Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  “Surrender?” He was gloating, but his demand was uttered in such a raw rasp that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter anyway. He had driven her to an absolute frenzy.

  “Surrender,” she croaked, parting her lips and hooking her arms desperately around the hard expanse of his shoulders. “No more games...”

  Skyrockets of dizzying ecstasy exploded throughout her as Wesley completed his conquest, taking her with a rough urgency that matched the wild passion flaming hungrily between them. Wesley’s pulsating rhythm took them higher and higher to peak after peak, bringing them finally to a boundless precipice of sweet satiation that was so wonderful that Sloan could not move at its conclusion, could not disentangle her limbs from Wesley’s nor willingly draw away from his overwhelming heat.

  It was he who finally moved, but only to shed the robe that still encased his shoulders. He tugged at the remnants of Sloan’s black gown. “Get rid of that,” he commanded softly.

  There was no more fight left in Sloan, just loving, dazed obedience. She knew she had lost the upper hand—if she had ever had it! But she didn’t care. Her body still burned with the aftermath of pleasure; the memory of Wesley’s demanding possession still throbbed divinely where his virility had split her asunder. Filled with loving contentment, she dutifully cast aside the remainders of the black gauze and curled to his naked side, reveling in the feel of his lean, sinewed body. A sigh of sheer peace and satisfaction escaped her as her eyelids fluttered closed.

  “Sleepy?” Wesley queried with a throaty chuckle, stroking her damp hair from her forehead.

  “Ummm...”

  “What? On your honeymoon?” he mocked. “My passionate little wildcat giving out already? Un-unh!”

  “Wes,” Sloan protested drowsily. “I’m half-asleep...”

  “I’ll wake you up,” he promised, and proceeded to prove he could do so. Slowly, more gently this time, with Sloan able to return every spark of arousal and explore him with equal intimacy. He demanded things of her, coaxing her with enticing whispers to tell him everything that pleased her most and exciting her to almost unendurable lengths by encouraging her own shy administrations with hoarse groans and guttural exclamations of her perfection.

  “I think I married a sex maniac,” she told him euphorically as he swept her to his heights again.

  “No, darling,” he muttered, his face taut with desire, “I did, little wildcat.”

  “I never knew it could be this way...” Anything else she had to say became incomprehensible as moans obliterated her speech.

  Later, countless eons later, she drifted off to sleep in the ageless, dreamlike satisfaction of one filled to the brim with enchanted satiation, held in the security of her lover’s arms. The night had been more than she had ever expected, even in her wildest imaginings. She had given herself to Wesley completely, and learned the superb sweetness of surrender. It was good, so wonderfully good, to be his and know that he was hers and that a man like Wesley slept beside her. She had been conquered, but the thought bothered her not at all. She didn’t need a superior edge anymore; she loved and trusted him totally.

  She awoke in the middle of the night, keenly attuned to his touch. She was coiled against him, her back fitted into the curve of his stomach, sheltered by his arms. For a minute she was confused, wondering why she had woken. Then she realized that he was insistently fondling her breasts; the pressure of his powerful chest and his hot, probing masculinity telling her the rest.

  “Wes!” she murmured with awe and surprise, a remnant of guile prompting her protest. A laugh escaped her. “We have tomorrow, you know.”

  “Never put off till tomorrow,” he quoted as his teeth grazed her earlobe. Had she been more awake, she might have noticed the slight hesitance before his teasing statement. As it was, she merely mocked a sigh of resignation and succumbed to his advances, shocked by the vehemence of her response and the wild abandon with which she eagerly returned his lovemaking when by all rights she should have been exhausted, spent, and still sound asleep.

  Wesley chuckled softly when she shuddered in his arms again. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he whispered. “I promise I won’t wake you again.”

  Sloan obligingly rested her head upon his chest. A thought nagged at her, but she was so tired, she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Then it hit her, but by then she was caught in the twilight between sleep and consciousness and she dismissed it immediately.

  In all his words of coaxing and passionate encouragement, in all his whispers of hungry pleasure, never once had Wesley said he loved her.

