Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  Sloan took a deep breath of trepidation. She wisely felt the time for courage ebbing. His features, so handsome and strongly formed, were twisted into hard, grim lines; his eyes, no longer icy, blazed with a fury more intense than that of a raging sea. She began to back away, once more frightened—she didn’t like his expression one bit. His eyes suddenly flickered over her again, and she realized her unprecipitated blow had dislodged her improvised sheet tunic and that he was gazing upon the mound of one creamy, exposed breast. Flushed, she pulled the sheet more tightly around her, only to be rewarded for her efforts by a dry, mirthless chuckle from Wes.

  “Rather late for you to turn modest, isn’t it?” he demanded scornfully. The suitcase went to the floor, and he sat on the bed. “Come here,” he ordered arrogantly.

  She could see the rise and fall of his black-matted chest, read the desire that burned along with the anger in his eyes. Her gaze fell to his hands, large hands, wisped with coarse strands of the same black hair, hands with fingers neatly kept, strong hands, strong fingers, capable of holding her with infinite tenderness and arousing her to abandoned passion, capable of manipulating her forcefully and bending her to his will.

  Her eyes slowly left the fascination of his hands and moved upward. A single pulse beat erratically in the fine blue line of a vein in his corded neck. She raised her eyes still further, saw the ragged, crooked smile set lazily into his sensuous lips, saw that the light in his eyes held no tenderness, no love. Just hard, cold fury and desire.

  She shook her head softly, beseechingly, and whispered, “No.”

  “Come here.” The devilish grin increased as he repeated his command. His tone was deceptively low and pleasant as he added, “Sloan, don’t make me come to you.”

  Wincing, Sloan inched toward him, her eyes downcast, her thick lashes hiding the emotions that raged within them. A scuffle, she knew, would be worthless. She was probably lucky he hadn’t decided to strike her back before...maybe, just maybe, she could talk to him. But she paused when she reached him, afraid to face him, finally lifting her lashes to meet his eyes with open pleading.

  But he didn’t glance into her eyes to read their message. He tugged at the sheet until it fell to the floor at her feet. The startling green gems of his eyes raked over her briefly with insolent satisfaction, then his arms came around her, and she was swept to the bed beside him. She tried to speak, but his lips claimed hers, and her words were muffled as his tongue sought her mouth with a unique mastery all its own. Then her mouth was deserted as his kisses roamed along the graceful arch of her throat and down to her breasts. But they were not gentle kisses, not even hinting at love or tenderness. They were rough and urgent; they demanded and violated. Salt tears formed in Sloan’s eyes, and even as she felt a nipple harden beneath his mouth and inwardly admitted that a rousing fire was slowly coursing through her treacherous body, she protested, if somewhat breathlessly.

  “Wesley—no!”

  “No?” A single brow raised high as he lifted himself to challenge her scornfully. “And why not? You’ve got your ring and your money. I’m assuming this was my return offering. And, my darling,” he hissed bitterly, “I haven’t seen you suffering, yet.”

  Sloan blinked her eyes and winced, unable to move within the concrete prison of his arms. Bracing herself she began to speak. “Wesley, I will not let you make love to me like this—”

  “Make love?” he interjected. “Sweet wife, it all has to be prettily wrapped and worded on the outside, huh? But you’re not going to play the hypocrite anymore. You enjoy my bed, darling; to deny that would be ludicrous. And more important, dear wife, you made the bed, and now you will lie in it!”

  Dismissing anything else she might have to say as inconsequential, Wesley returned casually to his sure arousal of her body. His lips were searing her flesh like hot irons, and she knew she would eventually succumb. But she had to make him listen!

  “Wesley...wait...you don’t understand.”

  “So talk to me,” he murmured, his words muffled by her flesh.

  “You’re angry,” Sloan choked, forgetting the sense she was trying to make. “You’re angry,” she raspily repeated herself.

