Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  “I have my own car—” she started briskly as they left the school and Jim behind, “Cold As Ice” once more blaring from the stereo.

  “Leave it,” Wes said just as briskly. “We can get it tomorrow.”

  Sloan shrugged and walked along with him to the Lincoln, poker-faced as he opened her door and ushered her in. She was sure he was going to rail into her immediately, tearing her apart piece by piece for her actions during his absence. He was strangely silent instead, his attention on his driving, his hardened jaw and cold eyes rigid in the profile she glanced at covertly from the lowered shade of her lashes. It seemed to Sloan that the tension in the car mounted until it was thick and tangible and she was drowning in it. “Don’t you think we should talk,” she finally exploded, unable to bear the uncertainty a moment longer. “I really don’t care to argue in front of the children,” she added with cold hauteur.

  His eyes slid from the road to her for a moment, searing her with disdainful ice. His hand shot across the car, and she flinched thinking he was coming for her, but he wasn’t. He snapped the button on the glove compartment and the door fell open. With his eyes back on the road, he felt for a plump envelope, found it, tossed it on her lap, and slammed the door closed.

  “I have no intention of arguing in front of the children,” he said, “but neither am I in a mood to discuss anything with you while driving. Don’t worry, the children are not at the house.”

  “What?” Sloan exclaimed, baffled by his words and the envelope lying in her lap. She glanced from it to Wes, afraid to touch it, unaware of what it might contain. “Where are the children?” she demanded.

  “At a motel by Hershey Park by now, I would imagine,” Wes replied briefly.

  The import of his words sank slowly into Sloan’s mind, and she was then struck by a fury that overwhelmed her in shattering waves. “What?” she shrieked, twisting to face him in the car. “How dare you send my children away, how dare you take it upon yourself—”

  “They aren’t your children anymore, Sloan; check the envelope on your lap. It’s the final judgment. Legally, they are my children now, too.” His gaze flicked to her steaming face with a quelling authority. “I didn’t send them away, I sent them on a little vacation—with Cassie and George as well as Florence.”

  “A little vacation!” Sloan repeated incredulously, pushing the envelope from her lap to the floor with vengeance as she struggled against tears of anger and the impulse to fling herself at him and cause any bodily harm that she could. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You decide to waltz back in and just flick them aside—”

  “You can stop now, Sloan!” Wesley’s voice growled low with the sharp edge of deadly warning. “I’m not flicking anyone aside; I’m more aware of their welfare at the moment than you are. You want to hide behind them. I think it’s going to be to their benefit not to be around while you and I settle the immediate future.”

  “I don’t see where there is a future. Immediate or otherwise,” Sloan hissed, grudgingly admitting to herself that the concern he was showing the children was sincere, but she wasn’t about to say so. She was still seething with a rage that was in part a debilitating jealousy that she abhorred. Where had he been for all this time?...“Since you haven’t bothered with a call for six weeks,” she said aloud, “I hardly see any justice to your sweeping in like the north wind and thinking you can call the shots—”

  “I will call the shots,” he interrupted her curtly, “and that should be no surprise to you; I told you as much in Belgium. And if we’re discussing justice, Mrs. Adams, let’s bear in mind that you owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you anything!” Sloan snapped. “You’ve already subjected me to payment in full.”

  Wes laughed, startling her with an honest twinge of amusement. “Payment in full? Taking a look at that school I so magnanimously funded makes you more in debt than ever.”

  Sloan crunched down on her lip uncomfortably. “You’ll get your money back,” she said with quiet conviction.

  “I believe I will,” Wes said indifferently. He raised a brow in her direction. “I don’t remember ever accusing you of stupidity.”

  The car pulled into the house drive before Sloan could think of a reply to his double-edged statement. Sloan hopped out before he could come around and assist her and hurried for the front door, fumbling in her bag for her key. To her dismay it eluded her fingers and Wes was twisting the lock while she still fumbled. “Allow me,” he mocked her, pushing open the door and ushering her in.