  What a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, Sloan thought dimly in her subconscious. She knew Wesley loved her; he had told her so many times, even when she had been setting her “trap” and was totally, unaware of her own, intense feelings for him.

  And so she slept again, soundly and perfectly happy in her newly discovered joy and fulfillment, blissfully unaware of what the morning would bring.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE BRIGHT, BEGUILING SUNLIGHT of the Belgian morning streaked through the parted drapes to awaken her. Like a purring kitten she stretched languorously; like an innocent maid who had just discovered the wonder of love she flicked shy lashes and reached a tentative hand across the covers to touch her new husband.

  He wasn’t there. Her eyes opened fully, and she smiled a sweet smile of contentment as she found him, sitting on a bedside chair, his strong fingers idly stroking his chin as he watched her. His dark hair was tousled, his broad chest incredibly sexy in its partial exposure at the loose V of his haphazardly belted robe.

  But he didn’t smile back, and Sloan’s happily curved lips straightened tremulously. His look was as cold as ice, his piercing green eyes brutal in his tense, bronzed face.

  Barely awake, Sloan blinked with confusion. It couldn’t be Wesley staring at her that way! She opened her eyes again to find the glacial image still before her. She struggled inwardly to ease her bewilderment. What had happened to change the tender and gentle man she had married into this basilisk of condemnation? How could he possibly be staring at her with such venom after the night of passionate love they had just shared together?

  “So you’re awake.”

  His voice was low, pleasant, the tone almost silky. For the briefest moment, Sloan began to relax, convincing herself she was reading things into his pirate gaze that simply weren’t there.

  Then he began to speak again.

  “It was...interesting?...my love, to see how you would handle the night. Very nice. I must say, darling, that when you sell out, you do go all the way with gusto.”

  A creeping cold chill of fear seeped rapidly through her numbed senses. “What?” she whispered incredulously, moistening dry lips.

  “The act is charming, Sloan, but no good.” He flashed her a pearly smile with a rapier edge. “It’s time for a little honesty.”

  Lord, she wondered desperately, what had happened? “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she hedged, panicked. Forcing herself to keep a mask of calm on her features, she thought rapidly over the past events. He couldn’t have any suspicions regarding her original motives for marriage; he would have certainly called off the wedding! He couldn’t know anything harmful, she decided with a quaking bravado. Still, she clutched the covers protectively to her chin as she attempted a captivating grin and laughed gaily. “Really, darling, you should have warned me that you wake like a growling bear!”

  Dark brows rose in an arch. “Should I have?” he inquired politely, the daggerlike smile still etched clearly into his taut profile. He stood and sauntered slowly to her while she watched him uneasily. She had the terrible, uncanny feeling that he was playing with her, as a great cat played with its prey before pouncing for the final kill. Her instinct was to run, but she was stubbornly insisting to herself that there was nothing that could be really wrong. Willpower alone kept her still, presenting a facade of guileless calm.

  She felt his heat as he sat beside her,
felt the tense, powerful coil of his thigh muscle against hers. She forced herself to meet his steel, green gaze unblinkingly, and when his fingers moved gently along her cheekbones and down to her throat, she silently prayed she would not flinch beneath the harsh rigidity that lurked, like a spiral about to spring, behind the tenderness of the gesture. Then she couldn’t bear the tense, pregnant stillness any longer. “What is it, love?” she whispered.

  “What is it...love,” he repeated in a toneless, mocking murmur. Then the coil unleashed and the spring flew. His fingers clamped around her wrists like steel cuffs and he jerked her abruptly from the bed. She uttered a startled scream in protest, shocked by his sudden show of ill-controlled force, no longer uneasy or frightened but thoroughly terrified. She was well aware of the bricklike muscles that composed the frame of this man who was now a stranger, well aware that he could break her like so many match sticks if he so desired.

  He was oblivious to her cries of protest as he ripped the protective sheet from her and pulled her into the bathroom where he positioned her firmly before the mirror, his hands on her shoulders but warningly near her neck, the breadth of his body behind her, holding her steady as she lowered her eyes and begged him to let her loose.

