Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,51
you again.”
Sloan obligingly rested her head upon his chest. A thought nagged at her, but she was so tired, she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Then it hit her, but by then she was caught in the twilight between sleep and consciousness and she dismissed it immediately.
In all his words of coaxing and passionate encouragement, in all his whispers of hungry pleasure, never once had Wesley said he loved her.
What a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, Sloan thought dimly in her subconscious. She knew Wesley loved her; he had told her so many times, even when she had been setting her “trap” and was totally, unaware of her own, intense feelings for him.
And so she slept again, soundly and perfectly happy in her newly discovered joy and fulfillment, blissfully unaware of what the morning would bring.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BRIGHT, BEGUILING SUNLIGHT of the Belgian morning streaked through the parted drapes to awaken her. Like a purring kitten she stretched languorously; like an innocent maid who had just discovered the wonder of love she flicked shy lashes and reached a tentative hand across the covers to touch her new husband.
He wasn’t there. Her eyes opened fully, and she smiled a sweet smile of contentment as she found him, sitting on a bedside chair, his strong fingers idly stroking his chin as he watched her. His dark hair was tousled, his broad chest incredibly sexy in its partial exposure at the loose V of his haphazardly belted robe.
But he didn’t smile back, and Sloan’s happily curved lips straightened tremulously. His look was as cold as ice, his piercing green eyes brutal in his tense, bronzed face.
Barely awake, Sloan blinked with confusion. It couldn’t be Wesley staring at her that way! She opened her eyes again to find the glacial image still before her. She struggled inwardly to ease her bewilderment. What had happened to change the tender and gentle man she had married into this basilisk of condemnation? How could he possibly be staring at her with such venom after the night of passionate love they had just shared together?
“So you’re awake.”
His voice was low, pleasant, the tone almost silky. For the briefest moment, Sloan began to relax, convincing herself she was reading things into his pirate gaze that simply weren’t there.
Then he began to speak again.
“It was...interesting?...my love, to see how you would handle the night. Very nice. I must say, darling, that when you sell out, you do go all the way with gusto.”
A creeping cold chill of fear seeped rapidly through her numbed senses. “What?” she whispered incredulously, moistening dry lips.
“The act is charming, Sloan, but no good.” He flashed her a pearly smile with a rapier edge. “It’s time for a little honesty.”
Lord, she wondered desperately, what had happened? “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she hedged, panicked. Forcing herself to keep a mask of calm on her features, she thought rapidly over the past events. He couldn’t have any suspicions regarding her original motives for marriage; he would have certainly called off the wedding! He couldn’t know anything harmful, she decided with a quaking bravado. Still, she clutched the covers protectively to her chin as she attempted a captivating grin and laughed gaily. “Really, darling, you should have warned me that you wake like a growling bear!”
Dark brows rose in an arch. “Should I have?” he inquired politely, the daggerlike smile still etched clearly into his taut profile. He stood and sauntered slowly to her while she watched him uneasily. She had the terrible, uncanny feeling that he was playing with her, as a great cat played with its prey before pouncing for the final kill. Her instinct was to run, but she was stubbornly insisting to herself that there was nothing that could be really wrong. Willpower alone kept her still, presenting a facade of guileless calm.
She felt his heat as he sat beside her, felt the tense, powerful coil of his thigh muscle against hers. She forced herself to meet his steel, green gaze unblinkingly, and when his fingers moved gently along her cheekbones and down to her throat, she silently prayed she would not flinch beneath the harsh rigidity that lurked, like a spiral about to spring, behind the tenderness of the gesture. Then she couldn’t bear the tense, pregnant stillness any longer. “What is it, love?” she whispered.
“What is it...love,” he repeated in a toneless, mocking murmur. Then the coil unleashed and the spring flew. His fingers clamped around her