chapter FIVE
FOR SOME INEXPLICABLE REASON the traffic in town went mad on Thursday morning. Running late to begin with, Sloan found driving the short distance to work a tedious chore. Gritting her teeth but resigned, she wove her way through vehicles that appeared ridiculously confused.
Reaching the parking lot of the college, Sloan quickly collected her things and raced into the Fine Arts building. She and Jim had a rehearsal scheduled before their first classes, and they needed every second of time. The performance was only two days away. Depositing her street clothing and papers in her office, she moved straight into Fine Arts 202, where Jim was already engaging in warm-up exercises.
“Good morning,” she called quickly, making her way to the bar where she began her own series of stretches starting with limbering pliés.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tallett,” Jim returned her call, his voice laced with a teasing amusement. “Or is it soon to be Mrs. Adams?”
Sloan stretched high in a relevé, watching the graceful movement of her hand from side to over her head. “Do I detect a caustic note in that query?” she asked lightly.
“Caustic? Who me? Never,” Jim replied, leaping away from the bar to approach the tape player, where he set the music for their number—a medley of classical, jazz, blues, and rock created especially for them by the music department. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music began. Sloan whirled into his arms, then spun beneath his guidance in a slow pirouette with a high kick.
“Be careful, Sloan.”
Sloan missed a beat of the music and almost fell instead of swirling back into his arms. She kept her expression implacable and swirled across the floor, not answering until she returned to his side to be lifted high in the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve got a tiger by the tail, Mrs. Tallett.”
Sloan stopped the dance and walked purposefully to the tape player to halt the flow of the music, crossing her arms and facing Jim. “Okay, Mr. Baskins, let’s have it. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, Sloan, don’t go getting indignant,” Jim said with a sigh. “I’m your friend. I’m just warning you to be careful.”
“With Wesley?” It was really more of a statement than a question.
“Yes, with Wesley Adams. I watched you last night, Sloan, and I know you. I saw all those seductive smiles and that lazy sensuous charm. You’re snaring your beast all right; I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
She could have cut Jim off by simply telling him it was none of his business, but Sloan didn’t want to. He was a friend, but more than that, she had to see what he was reading from her behavior, because if she couldn’t convince Jim, she feared she would never get by the astute, probing eye of Wes...
“I thought you liked him,” she said innocently.
“I do,” Jim told her. “He’s the type of man you respect immediately, and he’s natural—honest. But don’t fool yourself,” Jim advised. “He’s nothing like your Terry.”
“You didn’t know Terry,” Sloan observed dryly.
“But I know of him—just like I know of Wes Adams,” Jim said with a sigh. “I just want you to be aware that you’re not dealing with the same type of man.”
Sloan frowned. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Jim. Are you trying to say Wes isn’t the nice person he appears to be?”
“I’m not saying that at all. From what I’ve read, he’s even a bit of a philanthropist. But”—the warning was clear—“he’s not the type man you cross, or play with loosely.”
Sloan smiled slowly but surely. Jim wasn’t doubting her emotion—he was just wondering how far she planned to carry it. Scampering back across the floor to him, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You can stop worrying—Dad,” she teased. “I’m not playing loosely with him at all. And I haven’t a thought in the world about crossing him.”
Jim flushed. “Okay—lecture over. And please! Put the music back on! We have about fifteen minutes left.”
But it was Jim who kept talking as they rehearsed. It seemed he was as well-read on Wesley Adams as Cassie. Wes, according to Jim, was a veritable tiger when it came to business. He was considered one of the most ethical men in the field of Thoroughbreds, but demanding in return. He dealt fairly, and expected the same in return. Woe to the man who attempted anything less.
Sloan paid little attention to his dissertation. She was wondering if she had judged Wes to be similar to Terry. Not really, she decided. Terry and she had been little more than children at first, growing together, but still squabbling like children together. Both men were courteous, but Terry had been completely carefree, without a serious bone in his body, without that piercing vitality that was part of Wes.
She was startled to realize that in her comparisons, Wesley was coming out by far the stronger man. Silly, she told herself. Terry had died at twenty-eight...he had never had a chance to really be a man...not in that assured, virile sense that Wes was.
