chapter EIGHT
THE BRIGHT, BEGUILING SUNLIGHT of the Belgian morning streaked through the parted drapes to awaken her. Like a purring kitten she stretched languorously; like an innocent maid who had just discovered the wonder of love she flicked shy lashes and reached a tentative hand across the covers to touch her new husband.
He wasn’t there. Her eyes opened fully, and she smiled a sweet smile of contentment as she found him, sitting on a bedside chair, his strong fingers idly stroking his chin as he watched her. His dark hair was tousled, his broad chest incredibly sexy in its partial exposure at the loose V of his haphazardly belted robe.
But he didn’t smile back, and Sloan’s happily curved lips straightened tremulously. His look was as cold as ice, his piercing green eyes brutal in his tense, bronzed face.
Barely awake, Sloan blinked with confusion. It couldn’t be Wesley staring at her that way! She opened her eyes again to find the glacial image still before her. She struggled inwardly to ease her bewilderment. What had happened to change the tender and gentle man she had married into this basilisk of condemnation? How could he possibly be staring at her with such venom after the night of passionate love they had just shared together?
“So you’re awake.”
His voice was low, pleasant, the tone almost silky. For the briefest moment, Sloan began to relax, convincing herself she was reading things into his pirate gaze that simply weren’t there.
Then he began to speak again.
“It was...interesting?...my love, to see how you would handle the night. Very nice. I must say, darling, that when you sell out, you do go all the way with gusto.”
A creeping cold chill of fear seeped rapidly through her numbed senses. “What?” she whispered incredulously, moistening dry lips.
“The act is charming, Sloan, but no good.” He flashed her a pearly smile with a rapier edge. “It’s time for a little honesty.”
Lord, she wondered desperately, what had happened? “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she hedged, panicked. Forcing herself to keep a mask of calm on her features, she thought rapidly over the past events. He couldn’t have any suspicions regarding her original motives for marriage; he would have certainly called off the wedding! He couldn’t know anything harmful, she decided with a quaking bravado. Still, she clutched the covers protectively to her chin as she attempted a captivating grin and laughed gaily. “Really, darling, you should have warned me that you wake like a growling bear!”
Dark brows rose in an arch. “Should I have?” he inquired politely, the daggerlike smile still etched clearly into his taut profile. He stood and sauntered slowly to her while she watched him uneasily. She had the terrible, uncanny feeling that he was playing with her, as a great cat played with its prey before pouncing for the final kill. Her instinct was to run, but she was stubbornly insisting to herself that there was nothing that could be really wrong. Willpower alone kept her still, presenting a facade of guileless calm.
She felt his heat as he sat beside her, felt the tense, powerful coil of his thigh muscle against hers. She forced herself to meet his steel, green gaze unblinkingly, and when his fingers moved gently along her cheekbones and down to her throat, she silently prayed she would not flinch beneath the harsh rigidity that lurked, like a spiral about to spring, behind the tenderness of the gesture. Then she couldn’t bear the tense, pregnant stillness any longer. “What is it, love?” she whispered.
“What is it...love,” he repeated in a toneless, mocking murmur. Then the coil unleashed and the spring flew. His fingers clamped around her wrists like steel cuffs and he jerked her abruptly from the bed. She uttered a startled scream in protest, shocked by his sudden show of ill-controlled force, no longer uneasy or frightened but thoroughly terrified. She was well aware of the bricklike muscles that composed the frame of this man who was now a stranger, well aware that he could break her like so many match sticks if he so desired.
He was oblivious to her cries of protest as he ripped the protective sheet from her and pulled her into the bathroom where he positioned her firmly before the mirror, his hands on her shoulders but warningly near her neck, the breadth of his body behind her, holding her steady as she lowered her eyes and begged him to let her loose.
“Not just yet...wife...” he spat, the iciness of his eyes losing nothing as he met the trembling liquid pools of hers in reflection. “We shall see what we have here, first...”
“Wesley!” Sloan implored, stunned by his actions. Wesley Adams couldn’t be doing this to her! Even the rough lover of the night before had been tender...
