Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,54

blush spread like a stain to her cheeks. “I must say, love,” he spoke with the silky tone she had learned could be so cutting and dangerous, “you do pay up handsomely. I always knew, from watching the way that you moved, that you’d be dynamite in bed. Certain women are made for it. Even so, your veins must be filled with ice water for you to respond with such—talented ardor—to a man you don’t love.”

If he had slapped her soundly across the face, he couldn’t have been more abusive. Sloan was still for a second, absorbing the shock, amazed that anyone could be so blind. Then her shock receded as anger, boiling like red-hot lava, raged through her system. She had been wrong, yes, but she didn’t deserve the things he was saying. Fear, control, and all sense of reasonable logic fell from her like a cloak, and she flew at him with the speed and wrath of a whirling tornado. “You bastard!” she hissed, and she struck him cleanly with a fury-driven open hand that left him no time to ward off the blow.

It was his turn to stand dead still as the mark she had imprinted on his face quickly turned white, pink, and dark red. The sound of her slap seemed to reverberate through the room as he slowly rubbed his cheek, staring at her all the while. “My beloved wife,” he drawled mockingly, “that was certainly uncalled-for. I’ve been desperately trying to remain nonviolent about this whole thing.”

Sloan took a deep breath of trepidation. She wisely felt the time for courage ebbing. His features, so handsome and strongly formed, were twisted into hard, grim lines; his eyes, no longer icy, blazed with a fury more intense than that of a raging sea. She began to back away, once more frightened—she didn’t like his expression one bit. His eyes suddenly flickered over her again, and she realized her unprecipitated blow had dislodged her improvised sheet tunic and that he was gazing upon the mound of one creamy, exposed breast. Flushed, she pulled the sheet more tightly around her, only to be rewarded for her efforts by a dry, mirthless chuckle from Wes.

“Rather late for you to turn modest, isn’t it?” he demanded scornfully. The suitcase went to the floor, and he sat on the bed. “Come here,” he ordered arrogantly.

She could see the rise and fall of his black-matted chest, read the desire that burned along with the anger in his eyes. Her gaze fell to his hands, large hands, wisped with coarse strands of the same black hair, hands with fingers neatly kept, strong hands, strong fingers, capable of holding her with infinite tenderness and arousing her to abandoned passion, capable of manipulating her forcefully and bending her to his will.

Her eyes slowly left the fascination of his hands and moved upward. A single pulse beat erratically in the fine blue line of a vein in his corded neck. She raised her eyes still further, saw the ragged, crooked smile set lazily into his sensuous lips, saw that the light in his eyes held no tenderness, no love. Just hard, cold fury and desire.

She shook her head softly, beseechingly, and whispered, “No.”

“Come here.” The devilish grin increased as he repeated his command. His tone was deceptively low and pleasant as he added, “Sloan, don’t make me come to you.”

Wincing, Sloan inched toward him, her eyes downcast, her thick lashes hiding the emotions that raged within them. A scuffle, she knew, would be worthless. She was probably lucky he hadn’t decided to strike her back before...maybe, just maybe, she could talk to him. But she paused when she reached him, afraid to face him, finally lifting her lashes to meet his eyes with open pleading.

But he didn’t glance into her eyes to read their message. He tugged at the sheet until it fell to the floor at her feet. The startling green gems of his eyes raked over her briefly with insolent satisfaction, then his arms came around her, and she was swept to the bed beside him. She tried to speak, but his lips claimed hers, and her words were muffled as his tongue sought her mouth with a unique mastery all its own. Then her mouth was deserted as his kisses roamed along the graceful arch of her throat and down to her breasts. But they were not gentle kisses, not even hinting at love or tenderness. They were rough and urgent; they demanded