Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,58

himself. She had used him and made a complete fool of him. But he still loved her, and the pain he had caused her was hurting him. Yet he couldn’t go to her now—he couldn’t erase any of what had happened.

And he couldn’t forget that she had purposely seduced him into marriage for money.

But he couldn’t give her up. Somewhere in the future...

Which was not now. His pride, ego, and heart were all wounded, raw and bleeding. If he stayed, her very beauty and his love for her would heighten his pain, and he would say more words that couldn’t be taken back...that could never be forgiven.

She looked at him again, her crystal blue eyes brimming, but defiant, and hateful. As if a shutter had fallen over them, his own eyes gave nothing more away. “Good-bye, Sloan,” he said softly.

And the door slammed coldly in her face.

She didn’t cry again; she was numb with disbelief. For at least an hour she didn’t even move, but remained lifelessly in the bed, staring straight ahead at the tapestried wall, unable to think and sort her whirling emotions. Then she finally obeyed the little voice that told her she had to do something, rose mechanically, and situated herself in the shower. Her hands began to steady as the hot water waved over them, and she finally forced herself to accept the situation.

A part of her hated Wesley for the things he had said and done, for taking her and using her so brutally simply to prove that he knew her game and was changing the rules. She had sold out, and in his vengeance, he wanted her to know that she was now his and that when he said jump, her question should be, How high?

And a part of her hated herself. Color that was more than the force of the hot water filled her skin at the thought of her uninhibited response to him despite everything. Granted, the release of the anger Wesley had been harboring had created the passionate desire of the morning, and he would have taken her roughly in that bed no matter what her reaction. But Lord! she thought sickly, he had manhandled her, thrown her around, called her everything just short of tramp—albeit with a modicum of control—and she had protested but feebly and clung to him in wanton pleasure with guttural whimperings in her throat that proved her to be an easily assailable toy...

“Damn, I hate him!” she raged aloud to the cascading water. But she didn’t. She still loved him, desperately, and a part of her even understood the violence of his reaction. He had loved her, really loved her, and as far as he could see, she had laughingly tossed that love aside.

There was still hope, she told herself, turning off the water. He had said he would come back. And when he did, his initial rage would be gone. She would talk to him...

Her hands flew back to her face, and she shuddered. How could she talk to him if he continued to treat her as he did today? Her own temper would flare, and they would enter one disastrous argument after another.

No! she decided firmly. There would be no more repeats of today. Wesley was not a primitive caveman wielding a club, nor was she a helpless female at his mercy. Whether he ever decided to believe her or trust in her or not, they couldn’t have any relationship without a semblance of dignity. She loved him, but she couldn’t bear for this to go on...him nonchalantly pulling her about as if she were a puppet, there for his amusement and then cast aside at his whimsy.

Maybe it was best he didn’t know how completely and thoroughly she loved him. He could wedge his knives so much more deeply. Perhaps he should go on thinking her a cold, heartless schemer.

She was still trembling, shaking like a leaf blown high in winter. I’ve got to pull myself together! she wailed silently. But her dreams, so good, so wonderful...love, comfort...the security of being loved and cared for...had just been cruelly shattered in that same winter wind. She couldn’t pull herself together; she couldn’t even get out of the shower.

Sloan eventually did get out of the shower. She dressed; she even picked up the guide books Wes had left behind. A picture of Waterloo loomed before her...statues of Lord Nelson and Napoleon. Bruges...ancient walled city. Ostend.

Places and things they should have seen together...

Sloan brushed the