chapter FOUR
SLOAN SLID A TOWEL around her neck and closed the door to Fine Arts 202 behind her. She shook her head slightly. Melanie Anderson and Harold Persoff were in that studio practicing to Steely Dan, while the strains of Bach were also filtering through to her from Fine Arts 204 where Gail Henning—a student determined to be the next American prima ballerina—was also at work rehearsing.
Sloan’s lips curved into a slight smile. She didn’t mind teaching; in fact she loved it. Gail Henning was going to make a fine ballerina, and Sloan was playing a part in making the girl’s dream a reality. It was a nice feeling.
Her smile slipped and she sighed. The problem with teaching was the college. The Fine Arts department was on a low budget—in the present economy state-funded schools couldn’t afford much for the arts. Theater, dance, and music—and even visual arts—were just not practical courses of study in the world the kids would face when they left. Sloan agreed with the theory that her students—even the best—should have a sound education to fall back on. She, more than anyone, knew that they would have a struggle surviving in their chosen field. But although Jim Baskins was a great department head, he was under the chairman of Fine Arts, who was under the dean, who was under the vice-president of the school, and so forth. The politics in her job drove her crazy.
She mused over the budget wars recently fought in the last faculty meetings as she entered the ring of offices shared by theater and dance, thanking the student secretary for her messages and following the labyrinth of cubbyholes until she found her own—an eight-by-eight square with a small desk and two chairs. The rest of the proposals for dance finals awaited her approval, and she slipped into a sweat shirt, chilled now by the air conditioning in her damp leotard and tights, before seating herself to concentrate on the projects. A chosen few would be previewed on Saturday when she and Jim made their own contributions to the welfare of the Fine Arts department at the annual performance. And time, Sloan thought with a grimace, was slipping away. Wrinkling her nose with distaste at the loss of time she so often endured with the red tape of the paperwork, Sloan focused her attention on what actually constituted teaching.
Sloan picked up the first folder and pursed her lips in a tolerant grimace as she saw that Susie Harris wanted to tap her final to the Doobie Brothers’ “A Fool Believes.” The music wasn’t conducive to tap, but Sloan believed in letting the kids—kids! they were eighteen to twenty, young adults—try their wings and learn from their own mistakes. Besides, she had seen some very good work come out of the highly improbable.
Sloan scribbled a few lines of advice on Susie’s folder and set it aside. Dan Taylor wanted to do a modern ballet to Schubert...
Sloan set the folder down. Her effort to concentrate was fading. Chewing the nub of her pencil, she thought back to the previous night and Wesley. He hadn’t mentioned marriage again; he hadn’t touched her again. He had returned their relationship to a casual one, idly discussing the upcoming school performance. At her home he had played with the kids, picked up Florence, and left, saying nothing about seeing her again...
The tip of the eraser broke off in her mouth, and Sloan wrinkled her face in distaste before ruefully plucking the rubber from her tongue. She was going to have to stop being such a nervous wreck—and definitely improve her hunting technique. Wesley was supposed to think of nothing but her all day long, not vice versa. And she had been thinking of nothing but Wesley all day, to the extent that her students must be thinking Mrs. Tallett was mellowing. She was considered the roughest taskmaster in the department, knowing that only grueling work could take even the most talented to the top.
In all dance classes, you perspired.
In Mrs. Tallett’s classes, you sweat!
Sloan was aware that her budding Nureyevs thought her a strict drill sergeant, but she was totally unaware that they were devoted to her and many considered her a miracle in a small college. Half the males in her classes were also in more than a little bit of puppy love with her. She was beautiful, tall, svelte, sophisticated, and although her voice could be a cutting whip, it was a soft-spoken voice. She was tireless and demanding, but she had the grace of movement they all strove for, and she participated in her own strenuous workouts.
If you got out of Mrs. Tallett’s classes alive, you had a good chance of making it as a dancer.
Today, she had been mellow. She had been busy throwing her energies into furious movement, hoping she could exhaust her frame from remembering the burning touch that had made her forget everything else...
A soft tap on her door became persistent and sharp before she heard it. “Come in,” she called quickly.