“Now,” he continued coldly, ignoring her outburst, his voice that of an informative teacher conducting a class, “What do we have? Do we see a woman approaching thirty, a mother of three, possibly fearful that she may be losing her looks, never again to be loved or cherished? Afraid that she shall not be accepted again by a new lover because of her children? No.” One hand slid over her shoulder, cupped a breast, moved on over her rib cage to her-flat stomach and harshly molded the jut of her hip. “No.” he hissed again, emphatically. “This woman holds no fears. She is serenely confident of her femininity. No naive girl, this. She is a beautiful, bewitching woman, and she knows it. Like a black widow, she can easily lure a man into her web. She is a remarkable animal—breasts full and firm, seductively curved hips, a figure as slim as a debutante’s. She doesn’t even remember the definition of the word ‘love.’”
“Wesley!” Sloan pleaded miserably, shaking with the unexpected vehemence of his mind-boggling attack. “Wesley, please, I beg you!”
“You beg me. Lovely.” He laughed dryly, a harsh, bitter, and hollow sound. “Not yet, darling.” His hands found her chin and forced her bowed head back to the mirror. “We haven’t decided what we do have here, yet. But certainly not a woman clinging to a last line of hope! That I could have understood. Forgiven easily.” Her chin jerked cruelly. “Open your eyes!” he commanded.
She obeyed and met orbs of such jade-green loathing that chills exploded violently in spasms throughout her. Still he showed no mercy.
“I have met street prostitutes with more scruples,” he continued, his grip like a mechanical thing. “They sell openly, for a price. They make an honest bargain. They tell you what they want, and they tell you exactly what you get in return.
“But you...wife...” She gasped a choking sob as he spun her around to face him. “You were not honest one stinking step of the way. You lied, connived, cheated, and schemed. You sold yourself more callously than any common tramp. All for my money.”
“No!” Sloan protested weakly in self-defense, slowly, sickly realizing he had been in the house at the beginning of her explanation to Cassie, hearing...
“Don’t lie to me now, woman!” His raging growl bellowed through the room as he shook her so hard that her head lolled like a doll’s and her hair fell in torrents over her shoulders. “God, don’t try to play me for a fool any longer! Your little game is really up. I heard everything you had to say to your sister, my dear, and though I didn’t want to believe it—a man’s heart and his ego can be terribly sensitive at times—everything surely fit perfectly. One night you didn’t want me crossing your doorstep, the next day you were welcoming me with open arms.” He pushed her from him contemptuously. “And I fell for it all! All that false, wide-eyed innocence. I walked into your lair with starry eyes, wanting so desperately to believe in you, respecting your views on sex and marriage when all the while...” His voice broke off grimly as he tightly clenched his fist. The lines about his mouth were white with tension. Uttering a croak of disgust, he spun on his heel and stalked from the bathroom.
Sloan stood stock-still for a moment, scarcely breathing, unable to absorb the horror of the things he had said, unable to reconcile them with the man she had known so intimately just hours before. Then she followed him out, nervously grabbed the sheet from the bed to wrap herself in, and skittered into a corner of the room to watch him with dazed, fearful eyes. She had no conception of what he might do next. It was all too evident; the man she thought she knew, understood, the chivalrous wooer, the tenderly possessive lover, existed no more. And she should have never underestimated him. Her vague suspicions that he could be a dangerous man had proved all too true. A tiger, though tamed, was still in essence a wild beast, and Wesley, like that beast, had given up all pretense of civility. Raw instinct and basic fury were guiding him now. Reason and logic had lost all meaning. Like primitive man, he was the stronger, and he would call the shots.
Sloan watched, still too dazed to attempt the explanation he wouldn’t believe as he began to pack his bags. Shrunken into her corner, she felt the tears which had formed in her eyes begin to trickle down her cheeks. Whatever happened she knew she deserved, yet how could she lose him now when she had just found him?
His glance fell her way as coolly as marble. “Don’t bother with the tears. I’m not going to break your neck, though I should. Nor am I going to annul the marriage, though I should. The children are my responsibility now, too, and there is no reason they should be made to suffer because of their mother.”
