Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,25

he told her, his eyes darting to hers from the fish. “It sounds like you had the perfect marriage. Didn’t you ever argue?”

Sloan smiled, still curious that it was so easy to talk him. She sensed that the questions were relevant to their own relationship, although she wasn’t sure why. She answered him honestly—there was seldom a reason to hedge because he never brought up finances.

“It was a near perfect marriage, I suppose, but we did argue.” She laughed. “Terry spent lots of nights on the couch.”

“On the couch?” Wes seemed surprised.

Sloan frowned slightly, perplexed at his reaction, but still smiling. “Sure. He always knew when I was really angry because I’d throw his pillow and a blanket at him. By the morning—or the morning after, at least—we were ready to converse like human beings. I thought it worked well.”

“You would,” Wes said, and although he kept the teasing tone in his voice, Sloan noted an edge of sternness. “You weren’t the one sleeping on the couch.”

“I meant we both had time to cool down,” Sloan said. “You disagree with such a tactic?”

“I don’t believe you can run away from the issue,” Wes said, signaling their waiter for coffee. “But tell me, why do you think the marriage worked so well? Take it as research, if you like,” he added with a grin. “I’ve only heard of or seen three really good marriages—yours, your sister’s, and my brother’s.”

Sloan mulled the question over carefully. This talk about marriage was very tricky. Perhaps she should have told him she and Terry never argued...“I don’t really know. I think with Terry and me it was a question of both being artists. We loved each other, and also respected each other’s need to love what we did. We both knew we wanted a family. Cassie and I lost our parents when we were just out of our teens—and I learned then, and again when Terry died, just how important sisters can be. I wanted my children to have each other. So did Terry. He was an only child, and his parents died when he was young too. We had a lot in common. And I don’t think I ever saw Terry really mad. He simply didn’t have a temper—which was good, because mine was terrible when I was younger!” Sloan chuckled a little sheepishly. She hadn’t meant to say quite so much, and Wes was watching her now intently, the green eyes seeming to pierce through to her soul. She didn’t want him seeing her soul...

“You seem to have pulled yourself together,” he said simply. He lit a cigarette and sat back exhaling smoke, his eyes never leaving her. “Sometimes, when people lose a loved one, they blind themselves. They forget that the person was human and turn them into a god. You remember all the good, which is wonderful, but you seem to also realize he was a man.”

Do I? Sloan wondered. She wasn’t sure. There was still that terrible ache in her sometimes, but oddly, since she had started seeing Wesley, it was fading. It wasn’t love, not as she had known it, but she respected him, admired him, and felt a wild excitement in his arms when he touched her...when she heard his voice...when she watched his powerful, lithe movements...

Wes abruptly changed the subject. “Would you like to dance? Or is that a poor question after you’ve taught all day?”

“No.” Sloan smiled. “I’d love to dance. The effect is an entirely different one on a dance floor.”

It was entirely different. She loved being in this man’s arms, inhaling his pleasant scent, feeling the rough material of his jacket and the hard muscles beneath her fingers. Curiously, he was a wonderful dancer, light and agile on his feet, especially for a man of his size.

Tilting her chin to his face, Sloan smiled with a lazy happiness. “You do quite well on a dance floor, Mr. Adams.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a shade of amusement, his hand tightening upon the small of her back and pulling her closer. “I like to think it’s because of the ballet classes I’ve taken.”

“Ballet? You?” Sloan queried with disbelief.

“Yep.” They made a dip, and Sloan found her form fitting to his with uncanny perfection. “My coach made the whole team take dance classes to improve our coordination.” He shrugged ruefully. “I’m six four and two hundred and twenty pounds—small compared to half the team. Seriously, imagine a guy we called Bull Bradford. Six foot eight, three hundred