It was Donna, the student-assistant secretary, and her pretty round face seemed somewhat in awe.
“What is it, Donna?” Sloan asked.
“He’s here, Mrs. Tallett. To see you,” Donna said disbelievingly.
Sloan frowned, sighed, and forced herself to be patient. “He who is here to see me, Donna?”
“Adams. The quarterback. Wesley Adams, the quarterback!” Donna said the name with awe, then rambled on, “Oh, Mrs. Tallett! He’s gorgeous! What a hunk! And so nice. And he’s here! Right here in Gettysburg. To see you. Oh, Mrs. Tallett, what do you suppose he wants?”
Sloan couldn’t prevent the rueful grin that spread across her features. She lowered her eyes quickly, not to allow Donna to view the self-humor she was feeling. She might be the attractive and judicial Mrs. Tallett, but she was still a teacher, a mature if sophisticated woman.
Wesley was a national hero, living in the never-never land of eternal youth. It was hard to accept the fact that her students would think of her as a Cinderella chosen by the godlike prince in a miraculous whim of luck, but that was how they would see it.
“Donna,” Sloan said with tolerant patience, “Wesley Adams is from Gettysburg—and he no longer plays football. And yes, he is a very nice man. Show him back, will you please?”
“Sure thing!” Donna’s huge, cornflower-blue eyes still held wonder, and she hesitated as she backed out of the room.
“What else, Donna?” Sloan asked with a raised brow.
“Could you...would you...I mean, I’d love...”
“Love what?” Sloan prompted, holding in her exasperation.
“An autograph,” Donna breathed quickly.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you an autograph.” Sloan smiled. “He can stop back by your desk on the way out and write whatever you wish. Okay?”
“Okay!” Donna grinned and disappeared.
Only as the door closed did Sloan realize she was once again a mess. Her leotard, tights, and leg warmers were at least new and unfaded, but her hair was drawn back in a severe bun, and the sweat shirt she wore was an old and tattered gray one. Her makeup had been through Monday’s schedule—Ballet III, Jazz II, Modern I, Advanced Tap, and Aerobics. So had her body.
And it would take Donna about fifteen seconds to walk back to the central office, another fifteen or twenty to return...
Sloan made a dive beneath her desk for her handbag and hastily gave herself a light mist of Je Reviens and glossed her lips quickly with a peach-bronze shade that matched her nails. Tendrils of hair were escaping the knot at her nape, but it was too late to worry. She had been thinking of Wes all day, but never expecting to see him.
The raps came on her door again, and she shoved her purse back beneath the desk. “Come in.”
A giggling and blushing Donna pushed open the door and led Wesley in. Sloan could immediately see why the girl had been so taken. Wes had dressed for business today, and he was stunningly, ruggedly good-looking in a way which could let no one wonder which was the stronger, virile sex. In a navy three-piece suit, stark white shirt, and burgundy silk tie, he looked every inch the cool, shrewd businessman while still exuding an aura of an earthy power. Very civil—his omniscient-seeming green eyes were light, his grin warm—while still conveying that raw, almost primitive masculinity that women, no matter how liberated, sought in a male.
He smoothed back the breeze-ruffled silver-tinged hair that was the only thing out of context with his sleekly tailored appearance as he entered her office, overpowering everything in the small space. “Hi. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do dance teachers get off at five like the rest of the work force?”
Sloan rose and smiled. “Not always, but you’re not disturbing me.” He was disturbing her, but not as he thought.
Donna still stood in the doorway, agape at their casual greetings. “Thank you, Donna,” Sloan dismissed her gently. She cast a quick, apologetic glance Wes’s way. “Mr. Adams will stop by your desk on the way out.”
Wesley quirked a puzzled brow but agreed with her, smiling to the girl. “Sure, I’ll stop by on my way out.”
“Thank you,” Donna murmured, flushed and pleasantly pink as she closed the door.
“Why am I stopping by on my way out?” he asked playfully as he took the one chair before Sloan’s desk and they both seated themselves.