The tears fell anyway, despite his brutal statements. She couldn’t believe the way he was treating her—not after the day and night they had spent happily in one another’s arms! “Why?...” At first she didn’t realize she had said the word aloud.
“What?” Wesley barked.
“Why?...” She shrank even further into her corner, unable to complete her question beneath the survey of his relentless anger.
In two seconds he reached her, pulled her to her feet, and swung her gracelessly into the middle of the room. “Why what?” he demanded, his eyes blazing a dancing flame of green fire. “Don’t turn coward on top of everything else. You’re not the least upset over what you did; selling out didn’t mean a thing to you. You’re only upset because you’ve been caught. What was the exact plan, anyway? How many months of blissful marriage was I going to be blessed with before you sued for divorce and a handsome settlement?”
Sloan’s hair tumbled wildly over her face; her blue eyes peaked out in liquid sapphire pleading. “I wasn’t—” she began with trembling lips.
For a fraction of a second it appeared as if Wesley might be softening. Then he emitted a sharp snort of disgust which effectively curtailed her words. “Spare me, Sloan. I’ve admitted you’re a sensational actress, but you’ve already conned me once. Save it. I really don’t want to hear any more. Ask your question.”
Sloan bit through her bottom lip until it bled. All was lost. He hated her now. Her brief dream of happiness had been shattered by her own schemes, her own lies. Swallowing, she tilted her chin despite her trembling. She would hold on to her courage as he had suggested. Perhaps he could still admire her for something, even if it would sound like a futile lie to say she did love him now...had...
“Why did you go through with the wedding?” she asked quietly, her voice soft but thankfully steady. After a painful falter she added, “And why bother with yesterday?”
He shot her a glance with a shade less disdain as he continued packing, brushing by her as if she were an obstacle like a dresser or desk as he spoke.
“I’m not really sure,” he admitted with a wry hint of humor. “Maybe I feel in the back of my mind that there is something I might be able to get out of this bargain myself. And, I did want you. Badly enough to marry you, since that was your price. Then yesterday...” He shrugged and neatly folded a stack of pressed shirts into the bag. “Yesterday, I wanted to see how thoroughly you planned to pay up while we were still going by your rules.” He abruptly stopped his packing, arms crossed over his chest, and nicked his green eyes over her from head to toe with such formidable insolence that a crimson blush spread like a stain to her cheeks. “I must say, love,” he spoke with the silky tone she had learned could be so cutting and dangerous, “you do pay up handsomely. I always knew, from watching the way that you moved, that you’d be dynamite in bed. Certain women are made for it. Even so, your veins must be filled with ice water for you to respond with such—talented ardor—to a man you don’t love.”
If he had slapped her soundly across the face, he couldn’t have been more abusive. Sloan was still for a second, absorbing the shock, amazed that anyone could be so blind. Then her shock receded as anger, boiling like red-hot lava, raged through her system. She had been wrong, yes, but she didn’t deserve the things he was saying. Fear, control, and all sense of reasonable logic fell from her like a cloak, and she flew at him with the speed and wrath of a whirling tornado. “You bastard!” she hissed, and she struck him cleanly with a fury-driven open hand that left him no time to ward off the blow.
It was his turn to stand dead still as the mark she had imprinted on his face quickly turned white, pink, and dark red. The sound of her slap seemed to reverberate through the room as he slowly rubbed his cheek, staring at her all the while. “My beloved wife,” he drawled mockingly, “that was certainly uncalled-for. I’ve been desperately trying to remain nonviolent about this whole thing.”
Sloan took a deep breath of trepidation. She wisely felt the time for courage ebbing. His features, so handsome and strongly formed, were twisted into hard, grim lines; his eyes, no longer icy, blazed with a fury more intense than that of a raging sea. She began to back away, once more frightened—she didn’t like his expression one bit. His eyes suddenly flickered over her again, and she realized her unprecipitated blow had dislodged her improvised sheet tunic and that he was gazing upon the mound of one creamy, exposed breast. Flushed, she pulled the sheet more tightly around her, only to be rewarded for her efforts by a dry, mirthless chuckle from Wes.
