chapter NINE
BY THE TIME SLOAN returned to Gettysburg she had done a fair job of pulling herself together—or at least an acceptable job of creating a smooth shell to hide behind and a serene mask with which to face the world.
The mask was brittle, and beneath it she was a desolate and miserable wreck, but no one would ever know. To complicate matters, she had no idea what Wesley’s next move might be, but since he had adamantly decreed that there would be no divorce, she was nervously determined to keep up appearances on the slender line of hope that something could be worked out.
She hadn’t stayed in Belgium. After finally managing to emerge from her room, she found the memories of Brussels too haunting and beautifully ironic to bear. Besides, though of French descent, she had none of Wesley’s gift for the language, and Flemish eluded her completely. She had moved across the English channel to Dover and on to London where she had forced herself to sightsee like crazy. For hours she had gazed upon the ancient tombs and history of Westminster Abbey, toured the endless halls of the Victoria and Albert, and strolled the shops of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street. Her greatest pleasure, however, had been a day spent in the London Dungeon—a wax museum specializing in the rather barbaric practices of the various tribes and nationalities that combined to make the English people. With a spite she wasn’t quite able to contain, she thought how nice it would be to contain Wes in a gibbet, boil him in oil, or set him to the rack. Her pleasure didn’t last, however, because she knew, she had no desire for real vengeance, only a yearning to go back in time and undo all the wrong between them and recapture the wonderfully golden moments when they had both been truly in love.
Nothing could be undone. She had to brace herself for the dubious future, steady frayed nerves that threatened to snap with the pressure of wondering when she would suddenly look up and discover Wes had returned.
With just the right amount of dejection Sloan informed Florence that Wes had been held up on business. She breathed a little more easily when Florence accepted her explanation without doubt—apparently Wes traveled frequently on business.
She didn’t need to feign her happiness at her reunion with her children, nor stifle the delight that the children’s pleasure over their foreign gifts gave her.
It was hardest to see Cassie. She didn’t dare give away the slightest trauma—if Cassie were to discover that her trip of concern to her sister’s house had been the catalyst to the destruction of her marriage, she would never forgive herself. Still, it was very, very difficult to listen to Cassie’s sympathy for “poor Wes,” working two weeks after his wedding away from his bride...
Sloan was extremely grateful for her own work, and she plunged her heart and soul into her classes. But as the weeks began to pass and no word was heard from Wes, her resolve to remain cool and collected despite the inner battle played beneath her shell became increasingly arduous. She kept up a strained smile when asked about Wes, always sighing and saying that he had called and was regrettably still delayed.
Finals for the students came and went, sending Sloan into mental chaos. She would have plenty of time to spend with the kids, but Florence had the house in complete control, and since the children loved their summer day school, she would have hours of nothing to do but chew her nails and worry and give vent to the tears that always lurked behind her eyes when no one was looking.
She was looking at the mess that was her attempted cleanup of her desk on the last day of classes, when an idea that had been vaguely forming at the back of her head rose to the surface with vehemence. Leaving papers and folders to flutter in her wake, she raced into Jim’s office.
“Jim!” she exclaimed, interrupting his study of a thesis.
“Sloan!” he imitated her urgent tone with a chuckle. “What is it?”
Curling into the chair that faced his desk—an identical arrangement to her own office—she plunged right in before she could lose her nerve and determined impetus. “Have you thought any more about setting up your own school?”
Jim sighed and shrugged. “I’ve thought about it, but that’s about all. I’m not really in shape yet to try my own wings.”
“But I am!” Sloan whispered softly.
“What?”
“Think about it!” Sloan urged excitedly, planting her elbows on the desk as her dream took flight. “I can swing the financial end, you can handle administrative problems, and we both teach and eventually form a first-rate company. What do you think?”
“Sloan”—Jim shook his head—“you’re not even going to be here—”
“Oh, I have a feeling it will be a long, long time before we make the actual move to Kentucky,” she said dryly, wondering herself if she would ever be asked to accompany her husband to his home. “And besides,” she added hastily, expecting his further objections, “it will be a business, a partnership. If I do leave, you hire another teacher, and since I know it would be a success, the investment would still be worthwhile.”
Jim scratched his forehead thoughtfully, hesitating with his reply, but Sloan could see the light of anticipation dawning in his eyes. “Have you discussed this with Wes?” he asked.