“An autograph. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dark brows knit loosely above Wes’s ever-changing green eyes. “I don’t mind at all, but I wasn’t planning on leaving. Not without you.”
“Oh?” Sloan felt her heart begin to pound harder.
“I was hoping you’d come to dinner with me.”
The pounding became thunderous. She certainly couldn’t pat herself on the back for playing the femme fatale too well, but he was coming to her anyway. Had he really cared something for her all those years? It was impossible to tell whether he spoke with meaning or if his words were the pleasant, teasing games that all men—she thought—played. All men except Terry. She couldn’t think about Terry right now, but unfortunately, neither could she accept Wesley’s invitation. She had nothing tangible to go on yet, and she had commitments she couldn’t disregard even if she did.
“Wesley,” she murmured unhappily, “I’d love to go to dinner with you, but I can’t. Jim and I do a dance as well as the students, and I need a little practice time by myself. And I have to pick up the children and spend time with them and feed them—”
“I’ve already taken all that into consideration,” Wesley interrupted her, giving her his dazzling, lopsided grin. He leaned his elbows upon her desk to draw closer, and the effect of his nearness was mesmerizing. “We’ll pick up the kids together and run to your house so that you can shower and change. Then we’ll take the kids over to the steak house, come back so that you can spend time with them and practice, and then we’ll go out. Florence will be ready anytime we are. And you won’t have to worry about your time with your children—they’ll be in bed before we go. We won’t stay out late—I know morning comes quickly on working days.”
Sloan stared into his eyes feeling a bit of awe and wonder herself. She may not be in love with Wesley, she decided, but she couldn’t recall liking or even respecting a man more! He was one of the most sensitive men she had ever met, understanding in every way, not just tolerating her children, but taking great care to keep their needs at the top of his priority list.
“You are marvelous!” she whispered, and she meant every word. Another smile spread slowly across her delicately boned face, erasing the tension and strain of the day. “Thank you, Wesley,” she murmured tentatively, strangely humbled by his thoughtfulness.
“For what?” he demanded, his gentle, probing green stare telling her all that she needed to know even as he brushed her gratitude aside as unnecessary.
“For understanding,” she said softly.
He chuckled, but his strong features were intense, and she was left to wonder about the depths of his sincerity. “I don’t have much time to convince you that I’m madly in love with you and should forever after be the only man in your life. Come on, we’ll take my car and worry about yours later.”
Sloan smiled a little uneasily and straightened the folders on her desk. She would deal with them in a much better frame of mind in the morning. “The entire evening sounds beautifully planned,” she said huskily. “Just give me two minutes to check out with Jim and five minutes to hop into the shower.”
“Take fifteen,” Wes laughed, rising. “I’ll go take care of your dancing football fan.”
There was more than one fan in the office by the time Sloan had slipped out the back of the maze to the showers and returned to go over a few notes with Jim. Some type of student radar had gone out, and an ensemble of dancers in tights and actors in various stages of costume from the drama classes had formed in a loose circle around Wes.
As she listened to him deal politely and quietly with the students, Sloan realized that the pleasant, low-timbred quality of his voice was truly becoming dear to her. Wes Adams did have everything; sinewed good looks, personality, charisma.
And a fortune.
She must have been blind all those years ago, but then they had been young. Neither had been what they were today.
Nervousness rippled through Sloan as she silently watched him. Cassie had probably been right—Wes could crook a little finger and have any woman he wanted. For some obscure reason he wanted her, and God help her, she wanted him too, even if the feeling wasn’t love. But he had to love her, really love her, because it had to be marriage...she needed him. Desperately now, now that she had let the dream grow.
Her fingers clenched at her side. She was going to have to be so very careful...he had to keep wanting her. For a lifetime. And he had to keep believing in the illusion she hoped she was weaving.
An illusion of assurance, of sophisticated confidence. Of having every bit as much to offer in a relationship as he.
Green eyes suddenly met hers over a sea of faces. The lazy, incredibly sexy grin curled its way back into the strong line of his jaw. “Excuse me,” he murmured to the students, and then he was at her side, leading her out as young men and women watched and echoed good-byes to them both.