“Rather late for you to turn modest, isn’t it?” he demanded scornfully. The suitcase went to the floor, and he sat on the bed. “Come here,” he ordered arrogantly.
She could see the rise and fall of his black-matted chest, read the desire that burned along with the anger in his eyes. Her gaze fell to his hands, large hands, wisped with coarse strands of the same black hair, hands with fingers neatly kept, strong hands, strong fingers, capable of holding her with infinite tenderness and arousing her to abandoned passion, capable of manipulating her forcefully and bending her to his will.
Her eyes slowly left the fascination of his hands and moved upward. A single pulse beat erratically in the fine blue line of a vein in his corded neck. She raised her eyes still further, saw the ragged, crooked smile set lazily into his sensuous lips, saw that the light in his eyes held no tenderness, no love. Just hard, cold fury and desire.
She shook her head softly, beseechingly, and whispered, “No.”
“Come here.” The devilish grin increased as he repeated his command. His tone was deceptively low and pleasant as he added, “Sloan, don’t make me come to you.”
Wincing, Sloan inched toward him, her eyes downcast, her thick lashes hiding the emotions that raged within them. A scuffle, she knew, would be worthless. She was probably lucky he hadn’t decided to strike her back before...maybe, just maybe, she could talk to him. But she paused when she reached him, afraid to face him, finally lifting her lashes to meet his eyes with open pleading.
But he didn’t glance into her eyes to read their message. He tugged at the sheet until it fell to the floor at her feet. The startling green gems of his eyes raked over her briefly with insolent satisfaction, then his arms came around her, and she was swept to the bed beside him. She tried to speak, but his lips claimed hers, and her words were muffled as his tongue sought her mouth with a unique mastery all its own. Then her mouth was deserted as his kisses roamed along the graceful arch of her throat and down to her breasts. But they were not gentle kisses, not even hinting at love or tenderness. They were rough and urgent; they demanded and violated. Salt tears formed in Sloan’s eyes, and even as she felt a nipple harden beneath his mouth and inwardly admitted that a rousing fire was slowly coursing through her treacherous body, she protested, if somewhat breathlessly.
“Wesley—no!”
“No?” A single brow raised high as he lifted himself to challenge her scornfully. “And why not? You’ve got your ring and your money. I’m assuming this was my return offering. And, my darling,” he hissed bitterly, “I haven’t seen you suffering, yet.”
Sloan blinked her eyes and winced, unable to move within the concrete prison of his arms. Bracing herself she began to speak. “Wesley, I will not let you make love to me like this—”
“Make love?” he interjected. “Sweet wife, it all has to be prettily wrapped and worded on the outside, huh? But you’re not going to play the hypocrite anymore. You enjoy my bed, darling; to deny that would be ludicrous. And more important, dear wife, you made the bed, and now you will lie in it!”
Dismissing anything else she might have to say as inconsequential, Wesley returned casually to his sure arousal of her body. His lips were searing her flesh like hot irons, and she knew she would eventually succumb. But she had to make him listen!
“Wesley...wait...you don’t understand.”
“So talk to me,” he murmured, his words muffled by her flesh.
“You’re angry,” Sloan choked, forgetting the sense she was trying to make. “You’re angry,” she raspily repeated herself.
His lovemaking took an abrupt halt, and he raised his head. His eyes bored into hers like hot coals, and his lips twisted savagely. “Angry!” he roared. “That has to be the understatement of the year!”
His head lowered again, and Sloan could say no more. She was swept into the storm of his savage passion, capitulated to a high of blazing ecstasy by the undeniable fervency and ardor of the chemistry that linked them. Yet as he brought her to a shuddering crescendo, tears again filled her eyes. He did not hold her to him in their mutual satisfaction. He rolled away from her, and his weight lifted from the bed. Sloan pulled the covers over her still-burning body and buried her face in the pillow.
He must have stood staring at her for several minutes because she heard his voice, soft and very close, and sensed his presence.
“Play with fire, my love, and you do get burned.”