  “Not just yet...wife...” he spat, the iciness of his eyes losing nothing as he met the trembling liquid pools of hers in reflection. “We shall see what we have here, first...”

  “Wesley!” Sloan implored, stunned by his actions. Wesley Adams couldn’t be doing this to her! Even the rough lover of the night before had been tender...

  “Now,” he continued coldly, ignoring her outburst, his voice that of an informative teacher conducting a class, “What do we have? Do we see a woman approaching thirty, a mother of three, possibly fearful that she may be losing her looks, never again to be loved or cherished? Afraid that she shall not be accepted again by a new lover because of her children? No.” One hand slid over her shoulder, cupped a breast, moved on over her rib cage to her-flat stomach and harshly molded the jut of her hip. “No.” he hissed again, emphatically. “This woman holds no fears. She is serenely confident of her femininity. No naive girl, this. She is a beautiful, bewitching woman, and she knows it. Like a black widow, she can easily lure a man into her web. She is a remarkable animal—breasts full and firm, seductively curved hips, a figure as slim as a debutante’s. She doesn’t even remember the definition of the word ‘love.’”

  “Wesley!” Sloan pleaded miserably, shaking with the unexpected vehemence of his mind-boggling attack. “Wesley, please, I beg you!”

  “You beg me. Lovely.” He laughed dryly, a harsh, bitter, and hollow sound. “Not yet, darling.” His hands found her chin and forced her bowed head back to the mirror. “We haven’t decided what we do have here, yet. But certainly not a woman clinging to a last line of hope! That I could have understood. Forgiven easily.” Her chin jerked cruelly. “Open your eyes!” he commanded.

  She obeyed and met orbs of such jade-green loathing that chills exploded violently in spasms throughout her. Still he showed no mercy.

  “I have met street prostitutes with more scruples,” he continued, his grip like a mechanical thing. “They sell openly, for a price. They make an honest bargain. They tell you what they want, and they tell you exactly what you get in return.

  “But you...wife...” She gasped a choking sob as he spun her around to face him. “You were not honest one stinking step of the way. You lied, connived, cheated, and schemed. You sold yourself more callously than any common tramp. All for my money.”

  “No!” Sloan protested weakly in self-defense, slowly, sickly realizing he had been in the house at the beginning of her explanation to Cassie, hearing...

  “Don’t lie to me now, woman!” His raging growl bellowed through the room as he shook her so hard that her head lolled like a doll’s and her hair fell in torrents over her shoulders. “God, don’t try to play me for a fool any longer! Your little game is really up. I heard everything you had to say to your sister, my dear, and though I didn’t want to believe it—a man’s heart and his ego can be terribly sensitive at times—everything surely fit perfectly. One night you didn’t want me crossing your doorstep, the next day you were welcoming me with open arms.” He pushed her from him contemptuously. “And I fell for it all! All that false, wide-eyed innocence. I walked into your lair with starry eyes, wanting so desperately to believe in you, respecting your views on sex and marriage when all the while...” His voice broke off grimly as he tightly clenched his fist. The lines about his mouth were white with tension. Uttering a croak of disgust, he spun on his heel and stalked from the bathroom.

  Sloan stood stock-still for a moment, scarcely breathing, unable to absorb the horror of the things he had said, unable to reconcile them with the man she had known so intimately just hours before. Then she followed him out, nervously grabbed the sheet from the bed to wrap herself in, and skittered into a corner of the room to watch him with dazed, fearful eyes. She had no conception of what he might do next. It was all too evident; the man she thought she knew, understood, the chivalrous wooer, the tenderly possessive lover, existed no more. And she should have never underestimated him. Her vague suspicions that he could be a dangerous man had proved all too true. A tiger, though tamed, was still in essence a wild beast, and Wesley, like that beast, had given up all pretense of civility. Raw instinct and basic fury were guiding him now. Reason and logic had lost all meaning. Like primitive man, he was the stronger, and he would call the shots.