It was strange, she noted vaguely late that night as she sat with Wes on her sofa sipping coffee, that Jim had asked her if she was comparing Wes to Terry. Because Wes brought up the same subject, suddenly, abruptly.
He set his mug on the coffee table and took both her hands in his. “You know, Sloan, that I’m not Terry.”
At first confused and disoriented, Sloan made a quick comeback. “Of course you’re not.”
He shook his head with a tender smile. “I’m mean, I don’t think—in fact, I’m sure that I’m nothing like Terry. I want you to understand that.”
Still confused, Sloan smiled, quivering inwardly at both the electricity that shot through her with the sear of his gaze and the implications of the deep sincerity of his words.
“I know you’re not Terry, or not like him,” she said softly. The right answer was important now she knew; every man—or woman, for that matter—wanted to be loved for what he or she was. “Terry was part of another lifetime. I loved him, but I’d never look to replace him.” A slight beading of perspiration broke out across her forehead, and her hands went clammy. She needed to say more...“I love you, Wes.” There. It hadn’t been hard, it had been incredibly easy.
And it was out...it was said. He intended to have her, he had told her, so she waited with anxious anticipation for his response. Surely he would take her into a passionate embrace...or make a new declaration in return.
Wes responded neither way, yet the intensity of his voice and the tender reverence with which he lightly lifted her chin to meet his eyes left her trembling, her mouth dry, her senses paralyzed.
“I can’t tell you what hearing that means, Sloan. I think I’ve waited half my life to hear those words from you, and I would have waited another eternity.”
Sloan tried to smile but found that she couldn’t. His eyes burned into hers, deeply green, deeply charged with electric emotion. She was unable to look away, unable to release herself even as she wondered once again if he was seeing through her, reading all the thoughts and sins that existed within her soul. No, he couldn’t be, because if he could read her soul, he would not be sitting there, he would be racing out the door.
He did stand, breaking the moment’s spell. “I’d better run,” he said, his hand settling gently on the top of her head and lightly massaging her hair against her temple. “Tomorrow is a workday for you, and I have an eight A.M. meeting a few miles out of town.” He reached to grasp her hands and pull her to her feet. “Come on, walk me to the door.”
Rising and slipping into the easy shelter of his arm, Sloan allowed her worry to cease. Her mind turned to the comfort and pleasure she found with his touch and easy camaraderie.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked at her with a rueful grin. “I guess this is it until Saturday night,” he murmured softly.
“Oh?” Sloan queried, somewhat surprised that he wouldn’t be with her the next night—and startlingly disappointed. Had she come to depend on him so much that a night away seemed like endless time?
“I have another meeting tomorrow night,” he explained. “One that might not end till midnight.”
“You’re welcome to stop by.” Sloan murmured, hearing herself say the words without thought.
“No.” He smiled broadly, his eyes very gentle, as if the thought on her part had meant very much. “Your dance is on Saturday—I’m sure it’s quite a rush with the children and then the students. I don’t want to be the one to keep you from a peak performance, and”—he brushed a kiss against her temple—“I also have selfish reasons for wanting you well rested. I want to keep you out till all hours on Saturday night!”
“Oh,” Sloan repeated, aware that her pulse was racing madly and she was anticipating his mind-numbing good-night kiss.
But again, he did the unexpected. Instead of pulling her into the tight embrace of his arms, he brushed her forehead again with the briefest of feather-light caresses. And yet, the passion was there, barely hooded by sensuously lazy lids over the ocean-deep eyes as he pulled away. “Till Saturday night,” he said huskily.
Sloan watched as his tall form disappeared down the path and into his car. She was dismayed to realize that she was hopelessly frustrated. Her anticipation had taunted her senses unbearably. It was with a raw, physical pain that she watched him leave, a fervent prayer on her lips; let it be soon...please, let it be soon.
But could she force a wedding soon enough while still pretending to be the one to fall heedlessly under the spell of a relentless pursuer?
Sloan would have never admitted it to herself, but no matter what appearances were, no matter what Wes said or did, no matter how much confidence she felt in herself as a human being and a woman, she was running a little scared. At first Wes had been little more than an appropriate pawn, but the more she saw of him, the more she became aware that she had stepped a little out of her league without really realizing it.
