Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,81

your wife absolutely has to get some rest.”

“Yes, she does.” Wes released her hand and stood immediately. Doc Ricter tactfully disappeared, and Wes bent to touch her lips one last time. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” he whispered against her mouth. “I love you.”

Sloan savored the taste of lips that knew passion and tenderness. “I love you,” she whispered back, knowing that he believed her, knowing that they would both say the words over and over during their lifetime together, and both be fully aware of the depth of the emotion that lay behind them.

Sloan closed her eyes while still feeling his touch. She was sinking into a haze, losing herself to the sleep of sedation, but his touch lingered. The pain of loss and sadness was still with her, but so much less now that it was shared. Her husband had given her rest. He had given her love; he had accepted love.

One day her sister would tell her how her giant of a man had fallen into oblivion with the fear of her loss, and she would smile with tender adoration.

But that was in the future. Now she slept with the memory of his gentle, sustaining lips against hers.

EPILOGUE

AS SHE SWIRLED AND floated with grace, with beauty, she was mercury; she was the wind, so fluid and light that she was ethereal, a goddess of the clouds upon which she appeared to hover. As always with her, she was a creature of the music, a dancer by instinct, a woman of regal beauty which the passage of time merely served to enhance.

To most who watched her, she was untouchable magic. An illusion of splendor to view, but never to capture.

And yet she had been captured, by one man in the audience.

He too was ageless. His presence would always be noted; till the day he died he would be petitioned for autographs, advice, appearances, and opinions.

It was also his name that blazed outside on the marquee. It was the prestigious Adams Dance Company that the audience had come to view, although the audience was not necessarily aware that the Adams who would be remembered as a football hero was the same who owned the dance company.

It didn’t really matter.

At the performance’s end, he cordially signed autographs, but his mind was not with his automatic action. He was anxious to get backstage.

She had teasingly promised him a surprise, and he had been about to go crazy even while seduced by the performance.

Backstage, she was quickly changing into street clothes, a secret smile on her lips—her mind also absent as she replied to others. She was eager to see her husband; she had marvelous news for him. Intimate, wonderful news.

Wes tapped lightly on his wife’s door, then stuck his head inside. She was just brushing out her hair; her eyes met his in the mirror and she smiled. “Come in for a second,” she said, dropping her brush and swirling in a circle to display the soft folds of the beige silk skirt she wore. “Like it?” she inquired.

“Umm, very much,” he assured her, brows raising as she finished her twirl in his arms, planting both hands on his chest and giving him a mysterious, tantalizing smile. He caught her wrists. “Okay, minx,” he charged. “I love the outfit, but why so dressy? And what’s this secret? I’ve been going nuts the entire show.”

Sloan laughed, unperturbed by his determined demand.

“I’m ‘dressy,’” she informed him, “because you’re taking me somewhere elegant for a late supper. And”—she ran her fingers lightly over his lapel—“after you’ve suitably wined and dined your hardworking wife, you’ll be in on the secret.”

“Un-unh,” Wes shook his head. “Now.”

“I’ll compromise.” Sloan chuckled. “As soon as you’ve ordered the champagne, I’ll tell you.”

Sloan let out a startled gasp as she felt a vise clamp on her wrist—and her feet suddenly fly across the room. “Hey!” she protested laughingly.

“I’m compromising,” Wes explained patiently, “but let’s get there.”

With stern patience, he did wait for the champagne. Then, when the waiter had moved on, he leaned his frame over the table and his eyes challenged hers. His patience was at an end. “Okay, Sloan, out with it.”

She didn’t hedge a minute longer. “I’m pregnant.”

She saw the frown creep into his brow, the worry and concern wrinkle his forehead. She loved him for it.

“Sloan,” he began carefully, taking her fingers into his. “I’m happy, of course; you know what this means to me, but not enough to take any risks. We