Sloan didn’t turn. There had been no mockery or cruelty to his words, but the pain in her was too fresh and intense to chance another wound. He moved away, and she heard the click of the bathroom door. With him safely out of earshot, she allowed her tears of shame to run freely into her pillow. He might not know it, but she was completely his creature. Even as her mind had rebelled against his forceful demands, her betraying body had succumbed with humiliating eagerness. If only he hadn’t walked in without her knowing, allowing her words to damn her. And why didn’t Wesley give her a chance to explain it?
Because, she knew, it had all rung too close to the truth because it had been the truth at one time! And she had been too sure of herself, too sure that she knew all the sides there were to Wesley. But, she thought with belated remorse, she should have never made the deadly mistake of underestimating him. She had blissfully forgotten that danger could lurk in deep, quiet places.
Another click of the bathroom door informed her that Wesley was back in the room, and she dragged her head from the pillow. He was dressed, superbly handsome and cool in a baize linen jacket which emphasized the sleekness of his dark hair, the vivid green of his eyes, the bronze hue of his strongly chiseled features. He didn’t bother to glance at her as he calmly hefted his suitcase to a chair and rifled his pockets for his wallet.
Sloan ran her tongue along her parched lips. “What are you doing?” she asked tonelessly.
His eyes darted to her with a flick of amusement. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? I’m leaving you to your independent bliss.”
She had to moisten her lips again. “Where are you going?”
“Paris, probably,” he replied with a negligent shrug. “I need a place to cool down for a while, and I do like the city.”
Why wouldn’t he say something substantial? she raged silently. He had taken his revenge, why didn’t he help a little now? Why was he leaving this wreck of a situation entirely up to her?
Once more she forced herself to talk. “Do you want me to go home and try for an annulment? I may have to file divorce papers. I’m not really sure how it works—”
The amusement vanished from his face to be replaced by a grim, implacable anger. “There will be no divorce...now,” he told her, tossing a wad of bills indifferently on the bed along with a blue vinyl checkbook. “My accountant will handle your monthly bills,” he continued coldly. “All you will need to worry about will be your personal expenses.”
Sloan stared at it with mortified amazement. She grabbed the checkbook and bills and threw them viciously back at him before covering her face with her hands. He wasn’t a wonderful man at all; he was completely insensitive, domineering, and ruthless. He had purposely made a point of tossing the money on the bed with the full intent of twisting the knife further to underline his point. Payment in full. Money for services rendered. She was nothing better to him than an overpriced call girl. Less. Women of the trade, according to him, had a certain honesty.
Her action served to rekindle his amusement. “You do have problems, my love, calling a spade a spade. You want that sugar-coating on everything. But I can’t handle this thing that way. You’ll remain my wife for the time being, but believe me, love, you’ll stay in line. And we’ll keep things honest and on the level from here on out.”
Sloan had to choke back jagged, sobbing laughter. The tricks of fate were so ironic! If only Wesley hadn’t overheard the wrong half of her conversation with Cassie. She would have admitted one day that she had originally sought him out because of desperation, but she would have explained it properly and opened her heart to tell him how she had come to love him for his quiet goodness and strength and lovingly begged his forgiveness! They could have had a life of mutual respect and adoring happiness.
It would be futile to attempt any explanations now. He would never believe her. He would probably never believe another word that came out of her mouth.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked with heartless misery, her face still buried in her hands.
“I don’t know, yet,” he mused. “See Brussels for the next two weeks.” She sensed his offhand shrug. “When you get home, say that I was delayed on business. I’ll be getting in touch with you.”
Sloan finally looked up, her face tearstained, her eyes reddened with abject despair. She was surprised to see that he still stood contemplatively in the doorway, watching her. His eyes were strangely soft for a moment, and although she knew he was feeling something for her, she didn’t realize how completely she touched his heart. She was beautiful in her cocoon of sheets, her hair flared about her face in captivating disarray, her eyes wet and dazzling in their despondency. He walked back to her slowly and almost absently lifted a strand of her hair, marveling at the play of red, gold, and mahogany within its depths. A darkness filled his eyes which could have been taken for an agony as strident as Sloan’s, an infinite yearning to take her in his arms and comfort and protect her.
