Quiet Walks the Tiger (17 page)

“Wesley!” Sloan implored, stunned by his actions. Wesley Adams couldn’t be doing this to her! Even the rough lover of the night before had been tender...

“Now,” he continued coldly, ignoring her outburst, his voice that of an informative teacher conducting a class, “What do we have? Do we see a woman approaching thirty, a mother of three, possibly fearful that she may be losing her looks, never again to be loved or cherished? Afraid that she shall not be accepted again by a new lover because of her children? No.” One hand slid over her shoulder, cupped a breast, moved on over her rib cage to her-flat stomach and harshly molded the jut of her hip. “No.” he hissed again, emphatically. “This woman holds no fears. She is serenely confident of her femininity. No naive girl, this. She is a beautiful, bewitching woman, and she knows it. Like a black widow, she can easily lure a man into her web. She is a remarkable animal—breasts full and firm, seductively curved hips, a figure as slim as a debutante’s. She doesn’t even remember the definition of the word ‘love.’”

“Wesley!” Sloan pleaded miserably, shaking with the unexpected vehemence of his mind-boggling attack. “Wesley, please, I beg you!”

“You beg me. Lovely.” He laughed dryly, a harsh, bitter, and hollow sound. “Not yet, darling.” His hands found her chin and forced her bowed head back to the mirror. “We haven’t decided what we do have here, yet. But certainly not a woman clinging to a last line of hope! That I could have understood. Forgiven easily.” Her chin jerked cruelly. “Open your eyes!” he commanded.

She obeyed and met orbs of such jade-green loathing that chills exploded violently in spasms throughout her. Still he showed no mercy.

“I have met street prostitutes with more scruples,” he continued, his grip like a mechanical thing. “They sell openly, for a price. They make an honest bargain. They tell you what they want, and they tell you exactly what you get in return.

“But you...wife...” She gasped a choking sob as he spun her around to face him. “You were not honest one stinking step of the way. You lied, connived, cheated, and schemed. You sold yourself more callously than any common tramp. All for my money.”

“No!” Sloan protested weakly in self-defense, slowly, sickly realizing he had been in the house at the beginning of her explanation to Cassie, hearing...

“Don’t lie to me now, woman!” His raging growl bellowed through the room as he shook her so hard that her head lolled like a doll’s and her hair fell in torrents over her shoulders. “God, don’t try to play me for a fool any longer! Your little game is really up. I heard everything you had to say to your sister, my dear, and though I didn’t want to believe it—a man’s heart and his ego can be terribly sensitive at times—everything surely fit perfectly. One night you didn’t want me crossing your doorstep, the next day you were welcoming me with open arms.” He pushed her from him contemptuously. “And I fell for it all! All that false, wide-eyed innocence. I walked into your lair with starry eyes, wanting so desperately to believe in you, respecting your views on sex and marriage when all the while...” His voice broke off grimly as he tightly clenched his fist. The lines about his mouth were white with tension. Uttering a croak of disgust, he spun on his heel and stalked from the bathroom.

Sloan stood stock-still for a moment, scarcely breathing, unable to absorb the horror of the things he had said, unable to reconcile them with the man she had known so intimately just hours before. Then she followed him out, nervously grabbed the sheet from the bed to wrap herself in, and skittered into a corner of the room to watch him with dazed, fearful eyes. She had no conception of what he might do next. It was all too evident; the man she thought she knew, understood, the chivalrous wooer, the tenderly possessive lover, existed no more. And she should have never underestimated him. Her vague suspicions that he could be a dangerous man had proved all too true. A tiger, though tamed, was still in essence a wild beast, and Wesley, like that beast, had given up all pretense of civility. Raw instinct and basic fury were guiding him now. Reason and logic had lost all meaning. Like primitive man, he was the stronger, and he would call the shots.

Sloan watched, still too dazed to attempt the explanation he wouldn’t believe as he began to pack his bags. Shrunken into her corner, she felt the tears which had formed in her eyes begin to trickle down her cheeks. Whatever happened she knew she deserved, yet how could she lose him now when she had just found him?

His glance fell her way as coolly as marble. “Don’t bother with the tears. I’m not going to break your neck, though I should. Nor am I going to annul the marriage, though I should. The children are my responsibility now, too, and there is no reason they should be made to suffer because of their mother.”