For a moment Sloan was tempted to laugh. Wesley would probably never realize how he had just elevated her in the eyes of the student body.
“Nice kids,” Wes said as he steered her to his Lincoln in the parking lot. “They filled me in quite a bit on you.”
“Really?” Sloan raised a curious and surprised brow.
“Ummm.” He grinned with amusement. “They say you’re the sexiest tyrant ever to head a dance class. I assured them they were probably quite right.”
“Oh,” Sloan laughed, wincing as she felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “About being a tyrant—or, uh...” Damn! What was she saying?
“Sexy?” Wes supplied, chuckling as he shut her door. He walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. “Both,” he said, smiling at her. “I know you’re sexy as hell, and I can bet you can be a tyrant.”
“Worried?” she queried in as light and teasing a manner as she could.
“Not at all. I can fight fire with fire, my dear.”
Sloan smiled, the right reaction since his answer had been teasing in kind. Yet a little trickle of unease worked its way up her neck. Had there been a hint of steel beneath his velvet tone, or was that only an illusion of her overactive imagination? She remembered the first night at her house...how bluntly he had called her rude. He hadn’t really been angry; he had been in complete control. Yet she shuddered at the vision of a man who possessed his dynamic force and depths of passion losing his temper.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Your children,” he replied, patient and amused by her wandering.
“Oh...” Sloan gave him directions to the day-care center.
Three hours later—having fulfilled all obligation to family and art—they were back on the highway driving to a hotel outside the city limits that offered rooftop dining and dancing. It was odd, Sloan thought, casting Wes a covert glance as he drove, that she had really only known him four days. She had known him years ago, of course, but that was a vague memory. On Friday night she had thought his appearance nothing more than a nuisance. The intensity of their relationship since was strangely comforting—while also disturbing. She was nervous—one couldn’t be planning on marrying a man who had no idea he was being baited without being nervous—but she was now beginning to relax. For whatever heaven-sent reason, Wesley seemed to be sincere. His patience with her situation was astounding. He also seemed to be determined to pander to her every whim with tolerant amusement. Little by little, it became apparent that her inexpert vamping was working—she could almost hope she was winding him around her little finger.
It was over rainbow trout, tenderly seasoned and cooked and perfectly garnished, that Wesley began to quiz her about Terry again.
“When you talk about your husband there’s a little light in your eyes,” he told her, his eyes darting to hers from the fish. “It sounds like you had the perfect marriage. Didn’t you ever argue?”
Sloan smiled, still curious that it was so easy to talk him. She sensed that the questions were relevant to their own relationship, although she wasn’t sure why. She answered him honestly—there was seldom a reason to hedge because he never brought up finances.
“It was a near perfect marriage, I suppose, but we did argue.” She laughed. “Terry spent lots of nights on the couch.”
“On the couch?” Wes seemed surprised.
Sloan frowned slightly, perplexed at his reaction, but still smiling. “Sure. He always knew when I was really angry because I’d throw his pillow and a blanket at him. By the morning—or the morning after, at least—we were ready to converse like human beings. I thought it worked well.”
“You would,” Wes said, and although he kept the teasing tone in his voice, Sloan noted an edge of sternness. “You weren’t the one sleeping on the couch.”
“I meant we both had time to cool down,” Sloan said. “You disagree with such a tactic?”
“I don’t believe you can run away from the issue,” Wes said, signaling their waiter for coffee. “But tell me, why do you think the marriage worked so well? Take it as research, if you like,” he added with a grin. “I’ve only heard of or seen three really good marriages—yours, your sister’s, and my brother’s.”
Sloan mulled the question over carefully. This talk about marriage was very tricky. Perhaps she should have told him she and Terry never argued...“I don’t really know. I think with Terry and me it was a question of both being artists. We loved each other, and also respected each other’s need to love what we did. We both knew we wanted a family. Cassie and I lost our parents when we were just out of our teens—and I learned then, and again when Terry died, just how important sisters can be. I wanted my children to have each other. So did Terry. He was an only child, and his parents died when he was young too. We had a lot in common. And I don’t think I ever saw Terry really mad. He simply didn’t have a temper—which was good, because mine was terrible when I was younger!” Sloan chuckled a little sheepishly. She hadn’t meant to say quite so much, and Wes was watching her now intently, the green eyes seeming to pierce through to her soul. She didn’t want him seeing her soul...