  The house seemed empty and hostile with Florence and the children gone, fueling Sloan’s fury that Wes should send the kids off without her approval. Deciding to ignore his dominating presence until she could rally from the shock of his sudden arrival, she dropped her things and stalked for the shower. Apparently, he didn’t mind if the night was spent in slow torture. She might as well shower and be comfortable while she regathered her forces.

  “What’s for dinner?” he called after her, as if they returned home together every night of the week.

  “How should I know?” Sloan shot back. “You’re the one who sent the housekeeper away.”

  She was careful to bolt the shower door, but he made no attempt to come near. Emerging a half hour later with her skin pruned and her mind no closer to an answer on how to handle the impending evening, she found Wesley’s travel things had all been neatly put away in her room. A rush of heated blood suffused her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to remember the exotic pleasure of his arms. She’d be damned before she slept with a man who continued to treat her as Wes did. Belting a quilted housecoat securely around her waist, she took several deep breaths and headed out to meet her tiger.

  Stripped of jacket and tie, the neck of his shirt open and his sleeves rolled up, Wes was reading the paper, annoyingly at home with his long legs stretched out on the coffee table, his socked feet crossed. He didn’t look up as she entered the room, and for a moment she thought he didn’t realize that she was there. But then he spoke, his eyes still on the paper.

  “I repeat, what’s for dinner?”

  “And I repeat,” Sloan grated with hostility, “how should I know?”

  The paper landed on the coffee table with a whack, and Wes was on his feet. “Then let’s find out together, shall we?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer; his hand lit upon her elbow with determination and he propelled rather than escorted her into the kitchen.

  Sloan spun ahead of him, tears burning behind her eyelids. She wasn’t going to stand any more of the uncertainty, of the terrible fear that he was playing cat and mouse before pouncing with his demand for a divorce. Choking, she whirled on him, determined to have it out.

  “Just get it over with, Wes!” she blurted angrily.

  He stared at her with drawn brows and genuine confusion. “Get what over with?” he demanded impatiently.

  “Tell me how you want to arrange the divorce, and then we can stop all this and you can go somewhere for dinner!” Sloan said quickly so as not to allow her voice to tremble.

  He watched her for a moment and then turned to the refrigerator to rummage through it. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said blandly. “I want something to eat; I’m starving.”

  Relief made her shake all over again, but it was a nervous relief. She had no idea of where he had been for all that time, and he had yet to give her the slightest sign that he had decided he still cared for her in the least.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  Sloan instantly became convinced that he didn’t really give a damn one way or another. His reply was not a joke; it was issued with exasperation.

  “Of course I’m sure. I came in this morning and I haven’t eaten since.”

  Gritting her teeth, her voice tight, Sloan asked again, “I mean, are you sure you don’t want a divorce?”

  “Dammit,” he muttered, slamming the refrigerator door. “You spend money like water and there’s nothing to eat in this house!” His eyes turned to h
er, the jade speculative and hooded. “At the moment, Mrs. Adams, I do not want a divorce.” His gaze followed her form, and then he walked to the telephone, dialing as he added, “I’ve decided there’s something I just may be able to get out of this signed and sealed bargain of yours.”

  Sloan felt as if she had been hit, sure his “bargain” referred to her. She willed away the wash of humiliation that assailed her and clenched down on her teeth. She knew Wes’s temper; if she had expected mercy, she had been a fool. Still, she loved him, and she wanted her marriage to work and he wasn’t demanding a divorce. She didn’t intend to accept his dominating scorn, but she could make an effort at a little civility by swallowing her pride for the moment and attempting to put them on a level where they could converse rationally. If they could only build up a friendship...

  “Who are you calling?” she asked huskily.

  “Information,” he replied. “Give me the name of any restaurant that delivers.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, adding hastily at his frown, “I’m sure I can make omelettes or something.”