She would have to be very careful never to take him for granted, make any type of assumption. Ironically, where she often felt old at twenty-nine, he, just five years older, was young—no, not young, but at a “prime” age for a male. Twenty-nine wasn’t old, she reminded herself—it was being a “widow” that so often made her feel so—that and the responsibility of the children.
Nevertheless, Wes had everything to offer someone, while she had nothing.
She slept in a torment that night, altering between the conviction that he really did love her, and the fear that he would wake up and discover that she was nothing but a liability. And then again she would be plagued by guilt—because all she had to offer was love—and even that she wasn’t sure she could ever give, even though she enjoyed him, respected him, admired him.
The morning went all wrong, and she was glad Wes wasn’t making an appearance at her house. Trying to keep up “perfect” appearances all week, she had let many things slide. She had “cleaned” every night by stuffing things under the beds or into closets—and now, as she tried to dress the children, she discovered that she seemed to be missing the mate to every shoe she found.
And she didn’t seem to have a clean sock in the house for Jamie.
But eventually everyone was ready. Sloan dropped the kids off at Cassie’s—they would attend the performance with their aunt, uncle, and cousins—and hurried to the school, past the Fine Arts building today, and on to the main auditorium.
Where once again she met pandemonium. The dance was a major function for the school, and the students finally chosen to be a part of the performance were, naturally, nervous and jittery. They all needed a pat on the back as Sloan went over the program.
She had heard that time could stand still, but it dismayed her to discover today that it could flash by. She barely found the minutes to slip into her own costume, a mist of striking red and blue silks, before Jim was rushing past her to announce the students. The music department was out in full to lend support with accompaniment, and Jim waited with patience while the crowd quieted after the houselights dimmed.
She and Jim were the finale. As always for Sloan, she was immediately lost in the music. She loved to dance; she lived, came alive when she danced.
But today it was something more.
She knew that Wes watched.
Every movement was for him. Each kick was a little higher, each whirl and dip and spin a touch more sensual. For the first time in her life, her dance was a calculated one, planned to seduce one man into believing she was something special, that he couldn’t live without her.
The lie came home to her as the music ended and the auditorium rang with applause. Sloan, her head bowed over her knee in a split, lost the magic that had been hers as she danced. She was just a widow with three children, scrambling for a dubious existence—not in the least special.
But Wes was for real. A football hero matured into a very special man, a man with dignity, pride, compassion, strength and humor and love...And she couldn’t let him fall out of love with her. He had to keep believing and loving. She would make it up to him.
“Sloan.” Jim nudged her with a laugh. “You can get up now—I’d hate to see you stiffen in that position. Makes walking rough.”
She gave her boss a dry grimace and accepted his hand to rise. Smiling along with him, she curtsied to the audience, and together they seemed to float off the floor. “So how did we do?” she inquired briskly, lest he inquire into her mind wandering.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Adams?” Jim suggested with an inclination of his head.
“Wes!” Sloan fought hard to keep her voice from shrieking as she saw him over Jim’s shoulder. “I—I thought I wasn’t going to see you until tonight!”
He was impeccable as he approached her in the busy backstage wing, his tan suit a striking complement to his dark hair and deep eyes. The bronze tone of his arresting profile was never more apparent, nor the muscle tone that lurked beneath its covering. Sloan was suddenly aware that her coiled hair was damp from exertion—as was her costume. But she didn’t have much time to reflect on her own appearance; he was already at her side, already talking.
“You weren’t going to see me,” he murmured huskily, as if temporarily unaware that Jim—or anyone else for that matter—still hovered near. “But I couldn’t leave without telling you that you were magnificent. Superb. Beautiful—”
“Thanks,” Jim chimed in, drawing abrupt looks from them both. Sloan frowned with annoyance, but Wes laughed. “Sorry, Jim, you weren’t beautiful, but it was a hell of a performance.”
The two men shook hands, and Sloan was split between being glad of their friendship while also annoyed that Wes accepted the interruption so easily. He should be a little jealous of Jim, Sloan thought fleetingly. I was dancing with him. If Wes really loved me...
He did love her. Really love her. And he trusted her. He knew she needed room for her own self-expression to be all she could be, and he had the confidence to allow it.