“No,” Sloan answered slowly. Then she bit down hard onto her jaw, remembering the taunting way he had tossed the money and cards on the bed in Belgium—payment for services rendered. “I’m sure Wes isn’t going to care,” she said, biting back the taste of bitterness the words cost her. “We’ll be returning it all eventually.”
“Sloan,” Jim advised uncertainly, “you’re talking I don’t know how many thousands—”
“Don’t worry about the money,” she interrupted quickly. “I’ll handle that end of it.” She scribbled the names and addresses of Wesley’s attorney and accountant on a scratch pad and pushed it toward him. “Just be in the lawyer’s office a week from Monday.”
From that point on, Sloan gave little heed to the repercussions that might fall her way if Wes did return before she was set. He had been gone over a month without a single word, and though her heart often ached with a physical pain, she was hardening. Her ambition to set up her own school and dance company had her captured in a whirlpool she was powerless to stop or deny, and the whirlpool was swirling away with no hindrance.
Florence thought the idea wonderful; so did Wesley’s attorney and his accountant—the latter telling Sloan that if all did fall apart, Wes could take a healthy tax break. She wasn’t particularly fond of his lack of faith, but she didn’t really care as long as he was helping her.
And thankfully, Wes had informed no one that he wasn’t on the best of terms with his wife. She had feared at first that he might have put restrictions on her expenditures, but that was obviously not the case. The accountant didn’t blink an eye when she held her breath and rattled off the sums she would need.
On the first day of fall her school was opened. As she and Jim had hoped, they were besieged by past and present students of the college who wanted to engage in more serious study.
“This is going to be a success,” Jim said with awe as he looked over their records at the end of the day.
“Of course!” Sloan laughed teasingly. “We have to be the best this side of Philadelphia!”
“I hope so,” Jim said fervently, “I just wish—”
Sloan cut him off, knowing his reference would be to Wes. She had become so accustomed to inventing phone calls and conversations with her husband that she didn’t even think as the next reassuring lie slipped from her lips. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I talked to Wes last night, and he thinks the whole thing is marvelous! He still doesn’t know when he’ll be back, and this will keep me busy and off the streets.”
She was kept busy. Another two weeks saw their venture in full swing. Although the work load didn’t keep Sloan’s mind from wondering achingly about her husband, it did keep her on an even keel. The studio was beautiful—she had grown increasingly ostentatious as she discovered the flow of her seemingly unlimited funds, and they offered every amenity to their classes. A smile that wasn’t entirely happy but purely satisfied was on her lips when Jim ambled into their mutual, roomy, shag-rugged and leather-furnished office after his last tap class at five.
“Patty Smith is waiting for you down in the studio,” he advised her with a tired but pleased grin. “I’ll finish up in here while you get started with her. Then I’ll be back down, and we can lock up together.” He frowned slightly. “What’s Patty doing here now anyway?”
“Private lesson,” Sloan said with a wry smile. “She has an audition for the Solid Gold dancers on Monday, and we’re going to work on the number she’ll be doing—sprucing up at the last minute.”
“Oh,” Jim nodded sagely. “Hey,” he asked as they both walked to the connecting door, “heard from Wes? Think he’ll be impressed with the place?”
“Oh—ah, yes and yes,” Sloan mumbled as she walked past him. “I, uh, talked to him last night, and he’s still detained, but I’m sure he’ll be quite surprised by our success.” She lowered her head and winced as she hurried to the studio. Wes sure as hell was going to be surprised—if he ever returned. She was beginning to think the entire thing had been a fabulous dream that had turned to a painful nightmare at the end. But it wasn’t a dream; the gold band and diamond cluster on her finger weighed heavily to remind her of reality.
Patty was a good dancer. Her instinctive grasp of dance was a natural talent, and Sloan had hopes that her student would succeed with her audition. She lost track of thought and time as she tutored her pupil. It was a fast, rugged piece, performed to a number by a popular rock group, indicative of the work she would be doing if she got her job.
“It’s good, Patty, really good,” Sloan told the anxious girl. “Just watch your timing. Let the music be your guide.” She sighed as Patty stared at her blankly. “I’ll run it through, Patty. Listen to the music while you watch.”
Sloan set the stereo and moved into Patty’s dance, allowing the beat of the music to permeate her limbs and guide her. Her concentration was entirely on the harmonious tempo of movement; she was heedless of anything around her. As the song neared its end, she rose in a high leap, one leg kicked before her, the other arched at her back, her toe touching her head.