  Wes hung up the phone. “That would be fine,” he said. “I think I did see a carton of eggs.”

  Walking around the kitchen as she prepared their meal, Sloan began to regret her offer. She could feel Wesley’s keen jade gaze on her with every step and movement she made. Panic began to assail her in mammoth proportions. He said he didn’t want a divorce—at the moment. But what good was having the legal contract that bound him to her—the contract she had strived so hard to achieve!—when nothing was right between them and she was constantly on tenterhooks wondering when his scorpion’s sting would strike next? The cold ferocity of the anger he had shown her in Belgium had somewhat dissipated, but his comments tonight proved he didn’t intend to forgive and forget. Was it because he still didn’t believe she loved him, or had he lost all love and respect for her?

  “You could be useful,” she muttered irritably, thinking that if he stared at her any longer, she would throw the entire carton of eggs into the air and fly into a laughing tantrum as they fell. “I’d like a drink.”

  “Scotch?” he inquired politely.

  “Please.”

  It was almost worse having him pad silently around her on his stocking feet. She was going to add that she’d like a double, but the portion he poured her while looking ironically into her eyes displayed his ability to read her like a book. “Thanks,” she murmured, accepting the rock glass he offered her.

  Cheese, ham, and peppers went into her omelettes. Wes continued to watch her, leaning over the counter, drinking his bourbon. She was feeling the terrible urge to do something erratic again—anything—to break the uncomfortable tension between them when Wes finally spoke.

  “Sloan.”

  She glanced at him warily, but his expression was unreadable.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes fell quickly back to the eggs browning in the pan, tears stinging her lids again. Sorry about what? she wondered. His dry remarks tonight, the fiasco of a honeymoon, or the wedding itself?

  “Would you like to say something, please?” he questioned, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone. “I said I’m sorry.”

  “About what?” Sloan forced herself to ask aloud.

  “Belgium.”

  She remained silent, desolately thinking that things had changed much since then. Jealousy—the nightmares of him with a multitude of faceless women that had gnawed away at her during his absence—and the painful memory of his hard glare when they had met again kept her from accepting his words and perhaps setting things straight when her impulse was to fly to him and tell him how terribly sorry she was too. Her hand froze on the spatula as she began to realize her impulse might be the one thing to give her a chance at her marriage. But then the moment was gone.

  “Dammit! Sloan! Say something,” Wes grated.

  “What do you want me to say?” she charged in retaliation. “That it’s all right? It isn’t! You were terrible, and you haven’t improved an iota.”

  She heard the sharp clink of his glass hitting the counter, but other than that, he controlled his temper. “I see,” he said smoothly. “I was terrible—my actions were unforgiveable. But it’s okay that Sloan decided she could live just fine with a man she could lead by a little rope just so long as that man was filthy rich.”

  “Go to hell,” Sloan hissed, dropping the spatula on the eggs. “Prima’s Pizza delivers, or you can finish this yourself. I’m going to bed.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, you’re not, Mrs. Adams,” Wes said grimly, his hand clamping on her wrist as she attempted to walk past him. “We have a lot to talk about tonight, and we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.” He released her wrist and stalked to the stove to scoop the omelettes from the pan to a plate. Inclining his head toward the kitchen table, he added, “Sit, please.”

  “May I fix myself another drink first?” Sloan asked with mock subservience, her eyes wide in sarcasm.

  “Drink all you like, Sloan, but please do sit.”

  She poured herself another drink, stared at the glass, and heaped another portion of scotch into it. Maybe she could blur the razor edges of what was to come...

  “Do you want a divorce, Sloan?” Wesley plopped the food on the table and pulled out a chair for her as he asked the question.

  She lowered her eyes as she slid into the chair, her fingers tightly gripped around the glass. She was caught off guard, expecting a further battle, not an almost indifferent query.

