Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,69

he punched each pill from its plastic socket and flung them down the drain, one by one.

“What in hell are you doing?” Sloan demanded, astounded by his behavior. She had left him peacefully sleeping, confidently believing that the ardent lover of the night would awaken in a decent, if not loving, frame of mind. But he didn’t appear to be in a “decent” mood at all. The tension in his sinewed body that she was learning to read so well was all too apparent. She wasn’t sure how, but she had seriously angered him. “Wesley,” she repeated more softly, “what are you doing? I need those.” Had the man gone mad?

The last pill swirled down the drain, and Wesley tossed the packet into the garbage bag beneath the sink. “Where’s your purse?” he demanded.

“Why?”

“I want the rest of these.”

“There aren’t any ‘rest.’ I get them each month.” Sloan planted her hands on her hips and added crossly, “Except now I’ll have to run by today and replace what you just threw away. What in God’s name did you think you were doing? Did you think they were some type of drug—”

“I knew exactly what they were,” Wes said irritably. “And you have a hell of a nerve taking the damn things without first discussing it with me.”

“What?” Sloan’s exclamation of amazement was a shrill cry.

“You heard me,” Wesley snapped. Sloan could do nothing but stare at him, working her jaw, but still unable to offer a suitably scathing comeback. He returned her stare with challenging eyes, then turned to the automatic percolator. “Have you made coffee?”

“I’ve made coffee,” Sloan retorted blandly, energizing herself into action to tug on the sleeve of his robe. “Would you mind explaining your childish actions? What difference does it make to you whether or not I take pills? I would think you’d appreciate—”

“Well, I don’t,” he cut through her speech. “I told you last night I’d thought of something I could get out of our bargain.” He poured coffee into a cup and began to sip it black, his eyes implacably on her.

Again, Sloan was stunned speechless. She blinked, swallowed, and sputtered before managing, “You want me to...to...”

“Conceive,” Wesley supplied, calmly drinking his coffee. “Yes. That is the usual way to have a child.”

“You want a child,” Sloan echoed numbly.

“My, what astounding comprehension!” Wesley drawled mockingly. “Yes, I want a child. That, my love, is something I can get out of this, something I’ve always wanted. I told you last night that I had decided there was a benefit I might derive.”

“I know you told me,” Sloan mumbled, automatically reaching for the coffeepot to occupy her trembling hands, “but I thought...I thought...that you meant...”

“Let me help you with that,” Wes said, amused by her confusion. He took the coffeepot from her hands and poured the steaming brew into a cup. He placed the cup firmly into her grip, then leaned nonchalantly back on the counter. “You thought that I had decided on your lovely person as sufficient payment for a...loveless...marriage.” Sloan felt her skin begin to heat beneath his cool appraisal and choked as she sipped a burning gulp. Wes patted her on the back, laughing at her obvious discomfiture. “Darling wife,” he remarked with a small shake of his head, “you are so easy to read. That is exactly what you thought. Sorry—you were wrong.” His cool green gaze raked her mirthfully from head to toe. “Not that I don’t find your charms intricately pleasing, but in all honest reality, they are available elsewhere.”

Sloan’s hand rose automatically to slap his devilishly leering face and hopefully wipe the amused grin clean from it. But this time Wesley anticipated her action, catching her arm and salvaging her cup simultaneously. “Don’t!” he warned imperiously, twisting her wrist until a small cry escaped her. His grip eased, but he continued to hold her wrist and his jaw was rigidly set. “Lady, you will learn to control those violent little impulses of yours. Lash out at me again and you’ll be very sorry.”

Sloan clamped her teeth together and glared into his eyes defiantly, tilting her head with regal pride. He wouldn’t dare! Still...she might be wiser to learn to cut him with words as he did her. Her arm went limp within his grasp. “Perhaps, if you could learn to curb your tongue, Mr. Adams,” she challenged coldly, “I could learn to control my violent impulses.

“And if you expect a child,” she snapped, “you’d better start being a little