chapter TWO
SHE HADN’T ACTUALLY DONE anything, but with her plan set in her mind, she felt the first pangs of guilt.
Rationalizing was in order. She put the baby and Laura down for their naps, supplied Jamie with pails and shovels for his sandbox, and moved into the back of the house, her studio.
The studio had been the one extravagant concession she had allowed herself to retain her art. The floor was an expensive wood to save wear on her feet and knees. A heavy metal exercise bar stretched the length of the left side, backed by a study mirror which covered the height and breadth of the wall. The right side of the room held huge bay windows which opened on the lawn, allowing her to work while watching the children at play. To the rear lay her stereo system, a good, complex one purchased when Terry had sold an elaborate set of landscapes.
When teaching, Sloan covered dance from classic form to aerobics. But to her the base for all dance was ballet, and when she engaged in her rigid workouts, it was to ballet exercises that she turned. Between stretches, pliés, and relevés, she came to terms with herself.
She planned to marry a stranger, a man she didn’t love. It wasn’t because she craved riches for herself, but because she would be able to provide a decent life for herself and her children.
And she swore she would never hurt Wesley Adams. She would never love again, she was sure, but Wesley would never know it. She would be everything he could possibly desire in a wife.
Her mind began to race with turmoil. How could she even think about doing a thing as despicable as marrying a man for his money? Marriage meant living with a man, sharing his life, sleeping in his bed...A sick feeling stabbed her stomach. She changed the Bach on the stereo to a modern piece by a hard rock group and whirled about the room in a series of furious pirouettes and entrechats, hoping to exhaust her mind through strenuous dance. Sweat beaded on her brow, but it was as much from her thoughts as from her leaping jetés.
For a mother of three, she was painfully naive. Most of her friends had had one or two serious affairs before settling into marriage. Several were divorced and involved in new affairs, one after the other.
But for her, there had been only Terry. They had met when both were eighteen, married while still in school before either was twenty. It was all planned. A little over three years later they had their first child, Jamie. And in her years of marriage she had learned what intimacy between a man and woman truly meant. It meant giving oneself completely, trusting, opening up to vulnerability, accepting and loving—a part of a total commitment.
How could anyone even contemplate such a thing with a stranger?
She fell to the floor in a perfect split and stretched her nose to her knee. Don’t be absurd! she snapped silently to herself. Sex was just a normal body function. Plenty of women she knew could easily sleep with any attractive male body. She closed her eyes, pushing such thoughts to the back of her mind. She would deal with her problems as she came to them. A little chuckle escaped her lips as she switched legs and her dark head bounced down to the other knee. She was planning a marriage. Maybe she wouldn’t get to first base with Wesley Adams. According to Cassie, he could have his pick of females. Why should he marry her? Even if he was attracted to her. She was a twenty-nine-year-old widow with three children. He could probably have any number of bright, sweet young things—women who demanded no commitment and had no responsibilities to tie them down.
And then...Another thought nagged her. What if Wesley didn’t get along with the children? She would never marry anyone, madly in love or not, unless he cared for the children and they for him.
Life, she decided with a wry grin, was a bitch.
But it could be so much better if she could only marry a kind, pliable man like Wesley Adams. She wouldn’t always be worried about having to make a buck. She would be a good and true wife, but she would also be free to go her own way, to play with her children, to dance as she longed.
At that moment she closed her mind to right and wrong. Her heart hardened, not callously, but desperately. The dream of a good life was too sweet to allow for sentiment. She would use every one of her feminine wiles in the pursuit of Wesley Adams. And there was no time to lose. He only planned to be in Gettysburg for two weeks.
“Mommy!”
Jamie’s voice, screaming over the stereo, jolted her from her reflections. Her head jerked up guiltily, and she looked to her son in the studio door and then gasped with dismay.
Jamie was standing with the man who had so completely filled her thoughts, Wesley Adams. The man she had planned to captivate and sweep off his feet. And here she was, no makeup, sweat-streaked hair glued to her forehead, clad in a black leotard that had long since faded.
“Wesley!” she croaked, scrambling to her feet and unconsciously smoothing back a stray tendril of hair. Then she turned to her son with reproach. “Jamie, I told you never to answer the door! You must always get me.”
“It wasn’t the boy’s fault,” Wesley Adams explained with a crooked grin. His eyes were friendly, laughing, almost matching the knit, forest-green shirt that outlined his broad chest and well-muscled biceps. It wasn’t difficult to return his grin.
“I rang,” Wesley continued, “but no one came to the door. I heard the stereo, so I walked around back and found your son.” He tousled Jamie’s light brown curls and hoisted the boy into his arms. “I convinced him I was a legitimate friend.”
“Oh...” Sloan stammered weakly. This second meeting wasn’t working out at all as she had planned. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess...I need a shower...I—I wasn’t expecting you this morning!”
He laughed easily, and she marveled at what a comfortable man he was. “I think you look stunning.” His eyes roamed unabashedly over the trim but enticing figure so vividly displayed by the tight leotard. Yet his gaze held nothing licentious; it was one of teasing but respectful admiration. Foolishly, Sloan found herself blushing.
“Well, er, can I get you something?” she asked, laughing a bit nervously as she walked to the stereo to carefully lift the needle. “A cool drink? I have iced tea, lemonade, and oh, I think a few beers—”
“Run and take your shower, first,” Wesley suggested, smiling at Jamie. “Then I’d love to have a glass of tea with you.”
