throw me out.” He was serious, bluntly, appraisingly so, but his winning grin took the sting out of the words. Even so, Sloan blushed. “Since I don’t dare answer you honestly,” he continued without apology, “what would you say to a picnic in the park?”

  “A picnic sounds nice,” Sloan mouthed automatically.

  “Good,” Wes said quickly, before she could think. “I’ll be by tomorrow about ten with Florence. Is the time okay?”

  “Fine...” Sloan murmured, dazed. She was supposed to be the aggressor here, but so far she wasn’t working very hard.

  Wesley smiled and kissed her cheek lightly, as he had her sister’s the previous evening. “Good night, Sloan.” His long strides brought him quickly to the front door. “Thank you for a wonderful day.”

  “Thank you,” Sloan called, but he was gone. Still dazed, she returned to the living room and picked up the coffee tray.

  Everything was working out perfectly—to her benefit. Even in her moments of highest confidence, she had never imagined that Wes would make it so easy for her to set her little marriage trap. Instead of feeling wildly victorious, she was nervous as hell. As pleasant as Wes continued to be, there was a quality about him that was quietly powerful.

  He had been a professional football player, she reminded herself. Such a sport bred a man who was innately domineering, physically fit...threatening with that primitive, almost untamed masculinity.

  “What a ridiculous thought!” she chastised herself aloud. She was turning Wes into a charging tiger that might pounce in a moment of brute force. He was nothing like that. And she wasn’t a member of an opposing defense to be tackled or plowed out of the way.

  Still, there was something about him. She had sensed it that first night. Something that hadn’t been there in his youth. A confidence and control that allowed him to be pleasant because he would have the strength to handle any situation that did get out of control with quick, ruthless ease.

  She shivered suddenly, and the shivering brought her out of her mental wanderings. She realized she was still rinsing a well-rinsed cup. “I’m inventing things!” she whispered to herself. “Wes is the nice guy he appears to be. And he likes me...”

  But how did he “like” her? He was thirty-four, but he had never married. She was sure—simply from that virile masculinity that he exuded—that he had had a multitude of affairs. He was a sensual man—she was already keenly aware of his effortless magnetism. He was probably thinking of nothing more than a
n affair now.

  “It can’t be just an affair!” Sloan spoke aloud to herself again, her tone desperate. He had to marry her!

  He wanted her. Even if her instincts had been faulty, he had come right out and said as much. Yet how badly did he want her? Enough to marry her?

  A flash of heat washed over her from head to toe as she thought about the strange moment when they had stood together in her bedroom doorway. Admittedly, she had felt stirrings she hadn’t experienced in over two years. Her senses had reeled more from his mere nearness than they had from any kiss by a would-be suitor.

  Sloan dropped the saucer she had been holding into the dishwasher and crouched to the floor, circling her knees with her arms. She was attracted to Wesley, and the feeling was terrifying. She had to keep the upper hand; she had to be able to deny and demur all the time.

  “And I will!” She fought the dizzy confusion that had assailed her like a forceful wind and stood, shaking herself. Lord! she told herself impatiently. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old widow! Not some naive half-wit! Not the type of sweet innocent to be led stupidly like a slaughtered lamb into a bed of seduction!

  Semiconvinced, she straightened her shoulders unconsciously. She wasn’t exactly an overly humble fool, either. She was aware of her assets—a dancer almost had to be. She knew how to play the games of flirtation and seduction herself. Granted, she had never set out to be the vamp before, but it was a role she could—and would—assume.

  This was a game she was determined to win.

  Sighing, she wiped the kitchen counter and slowly folded the dish towel. There was no way she was going to be happy and at ease until...until the game was over. Her mind was waging too many wars. It was wrong...she knew it was wrong to purposely set out to marry someone for money, no matter how she swore to herself to be a good wife. She should bow out of the game before it ever began. She couldn’t begin to imagine what had possessed her in the first place to come up with such an idea.

  But she had come up with it. And now it had become a dream...a dream of security that was so good she couldn’t forget it, couldn’t pretend that it had never existed.

  Sloan bit into her bottom lip so hard as she walked into her bedroom to slip into her nightgown that she drew blood. There was no going back now. Wesley might not know that he was now engaged in the biggest game of his life, but he was. Another Super Bowl.

  And this time, he was going to lose.

  Sloan slipped between her sheets and turned off her bedside lamp. Even with her mind irrevocably made up, it was a long time before she slept. She tossed and turned and woke several times. She had been dreaming, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on just what it was in her dreams that kept awakening her.

  Finally, as the pale light of dawn crept slowly through the windows telling her that her fitful night was almost at an end, she realized what was bothering her.

  She was no longer seeing Terry’s thin, carefree face in her dreams. She was seeing Wesley’s. The penetrating, oceanic green eyes. The pitch black hair with the wings of silver. The hard, angular, strong planes of his face. The rugged jawline. The full, sensual lips curving over perfect white teeth.

  For the first time in two years she was actually dreaming of another face. Wesley’s smiling face.

  But a smiling face that was very disturbing. Because in her dreams the smile was cold. It didn’t reach to eyes that were as sharply condemning as a jagged dagger of ice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PERVERSELY, WITH THE COMING of light, Sloan found herself finally able to sleep. Waking fully to recognize her dreams had put them to rest. Wesley had been nothing other than charming to her, and, if he continued with his persistence, the next two weeks would prove to be enjoyable and exciting.