It was then that she saw Wes, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway, his dark suit impeccably cut, hands in his pockets, his eyes glittering with a hard jade gleam as he watched her, that crooked smile that wasn’t a smile at all set pleasantly into his features as he listened casually to whatever it was that an enthusiastic Jim was saying to him.
Sloan almost fell. She had a streaking vision of herself crumpled on the floor, her limbs twisted and broken.
But she didn’t fall. She landed supplely and finished the piece for Patty, her thoughts whirling at a speed more intense than the rock music. She should have been prepared, but she wasn’t. She was in shock.
Her eyes clenched tightly as she struggled to hold back tears of uncertainty. Had he finally come to call it quits? To tell her he had extracted whatever revenge he had required and that their best course now was a divorce?
Her heart was pounding tumultuously, and she knew it was more than the dance. She had learned painfully to live without Wes, but seeing him cut open every wound. He seemed to exude that overpowering masculinity which had first entrapped her senses as he stood there, so tall, so broad and yet achingly trim, the lines of his physique emphasized by the tailored cut of his suit. The profile, though hard, was still the one she had fallen in love with...Her eyes flicked from the full sensual lips that could claim hers with such mastery to the hands that dealt pleasure even as they mocked...
If only his eyes weren’t so cold and hard...relentless, ruthless, and condemning now, contemptuous when they lit upon her.
She was shaking as the music ended, and she struggled for control. She loved him, and she wanted their marriage to work no matter how the odds appeared to be irrevocably against them. Now was her chance to at least show that she was willing...
“Patty, keep working,” she told the girl hastily, rushing to the doorway. She forced herself to be calm even as she longed to throw herself into his arms, even as her eyes glimmered brilliantly with hope.
She stopped a foot away from Wes, halted by the chill in his eyes. She had no chance to take the initiative—he had already taken it and thankfully quelled her desire to throw herself at him before she made a fool of herself.
“Darling,” he said coolly, brushing frigid lips against her forehead and encircling a cold arm of steel lightly around her waist. “Jim was just thanking me for sanctioning this little venture.”
Sloan stiffened miserably within his grasp, knowing how he mocked her. She met his gaze with crystal defiance, miserably praying he wouldn’t defrock her series of lies before Jim and that she wouldn’t hit the end of her nerves and burst into the tears she was sure he would love. And still he had her hypnotized, trembling beneath her barrier of ice, wishing so desperately that she could forget everything and curl into his arms, satiate herself with the male power and light dizzying scent that radiated from him...
“We are a success, as you can see,” she said quickly, forcing a stiff smile. “Your investment will be made back in our first year.”
“Will it?” Wes inquired politely.
“Yes, I really believe it will!” Jim said with innocent enthusiasm. He laughed as he realized neither Sloan nor Wes really paid attention to him. “This must be some surprise for you both. Sloan said you didn’t think you’d be in for some time when you spoke to her last night!”
“Did you say that, darling?” Wes asked Sloan, his dagger gaze turning fully to her and his lips curling sardonically.
Sloan moistened her lips, hating him at that moment, ready to scream if he didn’t clear things one way or another.
“Yes, I decided to surprise her,” Wes continued in his pleasant tone with the iron edge. “And I certainly am surprised myself, darling. I never expected such professionalism when we, uh, discussed, your business.” He brushed a damp strand of hair from Sloan’s face. “That was quite a dance you were doing when I walked in, Sloan. ‘Cold As Ice,’ wasn’t that the tune?” he inquired politely, his sardonic smile still nicely in place. He had missed his wife’s expression of pleading when she saw him; she had carried off her reserve and dignity so well as she approached him that he had no idea that she was longing to see him, praying for his loving touch. All he saw was the woman who had admittedly married him for his money, who now appeared to be annoyed that he had come home to watch her spend it...the woman he had loved half his life...still loved...“‘Cold As Ice,’” he repeated pleasantly, not waiting for her reply and murmuring his last comment as if he teased someone. “What is it, sweetheart, your theme song?”
Sloan grinned along with Jim’s unknowing laughter, but she felt a shivering chill streak along her back. She knew he wasn’t teasing, and she dreaded the confrontation coming between them when they were alone. She vowed as she forced that grin that she would never break to him; if he had pegged her as cold and mercenary and now despised her still, she would never let him know how the tables had turned and she pined for his love. “Yes,” she teased as he had, but her eyes glared like blue ice into his, “my theme song.”
“Lord,” Jim jumped in, absurdly unaware of the tension that filled the air around them. “Here I am interrupting you two when you’ve already had a honeymoon interrupted. Sloan, Wes—go home, or wherever you two newlyweds want to be after a separation. I’ll finish up with Patty and lock up.”