  His lovemaking took an abrupt halt, and he raised his head. His eyes bored into hers like hot coals, and his lips twisted savagely. “Angry!” he roared. “That has to be the understatement of the year!”

  His head lowered again, and Sloan could say no more. She was swept into the storm of his savage passion, capitulated to a high of blazing ecstasy by the undeniable fervency and ardor of the chemistry that linked them. Yet as he brought her to a shuddering crescendo, tears again filled her eyes. He did not hold her to him in their mutual satisfaction. He rolled away from her, and his weight lifted from the bed. Sloan pulled the covers over her still-burning body and buried her face in the pillow.

  He must have stood staring at her for several minutes because she heard his voice, soft and very close, and sensed his presence.

  “Play with fire, my love, and you do get burned.”

  Sloan didn’t turn. There had been no mockery or cruelty to his words, but the pain in her was too fresh and intense to chance another wound. He moved away, and she heard the click of the bathroom door. With him safely out of earshot, she allowed her tears of shame to run freely into her pillow. He might not know it, but she was completely his creature. Even as her mind had rebelled against his forceful demands, her betraying body had succumbed with humiliating eagerness. If only he hadn’t walked in without her knowing, allowing her words to damn her. And why didn’t Wesley give her a chance to explain it?

  Because, she knew, it had all rung too close to the truth because it had been the truth at one time! And she had been too sure of herself, too sure that she knew all the sides there were to Wesley. But, she thought with belated remorse, she should have never made the deadly mistake of underestimating him. She had blissfully forgotten that danger could lurk in deep, quiet places.

  Another click of the bathroom door informed her that Wesley was back in the room, and she dragged her head from the pillow. He was dressed, superbly handsome and cool in a baize linen jacket which emphasized the sleekness of his dark hair, the vivid green of his eyes, the bronze hue of his strongly chiseled features. He didn’t bother to glance at her as he calmly hefted his suitcase to a chair and rifled his pockets for his wallet.

  Sloan ran her tongue along her parched lips. “What are you doing?” she asked tonelessly.

  His eyes darted to her with a flick of amusement. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? I’m leaving you to your independent bliss.”

  She had to moisten her lips again. “Where are you going?”

  “Paris, probably,” he replied with a negligent shrug. “I need a place to cool down for a while, and I do like the city.”

  Why wouldn’t he say something substantial? she raged silently. He had taken his revenge, why didn’t he help a little now? Why was he leaving this wreck of a situation entirely up to her?

  Once more she forced herself to talk. “Do you want me to go home and try for an annulment? I may have to file divorce papers. I’m not really sure how it works—”

  The amusement vanished from his face to be replaced by a grim, implacable anger. “There will be no divorce...now,” he told her, tossing a wad of bills indifferently on the bed along with a blue vinyl checkbook. “My accountant will handle your monthly bills,” he continued coldly. “All you will need to worry about will be your personal expenses.”

  Sloan stared at it with mortified amazement. She grabbed the checkbook and bills and threw them viciously back at him before covering her face with her hands. He wasn’t a wonderful man at all; he was completely insensitive, domineering, and ruthless. He had purposely made a point of tossing the money on the bed with the full intent of twisting the knife further to underline his point. Payment in full. Money for services rendered. She was nothing better to him than an overpriced call girl. Less. Women of the trade, according to
him, had a certain honesty.

  Her action served to rekindle his amusement. “You do have problems, my love, calling a spade a spade. You want that sugar-coating on everything. But I can’t handle this thing that way. You’ll remain my wife for the time being, but believe me, love, you’ll stay in line. And we’ll keep things honest and on the level from here on out.”

  Sloan had to choke back jagged, sobbing laughter. The tricks of fate were so ironic! If only Wesley hadn’t overheard the wrong half of her conversation with Cassie. She would have admitted one day that she had originally sought him out because of desperation, but she would have explained it properly and opened her heart to tell him how she had come to love him for his quiet goodness and strength and lovingly begged his forgiveness! They could have had a life of mutual respect and adoring happiness.