  It seemed that her alarm went off as soon as she was deeply encircled in a comfortable sleep. Grudgingly Sloan rose—her usual scurry of morning activity was about to begin.

  The children had to be bathed and dressed and fed, and then today she had herself to worry about. Most Sundays she didn’t bother with makeup but simply scrubbed her face, tied back her hair, and threw on a pair of jeans. The laundry didn’t care much what she looked like.

  Today was different.

  Today she very carefully applied just the right amount of makeup to enhance her own coloring while still appearing natural. She heated her curling wand to tighten the light waves of hair which escaped her ribbon to fall about her face in delicate tendrils. She hesitated long over her casual clothing before choosing a pair of flattering shorts and a cotton, kelly-green blouse with puff sleeves and sash closings which tied in front between the breasts.

  As she had hoped and planned, the effect was perfect.

  She looked young and carefree, as charming and natural as a wood nymph. No one would ever take her for a mature matron about to complete her third decade of living.

  That dash of excitement she had been feeling gleamed brilliantly in the sapphire of her eyes. She laughed exultantly. “Careful, girl!” she warned herself. “Looking like a teenager doesn’t mean you should be acting like one!”

  She had stooped to tie her sneakers when the doorbell rang. Jamie—remembering his lesson of the previous day—called to her, “Door, Mom!”

  “Thank you, Jamie,” she told him, tweaking his cheek as she passed him. “That’s going to be Wesley and his friend who is going to watch you. Please be good, Jamie!”

  “Ahh...Mom!” Jamie declared indignantly. “I’m always good.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sloan raised a doubting brow to him but smiled. Jamie was good—old for his six years, a stout defender for his younger sister and brother. He had been young when he lost his father, and his world had turned around, but he was a sensitive child, like the father he lost, and he intuitively knew when things were going especially rough for his mother.

  “I’m going to be a living doll!” he promised with wide eyes.

  Still smiling, Sloan opened the door. Wesley stood there in faded, tattered jeans and an old football jersey, his rich, dark hair gleaming like a raven’s wing in the glare of the sun. A broad grin stretched across his face as he greeted her with sparkling eyes of appreciation.

  “Good morning. Am I too early?”

  “No...good morning.” Why am I always stammering around him? Sloan wondered. She had seemed caught in the spell of his eyes again, frozen into forgetting who she was, where she was...

  “May we come in?”

  “We?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Florence—” Wes turned from the doorway, and Sloan saw a tiny, middle-aged woman who had previously been hidden by Wesley’s broad, sinewed frame. “Sloan, this is Florence Hendry. Florence, Sloan Tallett. And those little faces peeping around her knees are Jamie, Laura, and Terry.”

  Sloan smiled hesitantly, suddenly as shy as the children who withdrew their curious heads quickly. But the tiny woman had eyes as warm as the sun, and the smile she gave in return was full and heartening. “Sloan,” she said softly, taking the slender, outstretched hand firmly, “what a pleasure. Wesley has spoken of nothing but you since we arrived.” Her crinkled face dimpled. “I will admit, though, that I’m most anxious to meet the children.”

  Sloan stepped aside, realizing that her company was still standing in the doorway. “Mrs. Hendry, the pleasure is mine. Please, come in. Jamie, Laura, Terry—say hello to Mrs. Hendry. She’ll be staying with you today—” Sloan bit lightly on her lower lip and glanced quickly from Wes—standing benignly amused in the background—to Florence. “Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble for you? Opening a house must have you busy—”

  “I have no schedules!” Florence laughed. “And please, call me Florence. I’m pleased to death to spend a day with your children. I miss all the little ones at home.”

  Sloan couldn’t prevent her startled glance from flying to Wesley’s face. He read her unasked question and threw up hands in mock protest. “Not mine!” he laughed. “I told you I was riddled with nieces and nephews—f
our of whom live with me. I went into the Thoroughbred business with my brother.”

  “Oh,” Sloan murmured, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Well, uh, Florence, let me show you a bit of the house. The refrigerator is stacked with sandwich meat—”

  “Which we won’t need,” Florence supplied cheerfully. “We’re going to have our picnic here. Wes had them make us two baskets at the deli,” she explained. “So you just tell me any special instructions.”

  “I really don’t have any special instructions,” Sloan murmured, leading Florence on a quick tour of the downstairs. “If you need anything, Jamie will help you. Their rooms are full of toys and books...” Sloan grinned sheepishly as they returned to the living room. “I’m not sure what else I should tell you.”

  “We’ll get along famously,” Florence said with assurance.

  Sloan was sure that they would. The little woman who had breezed into her life along with Wesley was like a fairy godmother. Mature, confident, cheerful. The type person who made you immediately feel as if everything was all right.

  “Well...” Sloan murmured again, surprised and a little disoriented to see that the children had already lost their shyness. Jamie was having a very mature conversation with Wes, and Laura and Terry were looking at Florence with eager anticipation. “I’ll just get my sunglasses...”

  No one seemed to notice as she ran back into the kitchen and searched the ledge above the sink which was a catchall. She dug her glasses out of a pile of coupons and savings stamps, pausing for a breath of air.

  She felt as if she were walking on clouds. It was actually Wes who had brought the magic into her life. He lifted a hand, went poof, and all her problems were solved. He thought of everything. Their day stretched brightly before them—free and clear.