“No,” Sloan started to protest, fear of being with her husband alone suddenly gripping her fiercely. But Wesley overrode her protest.
“Thanks, Jim,” he said, straightening and running a cold, taunting finger along Sloan’s cheek, making her bite her lip to keep from flinching. “I would like to be alone with my, uh, wife.” He dropped his hand from her face. “Get your things, Sloan.” It was softly spoken, but undeniably a command.
Rigid with anger and the fear she couldn’t quite squelch, Sloan lowered her eyes and opted for obedience. She had to face him sooner or later.
“I have my own car—” she started briskly as they left the school and Jim behind, “Cold As Ice” once more blaring from the stereo.
“Leave it,” Wes said just as briskly. “We can get it tomorrow.”
Sloan shrugged and walked along with him to the Lincoln, poker-faced as he opened her door and ushered her in. She was sure he was going to rail into her immediately, tearing her apart piece by piece for her actions during his absence. He was strangely silent instead, his attention on his driving, his hardened jaw and cold eyes rigid in the profile she glanced at covertly from the lowered shade of her lashes. It seemed to Sloan that the tension in the car mounted until it was thick and tangible and she was drowning in it. “Don’t you think we should talk,” she finally exploded, unable to bear the uncertainty a moment longer. “I really don’t care to argue in front of the children,” she added with cold hauteur.
His eyes slid from the road to her for a moment, searing her with disdainful ice. His hand shot across the car, and she flinched thinking he was coming for her, but he wasn’t. He snapped the button on the glove compartment and the door fell open. With his eyes back on the road, he felt for a plump envelope, found it, tossed it on her lap, and slammed the door closed.
“I have no intention of arguing in front of the children,” he said, “but neither am I in a mood to discuss anything with you while driving. Don’t worry, the children are not at the house.”
“What?” Sloan exclaimed, baffled by his words and the envelope lying in her lap. She glanced from it to Wes, afraid to touch it, unaware of what it might contain. “Where are the children?” she demanded.
“At a motel by Hershey Park by now, I would imagine,” Wes replied briefly.
The import of his words sank slowly into Sloan’s mind, and she was then struck by a fury that overwhelmed her in shattering waves. “What?” she shrieked, twisting to face him in the car. “How dare you send my children away, how dare you take it upon yourself—”
“They aren’t your children anymore, Sloan; check the envelope on your lap. It’s the final judgment. Legally, they are my children now, too.” His gaze flicked to her steaming face with a quelling authority. “I didn’t send them away, I sent them on a little vacation—with Cassie and George as well as Florence.”
“A little vacation!” Sloan repeated incredulously, pushing the envelope from her lap to the floor with vengeance as she struggled against tears of anger and the impulse to fling herself at him and cause any bodily harm that she could. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You decide to waltz back in and just flick them aside—”
“You can stop now, Sloan!” Wesley’s voice growled low with the sharp edge of deadly warning. “I’m not flicking anyone aside; I’m more aware of their welfare at the moment than you are. You want to hide behind them. I think it’s going to be to their benefit not to be around while you and I settle the immediate future.”
“I don’t see where there is a future. Immediate or otherwise,” Sloan hissed, grudgingly admitting to herself that the concern he was showing the children was sincere, but she wasn’t about to say so. She was still seething with a rage that was in part a debilitating jealousy that she abhorred. Where had he been for all this time?...“Since you haven’t bothered with a call for six weeks,” she said aloud, “I hardly see any justice to your sweeping in like the north wind and thinking you can call the shots—”
“I will call the shots,” he interrupted her curtly, “and that should be no surprise to you; I told you as much in Belgium. And if we’re discussing justice, Mrs. Adams, let’s bear in mind that you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything!” Sloan snapped. “You’ve already subjected me to payment in full.”
Wes laughed, startling her with an honest twinge of amusement. “Payment in full? Taking a look at that school I so magnanimously funded makes you more in debt than ever.”
Sloan crunched down on her lip uncomfortably. “You’ll get your money back,” she said with quiet conviction.
“I believe I will,” Wes said indifferently. He raised a brow in her direction. “I don’t remember ever accusing you of stupidity.”
The car pulled into the house drive before Sloan could think of a reply to his double-edged statement. Sloan hopped out before he could come around and assist her and hurried for the front door, fumbling in her bag for her key. To her dismay it eluded her fingers and Wes was twisting the lock while she still fumbled. “Allow me,” he mocked her, pushing open the door and ushering her in.