“You seem to have pulled yourself together,” he said simply. He lit a cigarette and sat back exhaling smoke, his eyes never leaving her. “Sometimes, when people lose a loved one, they blind themselves. They forget that the person was human and turn them into a god. You remember all the good, which is wonderful, but you seem to also realize he was a man.”
Do I? Sloan wondered. She wasn’t sure. There was still that terrible ache in her sometimes, but oddly, since she had started seeing Wesley, it was fading. It wasn’t love, not as she had known it, but she respected him, admired him, and felt a wild excitement in his arms when he touched her...when she heard his voice...when she watched his powerful, lithe movements...
Wes abruptly changed the subject. “Would you like to dance? Or is that a poor question after you’ve taught all day?”
“No.” Sloan smiled. “I’d love to dance. The effect is an entirely different one on a dance floor.”
It was entirely different. She loved being in this man’s arms, inhaling his pleasant scent, feeling the rough material of his jacket and the hard muscles beneath her fingers. Curiously, he was a wonderful dancer, light and agile on his feet, especially for a man of his size.
Tilting her chin to his face, Sloan smiled with a lazy happiness. “You do quite well on a dance floor, Mr. Adams.”
“Thank you,” he replied with a shade of amusement, his hand tightening upon the small of her back and pulling her closer. “I like to think it’s because of the ballet classes I’ve taken.”
“Ballet? You?” Sloan queried with disbelief.
“Yep.” They made a dip, and Sloan found her form fitting to his with uncanny perfection. “My coach made the whole team take dance classes to improve our coordination.” He shrugged ruefully. “I’m six four and two hundred and twenty pounds—small compared to half the team. Seriously, imagine a guy we called Bull Bradford. Six foot eight, three hundred pounds. If a guy like that fell on one of his own teammates, he could put a player out for the entire season.”
Sloan laughed and her eyes met his again. It was so good to be with him, laugh with him, have him take the burdens of her life off her shoulders. Good to be held by him, even if she held herself in careful restraint. The heat of him aroused so much in her, and she wondered fleetingly if it was wrong to want a man so badly whom she didn’t love. It didn’t matter, because she couldn’t have him, not until...until he married her. She just couldn’t take risks. She had always been confident in her sexuality before, but she had loved Terry, and he had loved her. What if...what if she just didn’t have the experience or expertise to hold a man like Wesley? She shivered suddenly. She would be confident of Wesley’s love when she had his ring around her finger...when her ragged existence had been eased.
And somehow, somehow, she thought guiltily, she would repay him...
He took her to dinner again the next night, telling her in his light, easy fashion that he was staging a whirlwind courtship. He had not taken her into his arms again with the same passion he had hungrily displayed in the park; he was restraining himself. He kissed her good-night with gentle, sensual persuasion, leaving her senses reeling, her body aching for the demand she had known so briefly.
Apparently, she thought ruefully as she tossed in bed after that night, her body was unaware that a winner-take-all game was being played. Thank heaven Wesley was treading lightly. She feared an edge of pressure could bring capitulation from traitorous flesh.
Summer was a big time for tourists in Gettysburg, and on Wednesday morning Sloan noticed the traffic becoming heavy, the streets thronging with visitors. Fairly certain that Wesley would appear after her last class and ask her out for the evening, she decided to take things into her own hands. With that resolution for initiative, she planned a barbecue at her home. Wesley sounded pleasantly agreeable when she called him at the business number he had given her—they could avoid any crowds.
Jim popped his head into her half-open office doorway just as she was finishing her call. “A barbecue, eh? Am I invited?” he teased.
“Do you know,” Sloan mused, wondering if it would now be a good idea to chance being alone with Wes once the little Talletts were tucked into bed, “you just gave me an idea. Yes, you are invited. Most definitely.”