“I’m going,” he told them both quickly, glancing at the students who awaited their instructors’ words before dispersing. “Jim—be seeing you. Sloan—I’ll be by at about eight. I’ll get George and Cassie first.” With a wave he was gone, his broad-shouldered frame drawing speculative and appreciating gazes as he retreated out of the stage wings.
“Watch it, Sloan,” Jim muttered mischievously. “I can see your mind ticking. The beast is wrapped around your finger, but I think it’s the tail you’re wrapping, and if you’re not careful, he’s going to feel the pull.”
“Jim—” Sloan began to protest with a frown.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know he was a Scorpio.” Jim overrode her objection. “Scorpios are known for their sting.”
Sloan smiled dryly. “Go dismiss the kids, will you, Mr. Astrology. I’m not pulling tails, and I’m not going to get stung. You tell me you like the man, but then you sound as if you think he is a beast!”
“No—you misunderstand. I do like the man—maybe because there’s no hedging or backing down about him. But I’m not in your position!” With that enigmatic advice, Jim quirked his brows and turned to the waiting students.
Sloan showered and dressed carefully, choosing a soft knit with a flaring skirt for the evening. She was nervous, knowing that this night was it—the make it or break it for herself. Qualms of conscience assailed her while she did try to convince herself that she had him wrapped around her finger.
After tucking the kids in, she returned to her own room to make a last-minute check on her appearance. The dress molded to her curvacious form like a glove; her hair, brushed from the chignon, fell about her face in soft waves, giving her the impression of innocence. Radiant happiness gave her face a beautiful glow, and she laughed uneasily.
“Maybe I am in love with him!” she told her reflection. Love was, after all, an elusive word composed of many emotions. It was also something which, nurtured correctly, could grow to endless bounds.
The doorbell rang, and she gave her dress a final straightening before running breathlessly to answer the clanging summons. Wesley filled the doorway with his imposing frame, causing her heart to skip for a second. In a black tux and sky-blue shirt he was impeccable, handsome beyond all earthly rights in a way that was still rugged and slightly savage in spite of his formal dress.
Sloan didn’t realize she had been staring until his special teasing grin spread across his face and he murmured, “I think we should come in. Florence can hardly watch the children from outside!”
Sloan blushed, lowered her eyes, and moved away from the door. Wes ushered Florence inside, then followed suit himself.
“Any instructions, young lady?” Florence asked cheerfully.
“Ah...no,” Sloan said quickly. “The kids are asleep, and you know where everything is. Make yourself at home, and Florence...thank you, very much.”
“Nonsense!” Florence said briskly. “You two run along and have a good time. Your sister and brother-in-law are already in the car.”
Sloan could not remember a more pleasant evening in her entire life. A more congenial foursome could not have existed; wine and conversation could not have flowed more fluidly. Dancing with Wes, sitting beside him and receiving his casual, intimate touch, was the most natural thing in the world. For a time she was content thinking how lucky it was that Wesley seemed to belong with her group, then she realized, with a bit of awe, that it wasn’t Wesley who had found his niche, it was she. She belonged with him. And she loved that belonging. No one had ever made her feel so very alive, so vibrantly aware. Not even Terry. No, not even Terry had held her with such competent arms, had thrilled and excited her with a simple glance or possessive touch on a shoulder.
Cassie suddenly stifled a yawn with embarrassment. “Excuse me!” she apologized.
“Company boring you, huh?” George teased.
“Oh, no!” Cassie protested. “This has been the nicest night! It’s just that I’m not used to late hours.”
“I think that’s our cue,” Wes told Sloan with mischievous eyes. “Time to take the Harringtons home.”
George glanced at his wife, insinuatively wiggling his brows. “I’m amazed these lovebirds have taken this long, aren’t you?”
“George!” Cassie remonstrated. “Hush! You’re embarrassing them!”
“We’re not embarrassed,” Wes said with a leisurely smile. “And you’re not keeping us. We’ve got all night.”
Sloan felt as if her heart had crashed into her stomach. All night! Did he think she was spending the night with him? Her throat went dry and her hands clammy. Had she played the seductress too well? She couldn’t have him pressuring her. If he pushed, she might capitulate! And then he might decide that there really wasn’t anything, so special about her after all...