She saw the tightening of his jaw and the moment of tenderness vanished as completely as if it had never been. Suddenly, Sloan couldn’t take any more; she lashed out at him as coldly as he had her.
“I thought you were leaving.”
His body stiffened perceptively, and she felt a mute satisfaction at wounding him after the terrible thrusts he had delivered to her. “Oh, I am going,” Wesley said grimly. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a honeymoon either. Watch your step carefully, Sloan. I will be back.”
“Why?” she demanded, rising haughtily to his threat. “You’ve made it rather clear what you think of me.”
“True,” Wesley countered sardonically. “But then, what difference does that make? You were willing to marry me while not loving me, why should it matter if I’m no longer enamored of you?”
“I never hated you,” Sloan said bleakly.
Wes was still for a minute, then his finger hooked her chin to bring her face up to meet his. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly. “In all honesty, I don’t know what I feel. A lot of anger and humiliation at the moment, and that’s why I’m leaving.”
“Then go!” Sloan rasped icily. She wanted the words back as soon as they left her mouth but once spoken, they couldn’t be retrieved. He had spoken to her kindly; he had given her a golden opportunity to leave a salvageable thread in their marriage. But her own pain and confusion had registered only that he was leaving, walking out on her after showering her with verbal abuse and proving his physical mastery.
Words began to tumble from her mouth in a spew of unmeant venom. “I’m not so sure about you, Mr. Adams, either. You’re not the man I thought you. You haven’t a shred of compassion in your entire being, and you’re about as kindly as a great white shark. You’re ruthless, cruel, and vicious. Definitely not nice.”
“That’s enough!” Wes stated with frigid finality. The muscles were working in his jaw, and as Sloan stared up at him, she knew he was fighting a fierce battle for self-control. To his credit, he won.
“I never saw myself as walking benevolence,” he told her, catching the sides of her hair and gripping them tautly to hold her face to his, “but then I do tend to be a fairly tolerant soul. You have to admit, Sloan, that the provocation has been great. I probably am a nice man, darling, I’m just not the complete puppet you took me to be.” His pull on her hair tightened for just a second and then released. He gazed at her for a moment longer, his mouth a grim, white line, and then turned for his suitcase and the door.
“Oh,” he added, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Do us both a favor and remember one thing. You are married. Should you forget it, darling, after all the rest, I might be severely tempted to follow my first inclination and break that lovely little neck. And I will be back, hopefully civil by the time I reach Gettysburg.” He raised his brows in a high arch of mocking speculation. “You do get my drift?”
Blue and green eyes locked in a cold stare. “I get your drift,” she retorted defiantly.
“Good. It’s one thing to be taken for a fool, love, but I promise I won’t wear horns as well.” His teeth ground together, and his tone became pained. “I don’t ever want to subject myself to a repeat of today’s performance.” Then the pain and bitterness were harshly grated over; they might have been imagined. “I usually do discover things—as belated as it may be.”
His eyes slid over her slowly in a last assessment; he didn’t seem to expect any more answers—and she had none to give him. His gaze came back to hers in a final challenge.
Sloan’s gaze fell from Wesley’s, and sadly, she missed the gamut of torn emotions that raced through his eyes. In her stunned state of agonized confusion, it was doubtful she would have recognized them anyway.
Because he was split into more pieces than she.
As he stared at her, he was struck again with awe at her beauty. The sapphire eyes; the wild tangle of hair that held more colors than a rainbow—hair that could entangle a man and spin him helplessly into a drowning lair forever; the exquisite, supple body that was wiry, sweetly curved, unceasingly graceful...A dancer’s form; an angel’s face.
He had been in love with her his entire adult life—adulating her from afar, never finding peace or satisfaction because he knew she existed in the world and he was not close to her.
And then it had seemed that she was his.
He was a strong man; he had taken on life and received fame and fortune. In return, he had paid his dues with decency and fairness. Knowing his own power, he had never willingly hurt another person. But he had never felt anything like the gut-wrenching pain of betrayal; the gnawing agony that seemed to eat away at his insides, bit by excruciating bit.