The house seemed empty and hostile with Florence and the children gone, fueling Sloan’s fury that Wes should send the kids off without her approval. Deciding to ignore his dominating presence until she could rally from the shock of his sudden arrival, she dropped her things and stalked for the shower. Apparently, he didn’t mind if the night was spent in slow torture. She might as well shower and be comfortable while she regathered her forces.
“What’s for dinner?” he called after her, as if they returned home together every night of the week.
“How should I know?” Sloan shot back. “You’re the one who sent the housekeeper away.”
She was careful to bolt the shower door, but he made no attempt to come near. Emerging a half hour later with her skin pruned and her mind no closer to an answer on how to handle the impending evening, she found Wesley’s travel things had all been neatly put away in her room. A rush of heated blood suffused her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to remember the exotic pleasure of his arms. She’d be damned before she slept with a man who continued to treat her as Wes did. Belting a quilted housecoat securely around her waist, she took several deep breaths and headed out to meet her tiger.
Stripped of jacket and tie, the neck of his shirt open and his sleeves rolled up, Wes was reading the paper, annoyingly at home with his long legs stretched out on the coffee table, his socked feet crossed. He didn’t look up as she entered the room, and for a moment she thought he didn’t realize that she was there. But then he spoke, his eyes still on the paper.
“I repeat, what’s for dinner?”
“And I repeat,” Sloan grated with hostility, “how should I know?”
The paper landed on the coffee table with a whack, and Wes was on his feet. “Then let’s find out together, shall we?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer; his hand lit upon her elbow with determination and he propelled rather than escorted her into the kitchen.
Sloan spun ahead of him, tears burning behind her eyelids. She wasn’t going to stand any more of the uncertainty, of the terrible fear that he was playing cat and mouse before pouncing with his demand for a divorce. Choking, she whirled on him, determined to have it out.
“Just get it over with, Wes!” she blurted angrily.
He stared at her with drawn brows and genuine confusion. “Get what over with?” he demanded impatiently.
“Tell me how you want to arrange the divorce, and then we can stop all this and you can go somewhere for dinner!” Sloan said quickly so as not to allow her voice to tremble.
He watched her for a moment and then turned to the refrigerator to rummage through it. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said blandly. “I want something to eat; I’m starving.”
Relief made her shake all over again, but it was a nervous relief. She had no idea of where he had been for all that time, and he had yet to give her the slightest sign that he had decided he still cared for her in the least.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Sloan instantly became convinced that he didn’t really give a damn one way or another. His reply was not a joke; it was issued with exasperation.
“Of course I’m sure. I came in this morning and I haven’t eaten since.”
Gritting her teeth, her voice tight, Sloan asked again, “I mean, are you sure you don’t want a divorce?”
“Dammit,” he muttered, slamming the refrigerator door. “You spend money like water and there’s nothing to eat in this house!” His eyes turned to her, the jade speculative and hooded. “At the moment, Mrs. Adams, I do not want a divorce.” His gaze followed her form, and then he walked to the telephone, dialing as he added, “I’ve decided there’s something I just may be able to get out of this signed and sealed bargain of yours.”
Sloan felt as if she had been hit, sure his “bargain” referred to her. She willed away the wash of humiliation that assailed her and clenched down on her teeth. She knew Wes’s temper; if she had expected mercy, she had been a fool. Still, she loved him, and she wanted her marriage to work and he wasn’t demanding a divorce. She didn’t intend to accept his dominating scorn, but she could make an effort at a little civility by swallowing her pride for the moment and attempting to put them on a level where they could converse rationally. If they could only build up a friendship...
“Who are you calling?” she asked huskily.
“Information,” he replied. “Give me the name of any restaurant that delivers.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, adding hastily at his frown, “I’m sure I can make omelettes or something.”
Wes hung up the phone. “That would be fine,” he said. “I think I did see a carton of eggs.”
Walking around the kitchen as she prepared their meal, Sloan began to regret her offer. She could feel Wesley’s keen jade gaze on her with every step and movement she made. Panic began to assail her in mammoth proportions. He said he didn’t want a divorce—at the moment. But what good was having the legal contract that bound him to her—the contract she had strived so hard to achieve!—when nothing was right between them and she was constantly on tenterhooks wondering when his scorpion’s sting would strike next? The cold ferocity of the anger he had shown her in Belgium had somewhat dissipated, but his comments tonight proved he didn’t intend to forgive and forget. Was it because he still didn’t believe she loved him, or had he lost all love and respect for her?
