Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,71

he approached her, attempting to elude him but failing.

“Sloan,” Wes tried to begin, clasping her upper arms.

She had no conception that he was still trying to apologize; she was sure from his face that his intent was dangerous, and she flailed against him heedlessly. “Sloan—” he tried once more, but at that moment her flying fingers raked against his chest, the nails clawing, creating rising welts.

They both stood stock-still, Sloan with horror, Wes closing his eyes and clamping down hard on his jaw, shaking as he tried to breathe easily and leash the steam rising within him.

“Oh, Lord, Wes, I’m sorry!” Sloan cried.

“Damn, you have a vile temper!” he muttered, opening his eyes. She was gazing up at him with eyes of liquid sapphire, naked and beautiful with remorse. The hands that held her drew her into him, and he smelled the sweet scent of her wild hair. He brushed her forehead with a kiss, lifted her chin with a finger, and kissed her lips with a hungry intensity.

“What are you doing,” she asked breathlessly as they broke, and he lifted her into his arms, cradling her to warm, sinewed muscles.

“Well,” he murmured, “my first impulse was to wring your lovely little neck. I could do that. Or I could make love to you...”

“You’re crazy...”

“Yes.”

It was a tempest, a reckless soaring into foaming rapids, riding crest after crest, twirling, whirling, crashing, rebounding.

Yet temper brought no ruthlessness. Wes harbored her, cherished her, swept her into the glory of his wild winds.

She should have denied him.

He had made his opinion of her so very clear.

But she held on to her love, clinging to the belief that no man could be so gentle and tender against such odds if there wasn’t truth to his love.

It was a matter of truth...

And learning...

And if loving was part of that trust, then she was right to love. But did any reasoning matter? He touched her, and it didn’t matter. But it should matter...She should have the strength to insist that they have more than the consuming physical need...

She didn’t have the strength...only the need. Only the desire to believe the cherishing, bend to the storm...be there as he was with her when they soared over the fall, gently guiding her to the still waters beneath...

Where she turned from him and curled into a little ball of solitude, bewildered and confused.

She couldn’t understand her own behavior, much less begin to comprehend his. They could reach the borderline of friendship, and then all was lost with a reckless word or deed. Then they were mortal combatants, then the most tender and passionate of lovers.

But when it was over, they were on the defensive again. And it would be hard to go back and see just what had triggered what...

“Sloan.”

A quality in his tone compelled her to look his way, but she stubbornly denied herself. With obstinate willpower she kept her head in her pillow.

“What?”

“Look at me,” he persisted with firm patience.

She turned slowly, wincing as she realized that countless muscles were sore. If his mood were similar to the one that had precipitated the broken door, she reasoned with herself, it would be plain old stupid to disobey his soft-spoken order.

His head rested in his hands, and his eyes were on the ceiling, seeming strangely to reflect her own emotions. As she watched him, his gaze riveted sideways to her.

“I never mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t hurt me.” She frowned, adding bitterly, “You know you didn’t.” She winced at the sight of the scratches she had inflicted. “I hurt you.”

He grunted impatiently and leaned over on his elbow to face her. “That’s not what I mean. I acted without thinking—or discussing, rather. I said things in haste, and although I was teasing you about the mare bit, I’ll admit I was crude.” He smiled ruefully. “I was scared.”

“What?” Sloan whispered incredulously.

“You might have turned me down,” he said flatly.

“Oh!” Sloan murmured, shocked that it meant so much to him.

“I goad you a lot, Sloan, and I’m usually quickly sorry,” Wes continued, “but still too late. We all say things in anger, and the problem is that they can’t be taken back. If I could undo half the pain I caused you in Belgium, I gladly would. But I was hurt, Sloan, and that hurt was like a knife wound in the back that made me angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. You can’t imagine how I felt to reach your house and find