Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,5
a chance.” She was talking hurriedly as the bell continued to chime. “It’s Wes Adams. I told you I saw him today and he asked me about you and I told him and...” She raised her hands helplessly. “I asked him over.”
Sloan’s mouth dropped with dismay. “To my house?”
“Don’t be angry!” Cassie begged in a whisper. “He and George are old friends too. I thought we could all chat awhile. In fact, I even broke down and asked my mother-in-law to break up her beauty sleep and go watch the boys so that George and I could both stay out. And you know how the old battle-axe needs that beauty rest!”
“Cassie!” Sloan wailed.
“Oh, Sloan! What do you want me to do? I know that that’s Wes at the door.” Cassie bit her lip as she watched her sister. “Damn it, Sloan! Give the man a chance. He’s a better prospect than anyone else around here. This is a small town. And”—she grinned mischievously as she rounded the kitchen corner to answer the clanging of the bell—“he’s absolutely loaded! He moved to Kentucky when he retired and bought a Thoroughbred farm. He breeds racehorses.”
“Terrific!” Sloan mumbled as she trailed after her sister. “He was dull to begin with, and now he’s a farmer in Kentucky.”
“He’s not a farmer, he—”
“I know, I know. He raises Thoroughbreds. It’s all the same to me.”
“Put your shoes back on!” Cassie hissed.
Sloan grimaced painfully and slipped back into her heels after diving beneath the chair to retrieve them. “Only for you, sister dearest!” she teased. “But give up on your matchmaking,” she added in a low and serious tone. “I’m a twenty-nine-year-old widow with three children. I am too far-gone for romance!”
“Hush!” Cassie narrowed her brows, ran a hand over her smooth blond hair, and threw open the front door. “Wes!” she exclaimed happily in greeting. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
Wesley Adams returned her greeting with a warm smile and a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for inviting me, Cassie.” He turned sea-green eyes to Sloan. “Sloan. How are you?”
“Good, thank you, Wesley.” She accepted the hand he offered her and shook it briefly. “Come in. Sit down. Cassie”—she smiled pointedly to her sister—“will be happy to get you a drink.”
Cassie shot Sloan a quick, murderous glare behind their visitor’s back. “What can I get you, Wes?” she inquired extra sweetly, attempting to atone for Sloan’s ill-concealed lack of hospitality. Her grin became impish. “You and Sloan can have a seat, and I’ll play cocktail waitress.”
“Terrific, thank you,” Wesley said smoothly. “I’d love a bourbon, if it’s in the house supply.”
“Certainly,” Cassie murmured. “Sloan—a scotch?”
“A double—please.” Sloan returned her sister’s grin through clenched teeth as she politely took a seat beside Wesley Adams. He was still, she noted apathetically, a strikingly handsome man, probably more so with age. His shock of wavy hair, so dark as to be almost jet black, created an air of intrigue as it dipped rakishly in a natural wave over a brow. Faint lines etched his probing, intuitive eyes, lines which increased when he smiled with full lips. His face was bronzed and rugged; despite his navy suit and crisply pressed powder-blue shirt, he carried the definite air of an outdoorsman, an air which fit in well with his broad, powerful-looking shoulders and imposing height.
“I was very sorry to hear about your husband, Sloan,” he said softly, sincere compassion in the sea-green eyes that met hers easily.
“Thank you.” His unpatronizing sympathy touched a chord in her heart she had thought long since dead.
“I’m sorry again. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” She grudgingly gave him a faint smile. “Terry has been dead for two years. I assure you, I don’t become hysterical at the mention of his name.”
“You’ve changed,” he remarked oddly.
“Have I?” Her smile became ironic. “I didn’t realize you had known me well enough to judge such a thing.”
The friendly smile he had been wearing remained glued to his face, but Sloan saw his facial muscles tighten as the warm spark in his eyes went cold. She winced imperceptibly at her own behavior. There was no need for her to be so uncivil.
Wesley Adams shrugged as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket. He lit a cigarette, returned the pack to his pocket, and exhaled a long plume of smoke. His eyes were still on her, speculative and cold. Absurdly, she shuddered. Low-keyed and polite as he was, she