“Sloan,” Jim demurred, sliding into her extra chair and unabashedly casting his legs—covered by woolen leg warmers—over the corner of her desk, “I was teasing. The student grapevine tells me—since you haven’t bothered to”—he interrupted himself with the woeful aggrievance—“that Mrs. Tallett is running hot and heavy with Wesley Adams. Granted, I told you I was living to see this day; but seriously, shouldn’t you be alone?”
“No,” Sloan said firmly. “And I’m not running ‘hot and heavy’ with anyone.” Her lips quirked into a dry smile. “I’m assuming that was a student expression?”
Jim shrugged. “Sometimes the students have apt expressions. I know you were out with him Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I think that qualifies for hot and heavy. Especially with you.”
“Damn,” Sloan murmured, “that’s some grapevine. How did you know about Sunday?”
“Jeannie Holiday—my Monday Beginning Jazz class,” Jim told her with a smile. “She saw you at the park.”
Sloan flushed a little and made a show of straightening her desk, wondering exactly how much Jeannie Holiday had seen. “And Fine Arts majors are notoriously creative,” she said lightly. “Are you going to come?”
Jim hunched his shoulders. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a broad grin. “Sloan Tallett finally gets her rich man.”
“What?” Sloan’s eyes flew to his guiltily.
“The man’s as rich as Onassis,” Jim said. “Surely you knew that.”
“I knew he was...comfortable,” Sloan said, finding it hard to hide her conscience before Jim. She returned her attention to her desk until she could compose her features into a mask of cheerfulness. “I’m going to have Cassie and George over too...and my nephews, of course. Since you’re coming, Jim”—she gave him a conniving smile—“do you think you could just assign my last class to their rehearsals? I’d like to hop out a little early and plan.”
“Sure,” Jim said agreeably. “Leave when you’re ready. I’m so anxious to see this, I’ll even bring the wine.”
Sloan graced him with a tongue-in-cheek smile. “Bring beer—Wesley’s bringing wine.”
“Will do, kiddo.” Jim stood and shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think even a millionaire could get you away from those memories of yours this fast.”
Sloan watched him leave her office with surprise. It was true, and Jim had seen it. She hadn’t lost her memories in the last few days, but she had shelved them away in a poignant past where they belonged.
Her last-minute midweek barbecue turned out to be a wonderful success. She had overextended herself a little on the preparations, but then she decided, as the saying goes, it takes money to make money.
And she wanted Wes to think her capable of hostessing a nice, if informal, affair.
The July sun stayed out a long time, enabling the party to eat on the lawn. Sloan was thankful for her sister’s appearance; with Cassie and George coming early with their two boys, she had left the supervision of all the children to them and managed to do a nice job of sprucing up the house and herself. By the time Wes had arrived, she had been cool and collected, her mad dash to collect children, clean house, and primp a thing of the past. She met him at the door with a brilliant smile, casually dressed in jeans and a body-hugging T-shirt that lent her an aura of feminine nonchalance.
When the food had been consumed and the grown-ups—including an eagle-eyed Jim—were leisurely relaxing in various stages of comfort on the back patio, George, an avid armchair quarterback all his life, talked Wesley into a football game.
“I need a handicap, though,” George admitted cheerfully, “I get Jim, and I guess I have to take Cassie”—he paused with a grimace as Cassie frowned and whacked his shoulder—“and you get Sloan.”
Wes chuckled and angled his head toward Sloan. “What do you say?”
Sloan shrugged with a slow smile. “Sure. If you can play ballerina, I guess I can be a halfback!”
“Go easy, halfback,” Jim warned, and Sloan was startled into seeing her friend’s appraising eyes on her. “Don’t forget we have a performance on Saturday. I’m not dancing with a partner on crutches.”
Sloan smiled at him, but her smile was uneasy. She felt he was warning her about more than a game.
“Touch game, only,” Wes said, a semismile, warmly insinuative, on his lips as he cast a protective arm around Sloan’s shoulders.