“You could be useful,” she muttered irritably, thinking that if he stared at her any longer, she would throw the entire carton of eggs into the air and fly into a laughing tantrum as they fell. “I’d like a drink.”
“Scotch?” he inquired politely.
“Please.”
It was almost worse having him pad silently around her on his stocking feet. She was going to add that she’d like a double, but the portion he poured her while looking ironically into her eyes displayed his ability to read her like a book. “Thanks,” she murmured, accepting the rock glass he offered her.
Cheese, ham, and peppers went into her omelettes. Wes continued to watch her, leaning over the counter, drinking his bourbon. She was feeling the terrible urge to do something erratic again—anything—to break the uncomfortable tension between them when Wes finally spoke.
“Sloan.”
She glanced at him warily, but his expression was unreadable.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes fell quickly back to the eggs browning in the pan, tears stinging her lids again. Sorry about what? she wondered. His dry remarks tonight, the fiasco of a honeymoon, or the wedding itself?
“Would you like to say something, please?” he questioned, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone. “I said I’m sorry.”
“About what?” Sloan forced herself to ask aloud.
“Belgium.”
She remained silent, desolately thinking that things had changed much since then. Jealousy—the nightmares of him with a multitude of faceless women that had gnawed away at her during his absence—and the painful memory of his hard glare when they had met again kept her from accepting his words and perhaps setting things straight when her impulse was to fly to him and tell him how terribly sorry she was too. Her hand froze on the spatula as she began to realize her impulse might be the one thing to give her a chance at her marriage. But then the moment was gone.
“Dammit! Sloan! Say something,” Wes grated.
“What do you want me to say?” she charged in retaliation. “That it’s all right? It isn’t! You were terrible, and you haven’t improved an iota.”
She heard the sharp clink of his glass hitting the counter, but other than that, he controlled his temper. “I see,” he said smoothly. “I was terrible—my actions were unforgiveable. But it’s okay that Sloan decided she could live just fine with a man she could lead by a little rope just so long as that man was filthy rich.”
“Go to hell,” Sloan hissed, dropping the spatula on the eggs. “Prima’s Pizza delivers, or you can finish this yourself. I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, no, no, no, you’re not, Mrs. Adams,” Wes said grimly, his hand clamping on her wrist as she attempted to walk past him. “We have a lot to talk about tonight, and we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.” He released her wrist and stalked to the stove to scoop the omelettes from the pan to a plate. Inclining his head toward the kitchen table, he added, “Sit, please.”
“May I fix myself another drink first?” Sloan asked with mock subservience, her eyes wide in sarcasm.
“Drink all you like, Sloan, but please do sit.”
She poured herself another drink, stared at the glass, and heaped another portion of scotch into it. Maybe she could blur the razor edges of what was to come...
“Do you want a divorce, Sloan?” Wesley plopped the food on the table and pulled out a chair for her as he asked the question.
She lowered her eyes as she slid into the chair, her fingers tightly gripped around the glass. She was caught off guard, expecting a further battle, not an almost indifferent query.
“Do you?” He sat down himself, and again she knew he stared at her, his searing jade gaze giving nothing but bluntly allowing her no quarter.
“No,” she finally managed to whisper.
“Why not?” he demanded.
God, why was he doing this to her, she wondered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why do you want to stay married? Is the money worth living with a monster you can’t forgive?”
Now was the time, she knew, to say something, to drop her pride...but she was so afraid he was setting her up...“Yes,” she said coolly. “I could say that I love you, but since you’re not going to believe it, let’s just leave it at cold cash. A signed and sealed bargain, as you say.” Her voice suddenly cracked and broke. He had tried to apologize, and she had made a mess of it. “I’m sorry, Wes,” she continued with a waver. “I do want to stay married, but God, not like this! Not like Belgium! Not with you gone for weeks at a time when I have no idea where you are or who you’re...” She stopped speaking and took a sip of the scotch she had stared at while she spoke.
“Did you care where I was?” Wes asked softly.
“Yes,” she admitted to the amber liquid swimming before her.
“Did you really care, Sloan?” he persisted. “Or was your ego bruised? Never mind,” he answered himself, adding with a trace of bitterness, “I wouldn’t know whether to believe you or not.”
He fell silent and Sloan chewed on her lower lip. “Wes?” she finally said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Could we try to be friends?” she asked tentatively.