  “Do you?” He sat down himself, and again she knew he stared at her, his searing jade gaze giving nothing but bluntly allowing her no quarter.

  “No,” she finally managed to whisper.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  God, why was he doing this to her, she wondered. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why do you want to stay married? Is the money worth living with a monster you can’t forgive?”

  Now was the time, she knew, to say something, to drop her pride...but she was so afraid he was setting her up...“Yes,” she said coolly. “I could say that I love you, but since you’re not going to believe it, let’s just leave it at cold cash. A signed and sealed bargain, as you say.” Her voice suddenly cracked and broke. He had tried to apologize, and she had made a mess of it. “I’m sorry, Wes,” she continued with a waver. “I do want to stay married, but God, not like this! Not like Belgium! Not with you gone for weeks at a time when I have no idea where you are or who you’re...” She stopped speaking and took a sip of the scotch she had stared at while she spoke.

  “Did you care where I was?” Wes asked softly.

  “Yes,” she admitted to the amber liquid swimming before her.

  “Did you really care, Sloan?” he persisted. “Or was your ego bruised? Never mind,” he answered himself, adding with a trace of bitterness, “I wouldn’t know whether to believe you or not.”

  He fell silent and Sloan chewed on her lower lip. “Wes?” she finally said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Could we try to be friends?” she asked tentatively.

  His arm stretched across the table, he gripped her chin, firmly but gently, forcing her to look at him. “I didn’t come back to argue with you, Sloan,” he said gravely, and for the first time that night she sensed a thread of an emotion that hinted of tenderness in his eyes. “It doesn’t change things, but I am very sorry for my behavior in Belgium. I can’t promise I’m going to be a saint from here on out; I have an ego myself and believe me, it’s very bruised. You have to expect a few snide remarks when you marry a man for his money, but yes, although I find it ironic to be discussing friendship with my wife, I should hope that we work toward that end since we both plan to keep the...bargain...going.”

  His touch upon her chin was wearing through the thin veneer that was left on her nerves. The callused gentleness of his hand brought back sweeping memories that combined with the nearness of him—the light but fully masculin
e scent that would forever be imbedded in her mind, the breadth of shoulder that was so enticing to lean against, the cleanly chiseled lines of his powerful profile—to nearly engulf her senses and bring her flying to him, promising anything, pleading, begging, anything to be back in his arms, held tenderly even if it was a mockery of love.

  She couldn’t allow herself to do that. They had to establish a wave of communication and respect first.

  She stood, praying her blurring eyes and quivering voice would not betray her need. “Tomorrow,” she said tentatively, “I’d like to tell you about the school.”

  “Fine,” he replied.

  “You don’t mind about it, do you?” she said hesitantly.

  “No, I don’t. But I will be interested in seeing your books—I don’t care what you spent, but perhaps I can be helpful on the business end.”

  “Thank you,” Sloan murmured. She needed to get away from him, and he hadn’t protested her rising. “I, umm, I think I pushed it a little with the scotch. I’m going to bed. I see that your things are in my room, so I’ll just move out to the—”

  “No, you won’t!” Wes interrupted sharply, the cold, guarded glimmer slipping back over his eyes as he stared at her with full attention.

  “Wes,” Sloan said slowly, “I’m not talking about any permanent situation—”

  “Forget it,” he said curtly. “Permanent, temporary, or otherwise. In my book, a husband and wife share a room.”

  She was too tired and too frazzled to realize what she said next. “Terry would have—” Her voice broke off with abrupt dismay.

  Wes stood. It seemed as if he did it very slowly, rising over her with a towering force that was chilling although they were several feet apart. His fingers were clenched tightly around a napkin, the knuckles white, the thin line of his grimly twisted lips just as devoid of color.

  “I think we discussed this once,” he said with soft danger. “I am not Terry. I do not sleep on couches, nor will you. I am not Terry.”

  Sloan met his gaze, dismayed at the hard-core jade. He still intended to tell her just how high to jump...