Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,66

out a chair for her as he asked the question.

She lowered her eyes as she slid into the chair, her fingers tightly gripped around the glass. She was caught off guard, expecting a further battle, not an almost indifferent query.

“Do you?” He sat down himself, and again she knew he stared at her, his searing jade gaze giving nothing but bluntly allowing her no quarter.

“No,” she finally managed to whisper.

“Why not?” he demanded.

God, why was he doing this to her, she wondered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you want to stay married? Is the money worth living with a monster you can’t forgive?”

Now was the time, she knew, to say something, to drop her pride...but she was so afraid he was setting her up...“Yes,” she said coolly. “I could say that I love you, but since you’re not going to believe it, let’s just leave it at cold cash. A signed and sealed bargain, as you say.” Her voice suddenly cracked and broke. He had tried to apologize, and she had made a mess of it. “I’m sorry, Wes,” she continued with a waver. “I do want to stay married, but God, not like this! Not like Belgium! Not with you gone for weeks at a time when I have no idea where you are or who you’re...” She stopped speaking and took a sip of the scotch she had stared at while she spoke.

“Did you care where I was?” Wes asked softly.

“Yes,” she admitted to the amber liquid swimming before her.

“Did you really care, Sloan?” he persisted. “Or was your ego bruised? Never mind,” he answered himself, adding with a trace of bitterness, “I wouldn’t know whether to believe you or not.”

He fell silent and Sloan chewed on her lower lip. “Wes?” she finally said quietly.

“Yes?”

“Could we try to be friends?” she asked tentatively.

His arm stretched across the table, he gripped her chin, firmly but gently, forcing her to look at him. “I didn’t come back to argue with you, Sloan,” he said gravely, and for the first time that night she sensed a thread of an emotion that hinted of tenderness in his eyes. “It doesn’t change things, but I am very sorry for my behavior in Belgium. I can’t promise I’m going to be a saint from here on out; I have an ego myself and believe me, it’s very bruised. You have to expect a few snide remarks when you marry a man for his money, but yes, although I find it ironic to be discussing friendship with my wife, I should hope that we work toward that end since we both plan to keep the...bargain...going.”

His touch upon her chin was wearing through the thin veneer that was left on her nerves. The callused gentleness of his hand brought back sweeping memories that combined with the nearness of him—the light but fully masculine scent that would forever be imbedded in her mind, the breadth of shoulder that was so enticing to lean against, the cleanly chiseled lines of his powerful profile—to nearly engulf her senses and bring her flying to him, promising anything, pleading, begging, anything to be back in his arms, held tenderly even if it was a mockery of love.

She couldn’t allow herself to do that. They had to establish a wave of communication and respect first.

She stood, praying her blurring eyes and quivering voice would not betray her need. “Tomorrow,” she said tentatively, “I’d like to tell you about the school.”

“Fine,” he replied.

“You don’t mind about it, do you?” she said hesitantly.

“No, I don’t. But I will be interested in seeing your books—I don’t care what you spent, but perhaps I can be helpful on the business end.”

“Thank you,” Sloan murmured. She needed to get away from him, and he hadn’t protested her rising. “I, umm, I think I pushed it a little with the scotch. I’m going to bed. I see that your things are in my room, so I’ll just move out to the—”

“No, you won’t!” Wes interrupted sharply, the cold, guarded glimmer slipping back over his eyes as he stared at her with full attention.

“Wes,” Sloan said slowly, “I’m not talking about any permanent situation—”

“Forget it,” he said curtly. “Permanent, temporary, or otherwise. In my book, a husband and wife share a room.”

She was too tired and too frazzled to realize what she said next. “Terry would have—” Her voice broke off with abrupt dismay.

Wes stood. It seemed as if he did it very slowly, rising over her