Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,24

type of student radar had gone out, and an ensemble of dancers in tights and actors in various stages of costume from the drama classes had formed in a loose circle around Wes.

As she listened to him deal politely and quietly with the students, Sloan realized that the pleasant, low-timbred quality of his voice was truly becoming dear to her. Wes Adams did have everything; sinewed good looks, personality, charisma.

And a fortune.

She must have been blind all those years ago, but then they had been young. Neither had been what they were today.

Nervousness rippled through Sloan as she silently watched him. Cassie had probably been right—Wes could crook a little finger and have any woman he wanted. For some obscure reason he wanted her, and God help her, she wanted him too, even if the feeling wasn’t love. But he had to love her, really love her, because it had to be marriage...she needed him. Desperately now, now that she had let the dream grow.

Her fingers clenched at her side. She was going to have to be so very careful...he had to keep wanting her. For a lifetime. And he had to keep believing in the illusion she hoped she was weaving.

An illusion of assurance, of sophisticated confidence. Of having every bit as much to offer in a relationship as he.

Green eyes suddenly met hers over a sea of faces. The lazy, incredibly sexy grin curled its way back into the strong line of his jaw. “Excuse me,” he murmured to the students, and then he was at her side, leading her out as young men and women watched and echoed good-byes to them both.

For a moment Sloan was tempted to laugh. Wesley would probably never realize how he had just elevated her in the eyes of the student body.

“Nice kids,” Wes said as he steered her to his Lincoln in the parking lot. “They filled me in quite a bit on you.”

“Really?” Sloan raised a curious and surprised brow.

“Ummm.” He grinned with amusement. “They say you’re the sexiest tyrant ever to head a dance class. I assured them they were probably quite right.”

“Oh,” Sloan laughed, wincing as she felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “About being a tyrant—or, uh...” Damn! What was she saying?

“Sexy?” Wes supplied, chuckling as he shut her door. He walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. “Both,” he said, smiling at her. “I know you’re sexy as hell, and I can bet you can be a tyrant.”

“Worried?” she queried in as light and teasing a manner as she could.

“Not at all. I can fight fire with fire, my dear.”

Sloan smiled, the right reaction since his answer had been teasing in kind. Yet a little trickle of unease worked its way up her neck. Had there been a hint of steel beneath his velvet tone, or was that only an illusion of her overactive imagination? She remembered the first night at her house...how bluntly he had called her rude. He hadn’t really been angry; he had been in complete control. Yet she shuddered at the vision of a man who possessed his dynamic force and depths of passion losing his temper.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Your children,” he replied, patient and amused by her wandering.

“Oh...” Sloan gave him directions to the day-care center.

Three hours later—having fulfilled all obligation to family and art—they were back on the highway driving to a hotel outside the city limits that offered rooftop dining and dancing. It was odd, Sloan thought, casting Wes a covert glance as he drove, that she had really only known him four days. She had known him years ago, of course, but that was a vague memory. On Friday night she had thought his appearance nothing more than a nuisance. The intensity of their relationship since was strangely comforting—while also disturbing. She was nervous—one couldn’t be planning on marrying a man who had no idea he was being baited without being nervous—but she was now beginning to relax. For whatever heaven-sent reason, Wesley seemed to be sincere. His patience with her situation was astounding. He also seemed to be determined to pander to her every whim with tolerant amusement. Little by little, it became apparent that her inexpert vamping was working—she could almost hope she was winding him around her little finger.

It was over rainbow trout, tenderly seasoned and cooked and perfectly garnished, that Wesley began to quiz her about Terry again.

“When you talk about your husband there’s a little light in your eyes,”