  It would be futile to attempt any explanations now. He would never believe her. He would probably never believe another word that came out of her mouth.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked with heartless misery, her face still buried in her hands.

  “I don’t know, yet,” he mused. “See Brussels for the next two weeks.” She sensed his offhand shrug. “When you get home, say that I was delayed on business. I’ll be getting in touch with you.”

  Sloan finally looked up, her face tearstained, her eyes reddened with abject despair. She was surprised to see that he still stood contemplatively in the doorway, watching her. His eyes were strangely soft for a moment, and although she knew he was feeling something for her, she didn’t realize how completely she touched his heart. She was beautiful in her cocoon of sheets, her hair flared about her face in captivating disarray, her eyes wet and dazzling in their despondency. He walked back to her slowly and almost absently lifted a strand of her hair, marveling at the play of red, gold, and mahogany within its depths. A darkness filled his eyes which could have been taken for an agony as strident as Sloan’s, an infinite yearning to take her in his arms and comfort and protect her.

  She saw the tightening of his jaw and the moment of tenderness vanished as completely as if it had never been. Suddenly, Sloan couldn’t take any more; she lashed out at him as coldly as he had her.

  “I thought you were leaving.”

  His body stiffened perceptively, and she felt a mute satisfaction at wounding him after the terrible thrusts he had delivered to her. “Oh, I am going,” Wesley said grimly. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a honeymoon either. Watch your step carefully, Sloan. I will be back.”

  “Why?” she demanded, rising haughtily to his threat. “You’ve made it rather clear what you think of me.”

  “True,” Wesley countered sardonically. “But then, what difference does that make? You were willing to marry me while not loving me, why should it matter if I’m no longer enamored of you?”

  “I never hated you,” Sloan said bleakly.

  Wes was still for a minute, then his finger hooked her chin to bring her face up to meet his. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly. “In all honesty, I don’t know what I feel. A lot of anger and humiliation at the moment, and that’s why I’m leaving.”

  “Then go!” Sloan rasped icily. She wanted the words back as soon as they left her mouth but once spoken, they couldn’t be retrieved. He had spoken to her kindly; he had given her a golden opportunity to leave a salvageable thread in their marriage. But her own pain and confusion had registered only that he was leaving, walking out on her after showering her with verbal abuse and proving his physical mastery.

  Words began to tumble from her mouth in a spew of unmeant venom. “I’m not so sure about you, Mr. Adams, either. You’re not the man I thought you. You haven’t a shred of compassion in your entire being, and you’re about as kindly as a great white shark. You’re ruthless, cruel, and vicious. Definitely not nice.”

  “That’s enough!” Wes stated with frigid finality. The muscles were working in his jaw, and as Sloan stared up at him, she knew he was fighting a fierce battle for self-control. To his credit, he won.

  “I never saw myself as walking benevolence,” he told her, catching the sides of her hair and gripping them tautly to hold her face to his, “but then I do tend to be a fairly tolerant soul. You have to admit, Sloan, that the provocation has been great. I probably am a nice man, darling, I’m just not the complete puppet you took me to be.” His pull on her hair tightened for just a second and then released. He gazed at her for a moment longer, his mouth a grim, white line, and then turned for his suitcase and the door.

  “Oh,” he added, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Do us both a favor and remember one thing. You are married. Should you forget it, darling, after all the rest, I might be severely tempted to follow my first inclination and break that lovely little neck. And I will be back, hopefully civil by the time I reach Gettysburg.” He raised his brows in a high arch of mocking speculation. “You do get my drift?”

  Blue and green eyes locked in a cold stare. “I get your drift,” she retorted defiantly.

  “Good. It’s one thing to be taken for a fool, love, but I promise I won’t wear horns as well.” His teeth ground together, and his tone became pained. “I don’t ever want to subject myself to a repeat of today’s performance.” Then the pain and bitterness were harshly grated over; they might have been imagined. “I usually do discover things—as belated as it may be.”

