Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,65

they could only build up a friendship...

“Who are you calling?” she asked huskily.

“Information,” he replied. “Give me the name of any restaurant that delivers.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, adding hastily at his frown, “I’m sure I can make omelettes or something.”

Wes hung up the phone. “That would be fine,” he said. “I think I did see a carton of eggs.”

Walking around the kitchen as she prepared their meal, Sloan began to regret her offer. She could feel Wesley’s keen jade gaze on her with every step and movement she made. Panic began to assail her in mammoth proportions. He said he didn’t want a divorce—at the moment. But what good was having the legal contract that bound him to her—the contract she had strived so hard to achieve!—when nothing was right between them and she was constantly on tenterhooks wondering when his scorpion’s sting would strike next? The cold ferocity of the anger he had shown her in Belgium had somewhat dissipated, but his comments tonight proved he didn’t intend to forgive and forget. Was it because he still didn’t believe she loved him, or had he lost all love and respect for her?

“You could be useful,” she muttered irritably, thinking that if he stared at her any longer, she would throw the entire carton of eggs into the air and fly into a laughing tantrum as they fell. “I’d like a drink.”

“Scotch?” he inquired politely.

“Please.”

It was almost worse having him pad silently around her on his stocking feet. She was going to add that she’d like a double, but the portion he poured her while looking ironically into her eyes displayed his ability to read her like a book. “Thanks,” she murmured, accepting the rock glass he offered her.

Cheese, ham, and peppers went into her omelettes. Wes continued to watch her, leaning over the counter, drinking his bourbon. She was feeling the terrible urge to do something erratic again—anything—to break the uncomfortable tension between them when Wes finally spoke.

“Sloan.”

She glanced at him warily, but his expression was unreadable.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes fell quickly back to the eggs browning in the pan, tears stinging her lids again. Sorry about what? she wondered. His dry remarks tonight, the fiasco of a honeymoon, or the wedding itself?

“Would you like to say something, please?” he questioned, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone. “I said I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Sloan forced herself to ask aloud.

“Belgium.”

She remained silent, desolately thinking that things had changed much since then. Jealousy—the nightmares of him with a multitude of faceless women that had gnawed away at her during his absence—and the painful memory of his hard glare when they had met again kept her from accepting his words and perhaps setting things straight when her impulse was to fly to him and tell him how terribly sorry she was too. Her hand froze on the spatula as she began to realize her impulse might be the one thing to give her a chance at her marriage. But then the moment was gone.

“Dammit! Sloan! Say something,” Wes grated.

“What do you want me to say?” she charged in retaliation. “That it’s all right? It isn’t! You were terrible, and you haven’t improved an iota.”

She heard the sharp clink of his glass hitting the counter, but other than that, he controlled his temper. “I see,” he said smoothly. “I was terrible—my actions were unforgiveable. But it’s okay that Sloan decided she could live just fine with a man she could lead by a little rope just so long as that man was filthy rich.”

“Go to hell,” Sloan hissed, dropping the spatula on the eggs. “Prima’s Pizza delivers, or you can finish this yourself. I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, no, no, no, you’re not, Mrs. Adams,” Wes said grimly, his hand clamping on her wrist as she attempted to walk past him. “We have a lot to talk about tonight, and we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.” He released her wrist and stalked to the stove to scoop the omelettes from the pan to a plate. Inclining his head toward the kitchen table, he added, “Sit, please.”

“May I fix myself another drink first?” Sloan asked with mock subservience, her eyes wide in sarcasm.

“Drink all you like, Sloan, but please do sit.”

She poured herself another drink, stared at the glass, and heaped another portion of scotch into it. Maybe she could blur the razor edges of what was to come...

“Do you want a divorce, Sloan?” Wesley plopped the food on the table and pulled