  Sloan watched, still too dazed to attempt the explanation he wouldn’t believe as he began to pack his bags. Shrunken into her corner, she felt the tears which had formed in her eyes begin to trickle down her cheeks. Whatever happened she knew she deserved, yet how could she lose him now when she had just found him?

  His glance fell her way as coolly as marble. “Don’t bother with the tears. I’m not going to break your neck, though I should. Nor am I going to annul the marriage, though I should. The children are my responsibility now, too, and there is no reason they should be made to suffer because of their mother.”

  The tears fell anyway, despite his brutal statements. She couldn’t believe the way he was treating her—not after the day and night they had spent happily in one another’s arms! “Why?...” At first she didn’t realize she had said the word aloud.

  “What?” Wesley barked.

  “Why?...” She shrank even further into her corner, unable to complete her question beneath the survey of his relentless anger.

  In two seconds he reached her, pulled her to her feet, and swung her gracelessly into the middle of the room. “Why what?” he demanded, his eyes blazing a dancing flame of green fire. “Don’t turn coward on top of everything else. You’re not the least upset over what you did; selling out didn’t mean a thing to you. You’re only upset because you’ve been caught. What was the exact plan, anyway? How many months of blissful marriage was I going to be blessed with before you sued for divorce and a handsome settlement?”

  Sloan’s hair tumbled wildly over her face; her blue eyes peaked out in liquid sapphire pleading. “I wasn’t—” she began with trembling lips.

  For a fraction of a second it appeared as if Wesley might be softening. Then he emitted a sharp snort of disgust which effectively curtailed her words. “Spare me, Sloan. I’ve admitted you’re a sensational actress, but you’ve already conned me once. Save it. I really don’t want to hear any more. Ask your question.”

  Sloan bit through her bottom lip until it bled. All was lost. He hated her now. Her brief dream of happiness had been shattered by her own schemes, her own lies. Swallowing, she tilted her chin despite her trembling. She would hold on to her courage as he had suggested. Perhaps he could still admire her for something, even if it would sound like a futile lie to say she did love him now...had...

  “Why did you go through with the wedding?” she asked quietly, her voice soft but thankfully steady. After a painful falter she added, “And why bother w
ith yesterday?”

  He shot her a glance with a shade less disdain as he continued packing, brushing by her as if she were an obstacle like a dresser or desk as he spoke.

  “I’m not really sure,” he admitted with a wry hint of humor. “Maybe I feel in the back of my mind that there is something I might be able to get out of this bargain myself. And, I did want you. Badly enough to marry you, since that was your price. Then yesterday...” He shrugged and neatly folded a stack of pressed shirts into the bag. “Yesterday, I wanted to see how thoroughly you planned to pay up while we were still going by your rules.” He abruptly stopped his packing, arms crossed over his chest, and nicked his green eyes over her from head to toe with such formidable insolence that a crimson blush spread like a stain to her cheeks. “I must say, love,” he spoke with the silky tone she had learned could be so cutting and dangerous, “you do pay up handsomely. I always knew, from watching the way that you moved, that you’d be dynamite in bed. Certain women are made for it. Even so, your veins must be filled with ice water for you to respond with such—talented ardor—to a man you don’t love.”

  If he had slapped her soundly across the face, he couldn’t have been more abusive. Sloan was still for a second, absorbing the shock, amazed that anyone could be so blind. Then her shock receded as anger, boiling like red-hot lava, raged through her system. She had been wrong, yes, but she didn’t deserve the things he was saying. Fear, control, and all sense of reasonable logic fell from her like a cloak, and she flew at him with the speed and wrath of a whirling tornado. “You bastard!” she hissed, and she struck him cleanly with a fury-driven open hand that left him no time to ward off the blow.

  It was his turn to stand dead still as the mark she had imprinted on his face quickly turned white, pink, and dark red. The sound of her slap seemed to reverberate through the room as he slowly rubbed his cheek, staring at her all the while. “My beloved wife,” he drawled mockingly, “that was certainly uncalled-for. I’ve been desperately trying to remain nonviolent about this whole thing.”