But at the moment, she was cornered. The check was paid; they were rising to leave. And she had imbibed too freely of the wine. She shook her head. Her thoughts were fuzzy, and she needed a sharp, clear mind.
As they drove to drop off Cassie and George, she was quiet and withdrawn, mentally planning strategy with a desperate speed. She was still quiet when they were finally alone, until it occurred to her that she didn’t even know where they were headed.
Moistening her lips and breathing deeply, she asked with a wobbly effort at nonchalance, “Where are we going?”
Wesley’s jade gaze fell to her with a burning intensity. Although he grinned with his usual ease, his voice was hoarse and husky when he replied. “The nice romantic spot I promised. My house.”
Sloan became dizzy with fear. Was he wrapped around her finger as tightly as she thought? She nervously smoothed already smooth hair. At any rate, she reasoned, the man wasn’t a rapist. He wouldn’t force her to do anything.
But she wasn’t afraid of him using force, and she knew it. She was afraid of her own reactions. Heaven help me! she prayed fervently as he ushered her toward his darkened house. But would heaven help her after all that she had done? More likely, the powers that be would listen and laugh...
Wesley switched on dim lights as they entered and calmly walked ahead of her. “Brandy?” he asked, as she stood in the doorway surveying the elegant room. Wesley’s taste in decor was stunning—casual and warm, but elegant. The entrance hallway, carpeted in a creamy pile, led to a sunken living room, plush with thickly cushioned, wicker furniture. Palms and ferns unobtrusively added a beguiling hospitality, as did the glass window doors which led to a screened patio, complete with a sparkling, kidney-shaped pool and a whirling hot tub.
“Come in,” Wesley invited with amusement, divesting himself of jacket, tie, and cummerbund and grimacing as he undid the top three buttons of his shirt. “The attack dogs have the evening off.”
Sloan flushed as she moved uneasily down to the plush, sunken area. She sat, thinking she would have to remain seriously on guard in Wesley’s territory. Her mind was so benumbed that she started when he handed her a snifter of brandy.
“It’s me,” he said kindly. “The same old Wesley you’ve been seeing all week.” He sat beside her, sipped at his own glass, and took her chin gently with his free hand. “The same old Wesley who loves you very much,” he added softly. “The same old Wesley who wants to marry you.”
For some ungodly reason, she was close to tears. Without thinking, she blurted, “Why?”
“I could tell you a million things,” he said, hypnotizing her with the gleaming jade of his eyes and the tender stroke of his fingers on the soft flesh of her face. “I can say because you’re bright and beautiful and more graceful and lovely than any other living creature. And it will be true. But there’s only one real reason—the only reason anyone should ever marry. Because I love you. I want to share my life with you. I want to be a part of yours.”
The tears finally streamed down Sloan’s cheeks. “Oh, Wesley...”
“Hey! I didn’t mean to make you cry!” he exclaimed gently, setting their brandies aside and taking her comfortingly into his arms. He rocked her soothingly and stroked the lush tendrils of hair from her forehead. “Hey!” he repeated softly. “Don’t cry. Just answer me. I won’t rush you, but I’ll go clear out of my mind if I keep thinking that maybe you will when you don’t—”
“I will!” Sloan interrupted quickly. What the hell was she doing? she demanded of herself. She was crying like an idiot, feeling like a complete louse, just because he had said a few sentimental things. And why? He wanted her, he loved her. She wouldn’t be twisting his arm.
The only reason...he had said. Love. That was why. She was betraying him in the most cruel way possible.
Hating herself, she lifted sapphire eyes to his. “I will marry you, Wesley. There’s nothing I want more.”
His arms tightened around her. “When?” he gasped hoarsely.
“As soon as possible,” she replied. “Tomorrow, if we could...”
He was startled, but pleasantly so. She knew he had expected her to set a date months in the future.
“Monday we’ll get the license,” he promised her. “And a week from today, we’ll become man and wife.” His lips fell upon hers with a passionate urgency, plundering the softness of her mouth. Sloan moaned faintly beneath his assault, in agony as she tried to keep a clear head. It was almost impossible. His crisp, clean scent was intoxicating her, his hands were arousing her to a feverish pitch as they roamed to secret places and sought her body through the field of silk.
