Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,15

his face. The rugged jawline. The full, sensual lips curving over perfect white teeth.

For the first time in two years she was actually dreaming of another face. Wesley’s smiling face.

But a smiling face that was very disturbing. Because in her dreams the smile was cold. It didn’t reach to eyes that were as sharply condemning as a jagged dagger of ice.

CHAPTER THREE

PERVERSELY, WITH THE COMING of light, Sloan found herself finally able to sleep. Waking fully to recognize her dreams had put them to rest. Wesley had been nothing other than charming to her, and, if he continued with his persistence, the next two weeks would prove to be enjoyable and exciting.

It seemed that her alarm went off as soon as she was deeply encircled in a comfortable sleep. Grudgingly Sloan rose—her usual scurry of morning activity was about to begin.

The children had to be bathed and dressed and fed, and then today she had herself to worry about. Most Sundays she didn’t bother with makeup but simply scrubbed her face, tied back her hair, and threw on a pair of jeans. The laundry didn’t care much what she looked like.

Today was different.

Today she very carefully applied just the right amount of makeup to enhance her own coloring while still appearing natural. She heated her curling wand to tighten the light waves of hair which escaped her ribbon to fall about her face in delicate tendrils. She hesitated long over her casual clothing before choosing a pair of flattering shorts and a cotton, kelly-green blouse with puff sleeves and sash closings which tied in front between the breasts.

As she had hoped and planned, the effect was perfect.

She looked young and carefree, as charming and natural as a wood nymph. No one would ever take her for a mature matron about to complete her third decade of living.

That dash of excitement she had been feeling gleamed brilliantly in the sapphire of her eyes. She laughed exultantly. “Careful, girl!” she warned herself. “Looking like a teenager doesn’t mean you should be acting like one!”

She had stooped to tie her sneakers when the doorbell rang. Jamie—remembering his lesson of the previous day—called to her, “Door, Mom!”

“Thank you, Jamie,” she told him, tweaking his cheek as she passed him. “That’s going to be Wesley and his friend who is going to watch you. Please be good, Jamie!”

“Ahh...Mom!” Jamie declared indignantly. “I’m always good.”

“Oh yeah?” Sloan raised a doubting brow to him but smiled. Jamie was good—old for his six years, a stout defender for his younger sister and brother. He had been young when he lost his father, and his world had turned around, but he was a sensitive child, like the father he lost, and he intuitively knew when things were going especially rough for his mother.

“I’m going to be a living doll!” he promised with wide eyes.

Still smiling, Sloan opened the door. Wesley stood there in faded, tattered jeans and an old football jersey, his rich, dark hair gleaming like a raven’s wing in the glare of the sun. A broad grin stretched across his face as he greeted her with sparkling eyes of appreciation.

“Good morning. Am I too early?”

“No...good morning.” Why am I always stammering around him? Sloan wondered. She had seemed caught in the spell of his eyes again, frozen into forgetting who she was, where she was...

“May we come in?”

“We?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Florence—” Wes turned from the doorway, and Sloan saw a tiny, middle-aged woman who had previously been hidden by Wesley’s broad, sinewed frame. “Sloan, this is Florence Hendry. Florence, Sloan Tallett. And those little faces peeping around her knees are Jamie, Laura, and Terry.”

Sloan smiled hesitantly, suddenly as shy as the children who withdrew their curious heads quickly. But the tiny woman had eyes as warm as the sun, and the smile she gave in return was full and heartening. “Sloan,” she said softly, taking the slender, outstretched hand firmly, “what a pleasure. Wesley has spoken of nothing but you since we arrived.” Her crinkled face dimpled. “I will admit, though, that I’m most anxious to meet the children.”

Sloan stepped aside, realizing that her company was still standing in the doorway. “Mrs. Hendry, the pleasure is mine. Please, come in. Jamie, Laura, Terry—say hello to Mrs. Hendry. She’ll be staying with you today—” Sloan bit lightly on her lower lip and glanced quickly from Wes—standing benignly amused in the background—to Florence. “Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble for you? Opening a house must have you