Betrayal by the woman he idolized over his own life.
And he had lashed out with full intent to wound. Not physically; he could snap her in half and he knew it, but because of his size, he had long since learned to control the forces of rage. No, he had gone after her with the strongest weapon known to man, words, calculated to rip and shred...
But he had lost control of the words—gone further than he ever meant. He winced now at his own cruelty, but none of it could be undone...
He had to come to terms with himself. She had used him and made a complete fool of him. But he still loved her, and the pain he had caused her was hurting him. Yet he couldn’t go to her now—he couldn’t erase any of what had happened.
And he couldn’t forget that she had purposely seduced him into marriage for money.
But he couldn’t give her up. Somewhere in the future...
Which was not now. His pride, ego, and heart were all wounded, raw and bleeding. If he stayed, her very beauty and his love for her would heighten his pain, and he would say more words that couldn’t be taken back...that could never be forgiven.
She looked at him again, her crystal blue eyes brimming, but defiant, and hateful. As if a shutter had fallen over them, his own eyes gave nothing more away. “Good-bye, Sloan,” he said softly.
And the door slammed coldly in her face.
She didn’t cry again; she was numb with disbelief. For at least an hour she didn’t even move, but remained lifelessly in the bed, staring straight ahead at the tapestried wall, unable to think and sort her whirling emotions. Then she finally obeyed the little voice that told her she had to do something, rose mechanically, and situated herself in the shower. Her hands began to steady as the hot water waved over them, and she finally forced herself to accept the situation.
A part of her hated Wesley for the things he had said and done, for taking her and using her so brutally simply to prove that he knew her game and was changing the rules. She had sold out, and in his vengeance, he wanted her to know that she was now his and that when he said jump, her question should be, How high?
And a part of her hated herself. Color that was more than the force of the hot water filled her skin at the thought of her uninhibited response to him despite everything. Granted, the release of the anger Wesley had been harboring had created the passionate desire of the morning, and he would have taken her roughly in that bed no matter what her reaction. But Lord! she thought sickly, he had manhandled her, thrown her around, called her everything just short of tramp—albeit with a modicum of control—and she had protested but feebly and clung to him in wanton pleasure with guttural whimperings in her throat that proved her to be an easily assailable toy...
“Damn, I hate him!” she raged aloud to the cascading water. But she didn’t. She still loved him, desperately, and a part of her even understood the violence of his reaction. He had loved her, really loved her, and as far as he could see, she had laughingly tossed that love aside.
There was still hope, she told herself, turning off the water. He had said he would come back. And when he did, his initial rage would be gone. She would talk to him...
Her hands flew back to her face, and she shuddered. How could she talk to him if he continued to treat her as he did today? Her own temper would flare, and they would enter one disastrous argument after another.
No! she decided firmly. There would be no more repeats of today. Wesley was not a primitive caveman wielding a club, nor was she a helpless female at his mercy. Whether he ever decided to believe her or trust in her or not, they couldn’t have any relationship without a semblance of dignity. She loved him, but she couldn’t bear for this to go on...him nonchalantly pulling her about as if she were a puppet, there for his amusement and then cast aside at his whimsy.
Maybe it was best he didn’t know how completely and thoroughly she loved him. He could wedge his knives so much more deeply. Perhaps he should go on thinking her a cold, heartless schemer.
She was still trembling, shaking like a leaf blown high in winter. I’ve got to pull myself together! she wailed silently. But her dreams, so good, so wonderful...love, comfort...the security of being loved and cared for...had just been cruelly shattered in that same winter wind. She couldn’t pull herself together; she couldn’t even get out of the shower.
Sloan eventually did get out of the shower. She dressed; she even picked up the guide books Wes had left behind. A picture of Waterloo loomed before her...statues of Lord Nelson and Napoleon. Bruges...ancient walled city. Ostend.
Places and things they should have seen together...
Sloan brushed the brochures to the floor. Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t stay in Belgium...one brochure caught her attention. It was for the ferry that left the coast of Normandy for the fabled White Cliffs of Dover.
She would go to England, she decided dully.
But it was three days before she could even leave the room.