Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,12

be offended or pleased.

She perked coffee while she waited for Wesley to finish with the children, arranging a tray anxiously to bring to the living room table for a more relaxed setting. Where did she go from here? Things were going too well. Wesley, by appearing at her door without warning, had thrown her completely off course. What was it he was after? She couldn’t play too hard to get, or he might disappear for good. Yet she couldn’t be an easy conquest. Marriage was her game, nothing else, or all was wasted.

Wesley sauntered into the kitchen as she placed a ring of crackers around small squares of cheddar and Muenster cheese. “They’re quite a handful,” he remarked with a long stretch. “You must be a veritable powerhouse of energy.” He nonchalantly reached for a cracker and slice of cheese. “How do you do it all?”

Sloan cocked her head with a short, convincing laugh. It wouldn’t do to let him know that she wasn’t managing well with “doing it all.” “They are actually pretty good kids,” she said. “They go to a great day-care center when I work, and Cassie lets me out on Friday nights. It’s not such a bad life and I...” Her voice broke off suddenly.

“What?” The sincere compassion in his eyes urged her to go on.

“I wouldn’t trade a one of them for anything in the world,” she said softly.

“I don’t blame you.” Wesley picked up the tray and preceded her to the living room. “Good coffee,” he commented as he sat comfortably on the sofa. The crooked grin softened his rather severely chiseled features, blending the angles of his high cheekbones and square, rugged jaw. “Good coffee is a sign of a good woman, you know.”

It was easy to laugh with him, and she needn’t have worried about the evening. He made no move to touch her as they talked, and she again found him interesting as they discussed a number of subjects. He wasn’t Terry, he didn’t fill the air with imaginative views and vociferous dreams, but as the time passed by them, she slowly forgot to make comparisons.

“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