His arm stretched across the table, he gripped her chin, firmly but gently, forcing her to look at him. “I didn’t come back to argue with you, Sloan,” he said gravely, and for the first time that night she sensed a thread of an emotion that hinted of tenderness in his eyes. “It doesn’t change things, but I am very sorry for my behavior in Belgium. I can’t promise I’m going to be a saint from here on out; I have an ego myself and believe me, it’s very bruised. You have to expect a few snide remarks when you marry a man for his money, but yes, although I find it ironic to be discussing friendship with my wife, I should hope that we work toward that end since we both plan to keep the...bargain...going.”
His touch upon her chin was wearing through the thin veneer that was left on her nerves. The callused gentleness of his hand brought back sweeping memories that combined with the nearness of him—the light but fully masculine scent that would forever be imbedded in her mind, the breadth of shoulder that was so enticing to lean against, the cleanly chiseled lines of his powerful profile—to nearly engulf her senses and bring her flying to him, promising anything, pleading, begging, anything to be back in his arms, held tenderly even if it was a mockery of love.
She couldn’t allow herself to do that. They had to establish a wave of communication and respect first.
She stood, praying her blurring eyes and quivering voice would not betray her need. “Tomorrow,” she said tentatively, “I’d like to tell you about the school.”
“Fine,” he replied.
“You don’t mind about it, do you?” she said hesitantly.
“No, I don’t. But I will be interested in seeing your books—I don’t care what you spent, but perhaps I can be helpful on the business end.”
“Thank you,” Sloan murmured. She needed to get away from him, and he hadn’t protested her rising. “I, umm, I think I pushed it a little with the scotch. I’m going to bed. I see that your things are in my room, so I’ll just move out to the—”
“No, you won’t!” Wes interrupted sharply, the cold, guarded glimmer slipping back over his eyes as he stared at her with full attention.
“Wes,” Sloan said slowly, “I’m not talking about any permanent situation—”
“Forget it,” he said curtly. “Permanent, temporary, or otherwise. In my book, a husband and wife share a room.”
She was too tired and too frazzled to realize what she said next. “Terry would have—” Her voice broke off with abrupt dismay.
Wes stood. It seemed as if he did it very slowly, rising over her with a towering force that was chilling although they were several feet apart. His fingers were clenched tightly around a napkin, the knuckles white, the thin line of his grimly twisted lips just as devoid of color.
“I think we discussed this once,” he said with soft danger. “I am not Terry. I do not sleep on couches, nor will you. I am not Terry.”
Sloan met his gaze, dismayed at the hard-core jade. He still intended to tell her just how high to jump...
“No,” she agreed scathingly. “You are not Terry. Terry was a nice man.” She spun on him before he could retaliate and sought refuge in her bedroom, staring long at the lock on the door. She pushed it in, but then released it as his voice tauntingly followed her.
“Don’t bother, Sloan. If you’re in my—our—room, a lock isn’t going to stop me from entering.”
He didn’t come to bed for a long, long time. Sloan lay in silent misery, her nerves and, yes, anticipation fighting sleep. Each time she heard a movement in the house, she jumped while her mind raced double-time. Damn! She did want him so badly, being near him and not touching him was like slow and torturous starvation...
But all she really had now was a piece of paper and her pride. She couldn’t allow herself to show how vulnerable she was...
He entered the room in the dark, and she barely breathed, feigning deep sleep, hearing the sounds as he undressed as if each piece of clothing had fallen with the burst of an explosion. He crawled in beside her, and her entire body went stiff, her heart seemed to thunder, and her flesh was painfully aware of his heat as she waited...
And waited.
He didn’t touch her. He plumped his pillow, adjusted his position, stretched his body out comfortably. But didn’t touch her.
Sloan lay in shocked confusion. And, she realized sinkingly, disappointment. Whatever she had been telling herself was a lie. She had been glad that he had insisted upon sleeping together; she had been wonderfully relieved that he was going to force her into his arms so that she would have an excuse to salve her pride.
But now she just ached, her disappointment becoming a physical agony.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, her eyes open, staring blankly into the dark, when he shifted again, and his arm grazed her shoulder.
“What is the matter with you?” Wes demanded impatiently, obviously aware she had never been sleeping. “You’re as cold and stiff as marble and shivering like a rabbit.”
“I—I—” Sloan stammered.