The tears fell anyway, despite his brutal statements. She couldn’t believe the way he was treating her—not after the day and night they had spent happily in one another’s arms! “Why?...” At first she didn’t realize she had said the word aloud.

“What?” Wesley barked.

“Why?...” She shrank even further into her corner, unable to complete her question beneath the survey of his relentless anger.

In two seconds he reached her, pulled her to her feet, and swung her gracelessly into the middle of the room. “Why what?” he demanded, his eyes blazing a dancing flame of green fire. “Don’t turn coward on top of everything else. You’re not the least upset over what you did; selling out didn’t mean a thing to you. You’re only upset because you’ve been caught. What was the exact plan, anyway? How many months of blissful marriage was I going to be blessed with before you sued for divorce and a handsome settlement?”

Sloan’s hair tumbled wildly over her face; her blue eyes peaked out in liquid sapphire pleading. “I wasn’t—” she began with trembling lips.

For a fraction of a second it appeared as if Wesley might be softening. Then he emitted a sharp snort of disgust which effectively curtailed her words. “Spare me, Sloan. I’ve admitted you’re a sensational actress, but you’ve already conned me once. Save it. I really don’t want to hear any more. Ask your question.”

Sloan bit through her bottom lip until it bled. All was lost. He hated her now. Her brief dream of happiness had been shattered by her own schemes, her own lies. Swallowing, she tilted her chin despite her trembling. She would hold on to her courage as he had suggested. Perhaps he could still admire her for something, even if it would sound like a futile lie to say she did love him now...had...

“Why did you go through with the wedding?” she asked quietly, her voice soft but thankfully steady. After a painful falter she added, “And why bother with yesterday?”

He shot her a glance with a shade less disdain as he continued packing, brushing by her as if she were an obstacle like a dresser or desk as he spoke.

“I’m not really sure,” he admitted with a wry hint of humor. “Maybe I feel in the back of my mind that there is something I might be able to get out of this bargain myself. And, I did want you. Badly enough to marry you, since that was your price. Then yesterday...” He shrugged and neatly folded a stack of pressed shirts into the bag. “Yesterday, I wanted to see how thoroughly you planned to pay up while we were still going by your rules.” He abruptly stopped his packing, arms crossed over his chest, and nicked his green eyes over her from head to toe with such formidable insolence that a crimson blush spread like a stain to her cheeks. “I must say, love,” he spoke with the silky tone she had learned could be so cutting and dangerous, “you do pay up handsomely. I always knew, from watching the way that you moved, that you’d be dynamite in bed. Certain women are made for it. Even so, your veins must be filled with ice water for you to respond with such—talented ardor—to a man you don’t love.”

If he had slapped her soundly across the face, he couldn’t have been more abusive. Sloan was still for a second, absorbing the shock, amazed that anyone could be so blind. Then her shock receded as anger, boiling like red-hot lava, raged through her system. She had been wrong, yes, but she didn’t deserve the things he was saying. Fear, control, and all sense of reasonable logic fell from her like a cloak, and she flew at him with the speed and wrath of a whirling tornado. “You bastard!” she hissed, and she struck him cleanly with a fury-driven open hand that left him no time to ward off the blow.

It was his turn to stand dead still as the mark she had imprinted on his face quickly turned white, pink, and dark red. The sound of her slap seemed to reverberate through the room as he slowly rubbed his cheek, staring at her all the while. “My beloved wife,” he drawled mockingly, “that was certainly uncalled-for. I’ve been desperately trying to remain nonviolent about this whole thing.”

Sloan took a deep breath of trepidation. She wisely felt the time for courage ebbing. His features, so handsome and strongly formed, were twisted into hard, grim lines; his eyes, no longer icy, blazed with a fury more intense than that of a raging sea. She began to back away, once more frightened—she didn’t like his expression one bit. His eyes suddenly flickered over her again, and she realized her unprecipitated blow had dislodged her improvised sheet tunic and that he was gazing upon the mound of one creamy, exposed breast. Flushed, she pulled the sheet more tightly around her, only to be rewarded for her efforts by a dry, mirthless chuckle from Wes.

“Rather late for you to turn modest, isn’t it?” he demanded scornfully. The suitcase went to the floor, and he sat on the bed. “Come here,” he ordered arrogantly.

