Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,34

casual, intimate touch, was the most natural thing in the world. For a time she was content thinking how lucky it was that Wesley seemed to belong with her group, then she realized, with a bit of awe, that it wasn’t Wesley who had found his niche, it was she. She belonged with him. And she loved that belonging. No one had ever made her feel so very alive, so vibrantly aware. Not even Terry. No, not even Terry had held her with such competent arms, had thrilled and excited her with a simple glance or possessive touch on a shoulder.

Cassie suddenly stifled a yawn with embarrassment. “Excuse me!” she apologized.

“Company boring you, huh?” George teased.

“Oh, no!” Cassie protested. “This has been the nicest night! It’s just that I’m not used to late hours.”

“I think that’s our cue,” Wes told Sloan with mischievous eyes. “Time to take the Harringtons home.”

George glanced at his wife, insinuatively wiggling his brows. “I’m amazed these lovebirds have taken this long, aren’t you?”

“George!” Cassie remonstrated. “Hush! You’re embarrassing them!”

“We’re not embarrassed,” Wes said with a leisurely smile. “And you’re not keeping us. We’ve got all night.”

Sloan felt as if her heart had crashed into her stomach. All night! Did he think she was spending the night with him? Her throat went dry and her hands clammy. Had she played the seductress too well? She couldn’t have him pressuring her. If he pushed, she might capitulate! And then he might decide that there really wasn’t anything, so special about her after all...

But at the moment, she was cornered. The check was paid; they were rising to leave. And she had imbibed too freely of the wine. She shook her head. Her thoughts were fuzzy, and she needed a sharp, clear mind.

As they drove to drop off Cassie and George, she was quiet and withdrawn, mentally planning strategy with a desperate speed. She was still quiet when they were finally alone, until it occurred to her that she didn’t even know where they were headed.

Moistening her lips and breathing deeply, she asked with a wobbly effort at nonchalance, “Where are we going?”

Wesley’s jade gaze fell to her with a burning intensity. Although he grinned with his usual ease, his voice was hoarse and husky when he replied. “The nice romantic spot I promised. My house.”

Sloan became dizzy with fear. Was he wrapped around her finger as tightly as she thought? She nervously smoothed already smooth hair. At any rate, she reasoned, the man wasn’t a rapist. He wouldn’t force her to do anything.

But she wasn’t afraid of him using force, and she knew it. She was afraid of her own reactions. Heaven help me! she prayed fervently as he ushered her toward his darkened house. But would heaven help her after all that she had done? More likely, the powers that be would listen and laugh...

Wesley switched on dim lights as they entered and calmly walked ahead of her. “Brandy?” he asked, as she stood in the doorway surveying the elegant room. Wesley’s taste in decor was stunning—casual and warm, but elegant. The entrance hallway, carpeted in a creamy pile, led to a sunken living room, plush with thickly cushioned, wicker furniture. Palms and ferns unobtrusively added a beguiling hospitality, as did the glass window doors which led to a screened patio, complete with a sparkling, kidney-shaped pool and a whirling hot tub.

“Come in,” Wesley invited with amusement, divesting himself of jacket, tie, and cummerbund and grimacing as he undid the top three buttons of his shirt. “The attack dogs have the evening off.”

Sloan flushed as she moved uneasily down to the plush, sunken area. She sat, thinking she would have to remain seriously on guard in Wesley’s territory. Her mind was so benumbed that she started when he handed her a snifter of brandy.

“It’s me,” he said kindly. “The same old Wesley you’ve been seeing all week.” He sat beside her, sipped at his own glass, and took her chin gently with his free hand. “The same old Wesley who loves you very much,” he added softly. “The same old Wesley who wants to marry you.”

For some ungodly reason, she was close to tears. Without thinking, she blurted, “Why?”

“I could tell you a million things,” he said, hypnotizing her with the gleaming jade of his eyes and the tender stroke of his fingers on the soft flesh of her face. “I can say because you’re bright and beautiful and more graceful and lovely than any other