Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,13

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