Somehow, without her even knowing it, Wes had found the zipper to her dress and the silk fell from her with a whispered rustle. She heard his sharp intake of breath, then felt the pressure of his hands as he forced her down to the pillowy cushion of the couch. His hot kisses, hungry and out of control, blazed paths across her flesh. As if she were intoxicated, it slowly filtered into Sloan’s mind that they were fast reaching a point of no return. Even as she stumbled mentally, Wesley’s sure fingers found the front clasp of her lacy bra, and it joined the silk dress on the floor. His mouth found the firm flesh of her breasts, teased and raked her nipples until she cried out with an agony of despair and longing. She wanted him so desperately! To stop the excruciating pleasure would be to bring excruciating pain.
His hand ran along her leg, causing her to shake uncontrollably. Her slip wound around her waist; his hand found the elastic of her panties, and she gasped at the surge of desire awakened within her at the touch of his fingers so low on her abdomen, a touch which caused her to inadvertently strain toward him.
Then the ultimate warning in her head finally sounded. He was still clothed, but his knee was wedging firmly between hers, and his hand was subtly but surely exploring further. Bracing herself firmly, Sloan finally found her voice, begging him to stop.
At first she was totally ignored. Terror that she had played too closely with fire surged through her, and she gripped her fingers painfully into his hair. “Please, Wesley!” she sighed. “I beg you!” Tears formed again in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. “Please!” she whispered.
Wesley went rigid; his harsh breathing gave her the answer that he had at last heard her plea.
He didn’t speak as he lifted his weight from her and tossed her discarded clothing into her lap. He didn’t even look at her until she had reclasped her bra and slipped hurriedly back into her black silk dress.
Then he sat beside her, and she knew when he probed her face with an icy green stare that he was angry. But he didn’t yell, he didn’t make recriminations. He sat with folded arms and demanded, “Why?”
“I—I just can’t!” she croaked shamefully.
“Go on,” he prompted grimly.
Her abject misery was not, at the moment, a performance. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely get a sip of sorely needed brandy to her lips. Yet still, her mind was ticking away with all speed. Her answer would have to be good. Looking tentatively at Wesley, she shivered and her eyes fluttered closed. Think! she told herself. She had everything at stake in the next few minutes.
“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” he persisted, and she chanced another glance into his probing jade orbs. He had gentled, his voice had become the kind one she was accustomed to hearing.
Taking a few deep breaths, she decided she could almost be honest. Looking straight into her brandy, she plunged ahead with a shy, very convincing explanation for her behavior which bordered on truth.
“I’m frightened, Wesley. I don’t know what impression I give, but I’ve been alone for a long time.” She knew she was blushing profusely. “The only man I’ve ever known was Terry, and—well, we were married. I know that sounds ridiculously old-fashioned, but...”
Wesley emitted a strangled sound, and Sloan glanced at him, cringing, fearing she had pushed his patience too far. But he was no longer angry, he was chuckling.
“What’s so funny?” she queried with piqued exasperation.
“Nothing, darling, nothing,” he assured her. He sat beside her again, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and took her hand to idly massage her fingers. “I don’t think you’re ridiculously old-fashioned. I’m kind of glad. I’d be insanely jealous if I had to learn about your other lovers. I’m even jealous of Terry, although God knows I can’t begrudge the man a thing. He had heaven on earth and he had to lose it.” His eyes met hers. “I laughed because you had me frightened too. I thought you might have a serious hang-up about me. If marriage is important to you before making a sexual commitment, I can honor that. That is”—he chuckled again, the throaty sound that was deep and endearing—“as long as you are sure that you do want me when we are married and as long as we do hurry with the wedding!”
Sloan stared at him with wide, blank eyes. “I do want you, Wes, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted another human being.”
“I’m all yours, darling,” he swore, with a light kiss on her forehead. “But I’d better get you home, because I want you to be all mine. All of you,” he added, running a finger along the flesh of her bare arm. “Every delightful inch!” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Just one week...”
Sloan continued to shiver all the way home. Just one week. Then it would be pay-up time. And she had the strange feeling that, once she had legally sold herself to Wesley Adams, there would be no backing down.
Ever again.