She heard his soft chuckle; it was a gentle sound of amusement, and it caressed her warmth. “I see,” he said, and although his voice was amused, it was tender. “You thought I was going to force you into keeping conjugal rights. No, my love, I’ll not force you. I won’t sleep in another room, but I won’t force you.”
“You...you don’t want to make love?” Sloan said in a strangled voice.
She felt his hand on her cheek, the knuckles grazing her flesh, his whisper soft and gentle. “I didn’t say that. But I want you to want to.” He was silent for several seconds, his hand moving to smooth back her hair, to trail down her throat. Surely, Sloan thought, he must feel the terrible pounding of her heart in the erratic racing of her pulse.
“Do you want to make love, Sloan?”
His voice, threading through the night like deep velvet, was husky and wistful. It was the perfect touch to break her final grasp on control. Sloan lay still just seconds, her eyes closing, her fingers clawing into fists at her side. Then she turned into him, her face burrowing into the dark hair on his chest, the tenseness of her body evaporating as she melded to him, her hands freed from their convulsive grasp to tremble as they rose to his shoulders, sweetly relishing the power play of muscles beneath them. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audibly, “yes, please, Wes, make love to me...”
“Oh, God.” She heard his groan, deep and guttural within his throat. His hands raked through her hair, his kisses rained upon her face, covering her eyelids, devouring her mouth, falling with reverence over her breasts as he rolled over her with a need as urgent and demanding as she could have possibly desired. “Oh, dear God, wife,” he murmured, divesting her gently of the silken sheath of nightgown that barely separated them, “I’ve missed you...wanted you, dreamed of you...making love to you...”
Sloan’s shivers of agonized thirst slowly abated as he filled her with his heat, making love to her with a gentle trembling thoroughness that proved the truth of his words. Beneath the assault of hands and lips that enticed and seduced while they commanded and took, she came alive as she had never been before, craving release from her consuming madness, but savoring each touch of hungry lips upon her, lips that bruised her breasts, her thighs, sending lightning streaks of electric excitement ever closer to the core of her need. Nor could she fill herself with the taste and touch of him, drowning deeper and deeper in sensation as he rumbled groans of the pleasure she gave him.
He burst within her and she was filled, so sweetly gratified that she was at peace, realizing only then how sorely empty she had been. And he whispered softly that he loved her, and she clung to the words because she wanted more than anything to believe them.
Wes did mean his ardent whispers, uttered with passion in the dark because he was afraid to face them by day. Her sighs of pleasure made him tremble. The darkness had hidden the shattering joy in his eyes when she had come to him...a humble joy...his wife was perfection...a potion that slipped into the blood and intoxicated for life.
There was so much he wanted to say to her. He wanted her to know how sorry he really was, but it could never be explained, only felt.
And he couldn’t explain anyway. She had taken him so easily once, cut him to the bone. She had the power to destroy him; he couldn’t let her do it a second time. He couldn’t talk to her as he wanted, until he could begin to believe, until time healed. They were wary opponents, ever circling...
He couldn’t even assure himself that insecurity would keep him from striking out again...But now, as he held her close in the darkness, they had precious moments of mutual need...and caring. The battle tactics were out of the bedroom. Here he could love her.
And he did.
All through the night. He took what was his and cherished it, knowing morning could bring dissension and inevitably the light of day. Here, in the shadows, he could even accept her tentative whispers of love in return as the lazy comfort of satiation held them both in a spell and he cradled her to his form, softly stroking her hair.
“I do love you, Wes,” she murmured softly against him, her voice so hesitant, so beseeching, that it hurt and he stiffened. Very, very faintly, he thought he heard a muffled sob.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t trust you, Sloan.”
“Then where do we go from here?” she murmured bleakly.
He was silent for a long time, but he continued to stroke her hair gently. “Trust is something that has to be earned,” he said very softly, and fell back to silence.
Dawn was streaking through the windows, dispelling the guardian shadows of darkness, when they both slept, held together by the first tenuous thread of communication.
Wes was grateful that he held her in his arms against him, but his sleep was still not content or easy. He still had to wonder if she didn’t wish that she slept with another man, a man she had also called husband and formed a relationship with that was her dream of near perfection...
And he had to wonder if she really loved him, or if she still gave her love only to the ghost who remained in her dream.
She was a wonderful actress. He had learned that already. She could be protesting love for the mere convenience of saving the wealth she had plotted to obtain...
Thank God she didn’t know that any further acting was unnecessary. He loved and needed her so desperately that he would stay with her, give her anything in his power, no matter how she felt, just as long as he could be with her...