“And watch who you’re touching where!” Cassie interjected, giving her husband an elbow in the ribs. She looked at the group with feigned grievance. “I think the man would love to get his hands on my sister!”
“Cassie!” George and Sloan gasped the protest together.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Cassie moaned. She laughed, half in earnest, half in jest. “I don’t think he’d dare turn the wrong way at the moment, anyway! Wesley could fell him with one twitch of the finger.”
“Hey!” George grumbled as they ambled away to form their team. “I’m not in that bad a shape—am I?”
Neither Wesley nor Sloan got to hear his wife’s reply. They were laughing and forming their own huddle.
Wesley spelled out their plans for action to a giggling Sloan, who didn’t understand a single play. “Woman,” Wes groaned, “I’m glad you were never on the team. However”—his arms tightened excitingly around her and his whisper, warm and moist against her ear, inflamed her body from head to toe—“I never enjoyed a huddle like I’m enjoying this one.”
The mini football game was fun. She and Wes had the advantage of his speed and prowess, and George had the advantage of a third person. Even with her frequent fumbles, though, she and Wes won the game. Or rather, Wes won the game. She was almost useless, but all of Wes’s grumbling was good-natured. Eventually, as the summer sun faded entirely, they all wound up back where they had started—lazily sprawled around the patio, hot and pleasantly tired and thirstily finishing up the beer.
The talk was casual. Sloan, drowsy from an entire day of physical activity and rushing, didn’t say much, but listened to the chatter with a feeling of well-being. She was vaguely pleased that Jim and Wes had hit it off so well. Even if she were to leave her teaching job at the college—which she intended to do if her scheming worked—he was a dear friend, one she would like to keep. Perhaps—and she allowed her mind to wander off to dreams—the two of them could form their own school one day without the miles of red tape...
“Sloan?”
“Ummm!” She was nudged from dreamland by Wesley prodding the shoulder that rested against his knee.
“I’m sorry.” He chuckled with affection. “I hate to disturb you with that sweet smile on your face, but I need to use the phone.”
“Oh!” She jumped up quickly and excused them both from the group to lead Wes through the living room, where Cassie’s boys were curled asleep on the couches, to her room and the extension. “I’ll leave you to your privacy,” she said, starting to close the door.
“No, stay,” he said huskily, his intense green gaze demanding and sensual. “This will only take a minute, and I want to talk to you.”
Sloan’s heart began to flutter with anticipation and the combination of wild excitement and fear that always seemed to assail her when she was alone with him. She forced herself to smile and shrug casually before sitting idly at the foot of the bed to await his call.
It was half social call and half business, she realized quickly. It was his brother he talked to, and he started off in a warm humor. He rattled off a few names which she assumed belonged to horses, and discussed prices and breeding stock.
Then he was silent for quite a while, listening. Sloan literally saw all warmth leave his eyes—they became hardened crystals of smooth green glass. The muscles in his face tensed and tightened; a vein began to pound furiously in the whipcord strength of his neck. His jawline was hard and squared, the total quality of his handsome features suddenly transformed into something more chilling than she had ever seen before.
A face more fierce and ruthless than she had ever imagined. Wesley Adams furious.
Despite his metamorphosis, he remained silent, his hand tightening around the receiver until his knuckles went white.
But not as white as Sloan was feeling. It wasn’t directed at her, but his anger was the type that froze a person’s blood. Just watching the apparent control he wielded, allowing only muscles to tighten, started a shivering inside of her that would not cease.
He spoke low—a deathly growl. “Fire him. And make sure he’s off the place before I get back.”
Apparently the person on the other end of the wire knew there was no mercy when that restrained, bloodcurdling hiss was used. Wesley listened again, but Dave Adams had little else to say.
The tension in Wes ebbed somewhat as he said good-bye, his anger not directed at his brother, but at the party being fired. Sloan would hate to be that person, but if she was the employee in question, she would definitely be long gone before Wes got back.
The receiver clicked precisely back into its holder, and Sloan found herself wishing he had not asked her to stay in the room. She didn’t think she wanted to hear anything he had to say at that moment, not with that look of ruthless authority still on his face.