She could see the rise and fall of his black-matted chest, read the desire that burned along with the anger in his eyes. Her gaze fell to his hands, large hands, wisped with coarse strands of the same black hair, hands with fingers neatly kept, strong hands, strong fingers, capable of holding her with infinite tenderness and arousing her to abandoned passion, capable of manipulating her forcefully and bending her to his will.

Her eyes slowly left the fascination of his hands and moved upward. A single pulse beat erratically in the fine blue line of a vein in his corded neck. She raised her eyes still further, saw the ragged, crooked smile set lazily into his sensuous lips, saw that the light in his eyes held no tenderness, no love. Just hard, cold fury and desire.

She shook her head softly, beseechingly, and whispered, “No.”

“Come here.” The devilish grin increased as he repeated his command. His tone was deceptively low and pleasant as he added, “Sloan, don’t make me come to you.”

Wincing, Sloan inched toward him, her eyes downcast, her thick lashes hiding the emotions that raged within them. A scuffle, she knew, would be worthless. She was probably lucky he hadn’t decided to strike her back before...maybe, just maybe, she could talk to him. But she paused when she reached him, afraid to face him, finally lifting her lashes to meet his eyes with open pleading.

But he didn’t glance into her eyes to read their message. He tugged at the sheet until it fell to the floor at her feet. The startling green gems of his eyes raked over her briefly with insolent satisfaction, then his arms came around her, and she was swept to the bed beside him. She tried to speak, but his lips claimed hers, and her words were muffled as his tongue sought her mouth with a unique mastery all its own. Then her mouth was deserted as his kisses roamed along the graceful arch of her throat and down to her breasts. But they were not gentle kisses, not even hinting at love or tenderness. They were rough and urgent; they demanded and violated. Salt tears formed in Sloan’s eyes, and even as she felt a nipple harden beneath his mouth and inwardly admitted that a rousing fire was slowly coursing through her treacherous body, she protested, if somewhat breathlessly.

“Wesley—
no!”

“No?” A single brow raised high as he lifted himself to challenge her scornfully. “And why not? You’ve got your ring and your money. I’m assuming this was my return offering. And, my darling,” he hissed bitterly, “I haven’t seen you suffering, yet.”

Sloan blinked her eyes and winced, unable to move within the concrete prison of his arms. Bracing herself she began to speak. “Wesley, I will not let you make love to me like this—”

“Make love?” he interjected. “Sweet wife, it all has to be prettily wrapped and worded on the outside, huh? But you’re not going to play the hypocrite anymore. You enjoy my bed, darling; to deny that would be ludicrous. And more important, dear wife,
you made the bed,
and now
you will lie in it!”

Dismissing anything else she might have to say as inconsequential, Wesley returned casually to his sure arousal of her body. His lips were searing her flesh like hot irons, and she knew she would eventually succumb. But she had to make him listen!

“Wesley...wait...you don’t understand.”

“So talk to me,” he murmured, his words muffled by her flesh.

“You’re angry,” Sloan choked, forgetting the sense she was trying to make. “You’re angry,” she raspily repeated herself.

His lovemaking took an abrupt halt, and he raised his head. His eyes bored into hers like hot coals, and his lips twisted savagely. “Angry!” he roared. “That has to be the understatement of the year!”

His head lowered again, and Sloan could say no more. She was swept into the storm of his savage passion, capitulated to a high of blazing ecstasy by the undeniable fervency and ardor of the chemistry that linked them. Yet as he brought her to a shuddering crescendo, tears again filled her eyes. He did not hold her to him in their mutual satisfaction. He rolled away from her, and his weight lifted from the bed. Sloan pulled the covers over her still-burning body and buried her face in the pillow.

He must have stood staring at her for several minutes because she heard his voice, soft and very close, and sensed his presence.

“Play with fire, my love, and you do get burned.”

Sloan didn’t turn. There had been no mockery or cruelty to his words, but the pain in her was too fresh and intense to chance another wound. He moved away, and she heard the click of the bathroom door. With him safely out of earshot, she allowed her tears of shame to run freely into her pillow. He might not know it, but she was completely his creature. Even as her mind had rebelled against his forceful demands, her betraying body had succumbed with humiliating eagerness. If only he hadn’t walked in without her knowing, allowing her words to damn her. And why didn’t Wesley give her a chance to explain it?