  His eyes slid over her slowly in a last assessment; he didn’t seem to expect any more answers—and she had none to give him. His gaze came back to hers in a final challenge.

  Sloan’s gaze fell from Wesley’s, and sadly, she missed the gamut of torn emotions that raced through his eyes. In her stunned state of agonized confusion, it was doubtful she would have recognized them anyway.

  Because he was split into more pieces than she.

  As he stared at her, he was struck again with awe at her beauty. The sapphire eyes; the wild tangle of hair that held more colors than a rainbow—hair that could entangle a man and spin him helplessly into a drowning lair forever; the exquisite, supple body that was wiry, sweetly curved, unceasingly graceful...A dancer’s form; an angel’s face.

  He had been in love with her his entire adult life—adulating her from afar, never finding peace or satisfaction because he knew she existed in the world and he was not close to her.

  And then it had seemed that she was his.

  He was a strong man; he had taken on life and received fame and fortune. In return, he had paid his dues with decency and fairness. Knowing his own power, he had never willingly hurt another person. But he had never felt anything like the gut-wrenching pain of betrayal; the gnawing agony that seemed to eat away at his insides, bit by excruciating bit.

  Betrayal by the woman he idolized over his own life.

  And he had lashed out with full intent to wound. Not physically; he could snap her in half and he knew it, but because of his size, he had long since learned to control the forces of rage. No, he had gone after her with the strongest weapon known to man, words, calculated to rip and shred...

  But he had lost control of the words—gone further than he ever meant. He winced now at his own cruelty, but none of it could be undone...

  He had to come to terms with himself. She had used him and made a complete fool of him. But he still loved her, and the pain he had caused her was hurting him. Yet he couldn’t go to her now—he couldn’t erase any of what had happened.

  And he couldn’t forget that she had purposely seduced him into marriage for money.

  But he couldn’t give her up. Somewhere in the future...

  Which was not now. His pride, ego, and heart were all wounded, raw and bleeding. If he stayed, her very beauty and his love for her would heighten his pain, and he would say more words that couldn’t be taken back...that could never be forgiven.

  She looked at him again, her crystal blue eyes brimming, but defiant, and hateful. As if a shutter had fallen over them, his own eyes gave nothing more away. “Good-bye, Slo
an,” he said softly.

  And the door slammed coldly in her face.

  She didn’t cry again; she was numb with disbelief. For at least an hour she didn’t even move, but remained lifelessly in the bed, staring straight ahead at the tapestried wall, unable to think and sort her whirling emotions. Then she finally obeyed the little voice that told her she had to do something, rose mechanically, and situated herself in the shower. Her hands began to steady as the hot water waved over them, and she finally forced herself to accept the situation.

  A part of her hated Wesley for the things he had said and done, for taking her and using her so brutally simply to prove that he knew her game and was changing the rules. She had sold out, and in his vengeance, he wanted her to know that she was now his and that when he said jump, her question should be, How high?

  And a part of her hated herself. Color that was more than the force of the hot water filled her skin at the thought of her uninhibited response to him despite everything. Granted, the release of the anger Wesley had been harboring had created the passionate desire of the morning, and he would have taken her roughly in that bed no matter what her reaction. But Lord! she thought sickly, he had manhandled her, thrown her around, called her everything just short of tramp—albeit with a modicum of control—and she had protested but feebly and clung to him in wanton pleasure with guttural whimperings in her throat that proved her to be an easily assailable toy...

  “Damn, I hate him!” she raged aloud to the cascading water. But she didn’t. She still loved him, desperately, and a part of her even understood the violence of his reaction. He had loved her, really loved her, and as far as he could see, she had laughingly tossed that love aside.

  There was still hope, she told herself, turning off the water. He had said he would come back. And when he did, his initial rage would be gone. She would talk to him...