Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,28

nudged from dreamland by Wesley prodding the shoulder that rested against his knee.

“I’m sorry.” He chuckled with affection. “I hate to disturb you with that sweet smile on your face, but I need to use the phone.”

“Oh!” She jumped up quickly and excused them both from the group to lead Wes through the living room, where Cassie’s boys were curled asleep on the couches, to her room and the extension. “I’ll leave you to your privacy,” she said, starting to close the door.

“No, stay,” he said huskily, his intense green gaze demanding and sensual. “This will only take a minute, and I want to talk to you.”

Sloan’s heart began to flutter with anticipation and the combination of wild excitement and fear that always seemed to assail her when she was alone with him. She forced herself to smile and shrug casually before sitting idly at the foot of the bed to await his call.

It was half social call and half business, she realized quickly. It was his brother he talked to, and he started off in a warm humor. He rattled off a few names which she assumed belonged to horses, and discussed prices and breeding stock.

Then he was silent for quite a while, listening. Sloan literally saw all warmth leave his eyes—they became hardened crystals of smooth green glass. The muscles in his face tensed and tightened; a vein began to pound furiously in the whipcord strength of his neck. His jawline was hard and squared, the total quality of his handsome features suddenly transformed into something more chilling than she had ever seen before.

A face more fierce and ruthless than she had ever imagined. Wesley Adams furious.

Despite his metamorphosis, he remained silent, his hand tightening around the receiver until his knuckles went white.

But not as white as Sloan was feeling. It wasn’t directed at her, but his anger was the type that froze a person’s blood. Just watching the apparent control he wielded, allowing only muscles to tighten, started a shivering inside of her that would not cease.

He spoke low—a deathly growl. “Fire him. And make sure he’s off the place before I get back.”

Apparently the person on the other end of the wire knew there was no mercy when that restrained, bloodcurdling hiss was used. Wesley listened again, but Dave Adams had little else to say.

The tension in Wes ebbed somewhat as he said good-bye, his anger not directed at his brother, but at the party being fired. Sloan would hate to be that person, but if she was the employee in question, she would definitely be long gone before Wes got back.

The receiver clicked precisely back into its holder, and Sloan found herself wishing he had not asked her to stay in the room. She didn’t think she wanted to hear anything he had to say at that moment, not with that look of ruthless authority still on his face.

Wes turned to her suddenly, as if just realizing she was still with him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We had a problem with a trainer.”

For some ridiculous reason—perhaps her own shivering apprehension—Sloan felt pity for the unknown man and came to his defense, stuttering, “Wh—what happened? Perhaps you should give the man a second chance—”

Wesley interrupted her, his lips drawn in a tight white smile. “I don’t give second chances. I gave him a chance when I hired him. He came in drunk, decided to take one of our most promising three-year-olds out, and caused the mare to break her leg. She had to be destroyed.”

“Oh,” Sloan murmured weakly. Besides the anger, she could sense the pain in his voice.

But Wes could make incredible changes. His smile and eyes became lighter as he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, then tilted her chin toward his. “There’s nothing more to be done about it,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, I seem to have put a damper on your evening.”

“No—” Sloan protested, but she didn’t get a chance to say more. She was drawn up, inexorably, into his arms. There was a force to him tonight, a leftover of the coiled tension he had constrained, a shuddering that rippled through sinewed muscles and lent heat and passion to his rough but tender command. His lips taking hers with no question or persuasion but with need and mastery. His tongue invaded the moist intimacy of her mouth, expecting submission with absolute authority and receiving it.

Sloan was at first startled, and then mesmerized. She couldn’t have