Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,73
I never meant to be...mercenary. Your love was like a dream come true, and then I knew that I loved you, too. Then, and, I do love you now, Wes!”
“That is what I want most to believe,” Wes said, his voice a soft whisper again. “And I am trying to. It just takes time for wounds to heal. We need that time.”
They both fell silent, but it was a comfortable, restful silence. For the first time, they were totally at peace in one another’s company.
It was Sloan, who, growing drowsy, finally broke the bond of quiet. Resting her chin on his chest, she looked into his eyes, determined to take a further step on the new road to open honesty.
“I do want your baby, Wes,” she told him wistfully.
His arms tightened around her, and his reply was one of the most tender she had ever heard. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THINGS SHOULD HAVE WORKED out simply from that point, Sloan thought; they were capable of talking, capable of breaking across the barriers of mistrust.
But talking didn’t necessarily mean that the past could be erased, and although their relationship had become pleasant and cordial in the week of Wesley’s return, she knew that they both still held back, both clung to a measure of reserve.
They had hurt each other, and she supposed it only natural that they both still wear armor when treading upon the soft ground of one another’s feelings.
It was therefore with a little unease the following Friday night after the children had long been asleep and Florence too had retired that Sloan sought Wes out in the den that he had turned into a pseudo-office.
She had had visions of the scene, played it a million ways. And in all her visions, it had been beautiful. She had teased and tormented him, smiling while promising him a secret. She had played the feminine role to the hilt, insisting upon an elegant dinner out before allowing her secret to leave her lips. And Wes...well, of course, he had responded with all the joyous enthusiasm and tender care she could have desired...
But when it came down to it, she was frightened. She could give him news that should surprise and elate him—news he wanted to hear. News that had thrilled her. But despite all of her happiness she was also filled with a heavy feeling of anxiety, almost a sadness. We should have had more time, she kept thinking. They should have had the time to keep talking, to break down the guards and barriers, to learn how to live and love together...
But they didn’t have the time. She had verified a slow dawning suspicion this morning, and although she could have waited to tell him, she didn’t deem it fair. She had begun all that was wrong between them with a lie—withholding this information would seem to be as great a lie as the one she had used to play with his emotions in a time that now seemed interminably long ago.
Besides, she couldn’t have held back any longer. Despite the shaky foundation of their marriage, she was hesitantly glowing. Deep inside she was thrilled and smug with herself—already madly in love with and protective of his child. She had to share the baby’s existence...
And yet it didn’t go a bit as she had envisioned in her daydreams—hindsight would tell her it was her own fault, but as she approached Wes that night, she wasn’t privy to hindsight. She was nervous, and afraid. From this point on, she would never really know if Wes had forgiven her completely, or if he was merely satisfied with his end of the bargain.
Her voice was consequently sharp when she stood in the doorway, her throat constricting as she watched his dark head bent over his papers, his attention fully on his work. “Wes.”
He glanced up at her, his eyes registering both surprise and annoyance at her tone. “Yes?” He didn’t snap at her; he was polite but aloof. That was about all that could be said for the week, Sloan thought dryly—polite and aloof. He was determined not to argue with her, determined not to bring up the past. They communicated just fine in the bedroom at night with the lights off, but in the morning the wary remoteness was back. Sloan began to wish he would yell or scream or argue—anything to dislodge that invisible shield that still kept them apart.
“I have to talk to you,” she announced, once more wincing at her own