Wes turned to her suddenly, as if just realizing she was still with him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We had a problem with a trainer.”
For some ridiculous reason—perhaps her own shivering apprehension—Sloan felt pity for the unknown man and came to his defense, stuttering, “Wh—what happened? Perhaps you should give the man a second chance—”
Wesley interrupted her, his lips drawn in a tight white smile. “I don’t give second chances. I gave him a chance when I hired him. He came in drunk, decided to take one of our most promising three-year-olds out, and caused the mare to break her leg. She had to be destroyed.”
“Oh,” Sloan murmured weakly. Besides the anger, she could sense the pain in his voice.
But Wes could make incredible changes. His smile and eyes became lighter as he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, then tilted her chin toward his. “There’s nothing more to be done about it,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, I seem to have put a damper on your evening.”
“No—” Sloan protested, but she didn’t get a chance to say more. She was drawn up, inexorably, into his arms. There was a force to him tonight, a leftover of the coiled tension he had constrained, a shuddering that rippled through sinewed muscles and lent heat and passion to his rough but tender command. His lips taking hers with no question or persuasion but with need and mastery. His tongue invaded the moist intimacy of her mouth, expecting submission with absolute authority and receiving it.
Sloan was at first startled, and then mesmerized. She couldn’t have denied him...had she wanted to...been able to...
His hands were as sure as his lips. With one he held the small of her back, curving her to him in an arch that made her even more aware of his burning heat and his need for her, a need she felt that she melted to like soft wax. The excitement and spark of fire she experienced near him suddenly burst into flame like an inferno. His other hand was firmly caressing her face, sliding down the silken column of her neck, fondling her collarbone, her shoulder, seducing with each firm movement. It crept between them with no thought of obstruction from her to crush against her breast, seeking as it enticed, a work-roughened thumb grazing a nipple with expert enticement until it hardened to a full peak, straining against the fabric of her shirt to receive the intoxicating touch. A moan sounded in Sloan’s throat, a whimper of desire. She was lost in his onslaught, swept away in a great wash of desire that began as a burning need in the root of femininity and spread a weakness rushing through her like a tidal wave. She couldn’t think, only need and crave...from somewhere a voice inside her reminded her that she couldn’t give, but it made no sense...she wanted desperately to give...and give...and keep on giving until she could quench the terrible storm of desire...
Her fingers, limp at first, found life. They curled over his broad shoulders, marveling at the play of muscle, and moved on to the coarse edges of dark hair at his nape, pulling her ever closer as her mind whirled in sensation. She wasn’t sure that she still touched earth...
She never did think of her conniving that night. It was a sudden splurge of fear, spurred as his fingers slipped beneath her shirt to sear her flesh with new pleasure that finally jolted her mind. What if she wasn’t all that he wanted? What if she froze and just couldn’t...? It had been so very long...
All the terrors that flitted through her mind were unnecessary. Wesley had remembered where they were and under what circumstances, even if she hadn’t. He drew away with a shake, then pulled her close to his chest again with tenderness. Her head rested against his thundering heart as he spoke.
“There’s so much I want to say to you, Sloan. But I think your other guests are going to start speculating as to what we’re up to. I can’t wait long, though. Saturday night, when your performance and the hectic pace that goes with it is over, we’re going to leave George and Cassie early and find some place to be entirely alone. No crowded dance floor or restaurant, and no car. I want you alone. Agreed?”
Sloan nodded vigorously against his chest, not trusting herself to speak. Please God, she prayed hastily, let it be a proposal. I don’t think I can handle this much longer. And if I’m his wife, I know I’ll be okay, I’ll have to be okay, because I’ll know he wants me forever...
Everyone left shortly after they returned to the patio, Wesley brushing a quick kiss against her forehead as he helped George carry out his sleeping sons.
Sloan slept soundly. She had weighed all Wesley’s words and actions and convinced herself that he was sincere. Saturday night was sure to bring the proposal she so desperately needed.
And she had completely forgotten the other insight she had momentarily seen of the man when his temper had flared.
A man who gave no second chances and slashed offenders with a swift but merciless blow.