Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,64

fury that Wes should send the kids off without her approval. Deciding to ignore his dominating presence until she could rally from the shock of his sudden arrival, she dropped her things and stalked for the shower. Apparently, he didn’t mind if the night was spent in slow torture. She might as well shower and be comfortable while she regathered her forces.

“What’s for dinner?” he called after her, as if they returned home together every night of the week.

“How should I know?” Sloan shot back. “You’re the one who sent the housekeeper away.”

She was careful to bolt the shower door, but he made no attempt to come near. Emerging a half hour later with her skin pruned and her mind no closer to an answer on how to handle the impending evening, she found Wesley’s travel things had all been neatly put away in her room. A rush of heated blood suffused her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to remember the exotic pleasure of his arms. She’d be damned before she slept with a man who continued to treat her as Wes did. Belting a quilted housecoat securely around her waist, she took several deep breaths and headed out to meet her tiger.

Stripped of jacket and tie, the neck of his shirt open and his sleeves rolled up, Wes was reading the paper, annoyingly at home with his long legs stretched out on the coffee table, his socked feet crossed. He didn’t look up as she entered the room, and for a moment she thought he didn’t realize that she was there. But then he spoke, his eyes still on the paper.

“I repeat, what’s for dinner?”

“And I repeat,” Sloan grated with hostility, “how should I know?”

The paper landed on the coffee table with a whack, and Wes was on his feet. “Then let’s find out together, shall we?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer; his hand lit upon her elbow with determination and he propelled rather than escorted her into the kitchen.

Sloan spun ahead of him, tears burning behind her eyelids. She wasn’t going to stand any more of the uncertainty, of the terrible fear that he was playing cat and mouse before pouncing with his demand for a divorce. Choking, she whirled on him, determined to have it out.

“Just get it over with, Wes!” she blurted angrily.

He stared at her with drawn brows and genuine confusion. “Get what over with?” he demanded impatiently.

“Tell me how you want to arrange the divorce, and then we can stop all this and you can go somewhere for dinner!” Sloan said quickly so as not to allow her voice to tremble.

He watched her for a moment and then turned to the refrigerator to rummage through it. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said blandly. “I want something to eat; I’m starving.”

Relief made her shake all over again, but it was a nervous relief. She had no idea of where he had been for all that time, and he had yet to give her the slightest sign that he had decided he still cared for her in the least.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Sloan instantly became convinced that he didn’t really give a damn one way or another. His reply was not a joke; it was issued with exasperation.

“Of course I’m sure. I came in this morning and I haven’t eaten since.”

Gritting her teeth, her voice tight, Sloan asked again, “I mean, are you sure you don’t want a divorce?”

“Dammit,” he muttered, slamming the refrigerator door. “You spend money like water and there’s nothing to eat in this house!” His eyes turned to her, the jade speculative and hooded. “At the moment, Mrs. Adams, I do not want a divorce.” His gaze followed her form, and then he walked to the telephone, dialing as he added, “I’ve decided there’s something I just may be able to get out of this signed and sealed bargain of yours.”

Sloan felt as if she had been hit, sure his “bargain” referred to her. She willed away the wash of humiliation that assailed her and clenched down on her teeth. She knew Wes’s temper; if she had expected mercy, she had been a fool. Still, she loved him, and she wanted her marriage to work and he wasn’t demanding a divorce. She didn’t intend to accept his dominating scorn, but she could make an effort at a little civility by swallowing her pride for the moment and attempting to put them on a level where they could converse rationally. If