“Thanks,” she smiled wryly. “But I can’t. The baby should be waking up any minute.”
“I’m the proud uncle of four nieces and six nephews,” he told her. “If your little one wakes, I’m sure I’ll be able to handle him.”
“No!” Sloan protested. “I can’t have you watching my children—”
“Sure you can.”
Sloan smiled uneasily. That lopsided grin of his could be most endearing and, and unnerving! He really was an attractive and...what?...man. Vital. The word sprang to her mind, followed by one even more disturbing—sexy. He may have retired from pro ball, but his sturdy structure and lithe movements proved him to be every inch an athlete.
“All right,” Sloan murmured, confused by her jittery reaction to him. I’m the one out to entice him! she reminded herself. “Thanks. I’ll just hop in and out. I’ll hurry.”
“Take your time. I’ll be fine.”
She smiled faintly as she sidled by him, warned Jamie to be good, and hurried into the shower. Once there, she did take more time than she had intended. She scrubbed her skin pink and worked her hair into a rich lather with scented shampoo. It wouldn’t dry, she realized as she fluffed it with a towel, but clean wet was better than sweaty wet! She splashed herself with a light daytime cologne that smelled of fresh fields and applied a touch of low-keyed makeup. Satisfied with the results, she slipped into a pair of hip-hugging jeans and a cool halter top. Although the nights were cool, the Pennsylvania summers could be murder in the day.
She emerged from the bathroom feeling much more confident. The role of femme fatale was played more easily in the right costume. Affecting a brilliant smile, she moved into the living room with a calculated walk.
The children were all awake, all ensconced on Wesley’s lap as he sat on the floor with them, embellishing a worn book of fairy tales. A painful little tug pulled at her heart as she watched the scene.
Wesley hadn’t lied; he was a natural with children. Even two-year-old Terry sat with wide eyes glued on the storyteller’s face.
Sloan forget all about her bewitching smile and swinging walk as she paused in the hallway, an erratic pulse beating through her veins. He liked the children. He hadn’t even let a day go by without coming to see her. The more she saw of him, the more she liked.
The tale of Cinderella, told in his deep, compelling voice, came to an end with the prince and princess living happily ever after. Laura jumped to her feet, demanding another story.
“Not now, my pet,” Sloan said softly, coming to scoop her daughter into her arms with a laugh. Laura’s eyes were huge and blue like her own, and they snapped with outrage, causing Sloan and Wesley both to chuckle.
“Mommy!” Laura began her protest. “Go back to the bathroom.”
“Hey, young lady!” Sloan chastised her. “Don’t you talk to me like that.”
“Remember our promise!” Wesley intercepted quickly, sneaking a wink which encompassed the three children.
“Pizza!” Jamie happily expounded to his mother. He never could keep a secret.
“If it’s all right with your mother,” Wesley said sternly. “And if you behave for the rest of the afternoon.” He glanced at Sloan apologetically. “I hope you’ll forgive a bit of bribery.”
Sloan bit back a chuckle and sank gracefully to the floor beside them. “The best of us stoop to it now and then. Kids,” she said, praying they chose to obey without argument, “go on into the playroom for a while now.” She glanced at Wesley with raised “you asked for it” brows. “Mr. Adams will read you another story later.”
Surprisingly, the children grudgingly wandered toward the playroom, baleful glances at their mother their only sign of pique. Sloan waited until they had cleared the room to look to Wesley, breathing deeply as she reminded herself she must move with all speed.
“Thank you,” she murmured, unnerved to find it difficult to meet his frank, unwavering green gaze. “That was kind of you.”
“I told you, I like kids.”
Sloan didn’t try to look at him again. Running a slender hand along the shag of the rug, she continued, “I want to apologize for last night. You were right. I was being rude and I’m...I’m sorry.”
He laughed, the slow easy laugh she was coming to like so much. “You’re totally forgiven. I did rather barge in after a long day. But I’ll extract a payment if I may. I supply the dinner, but I get to stay for it. How’s that?”
“All payments should be so amiable!” She crossed one foot over the other and rose. The light, masculinely pleasant scent of his after-shave was drifting to her nostrils; she was becoming too fascinated by the display of his long rugged fingers as they lay casually upon a muscled thigh. “Come on, I’ll get our tea.”
Wesley proved to be a perfect guest. He didn’t seem to mind in the least that the afternoon was spent checking on two-year-old Terry, nor was he adverse to wiping tomato sauce from little faces after the pizza arrived. When bedtime rolled around, he insisted on giving the boys their bath, after which he expertly taped a plastic overnight diaper on newly potty-trained Terry. True to his word, he read the children another story and tucked them into bed. They barely remembered to kiss their mother, and Sloan wondered with amusement whether to be offended or pleased.
She perked coffee while she waited for Wesley to finish with the children, arranging a tray anxiously to bring to the living room table for a more relaxed setting. Where did she go from here? Things were going too well. Wesley, by appearing at her door without warning, had thrown her completely off course. What was it he was after? She couldn’t play too hard to get, or he might disappear for good. Yet she couldn’t be an easy conquest. Marriage was her game, nothing else, or all was wasted.
Wesley sauntered into the kitchen as she placed a ring of crackers around small squares of cheddar and Muenster cheese. “They’re quite a handful,” he remarked with a long stretch. “You must be a veritable powerhouse of energy.” He nonchalantly reached for a cracker and slice of cheese. “How do you do it all?”
Sloan cocked her head with a short, convincing laugh. It wouldn’t do to let him know that she wasn’t managing well with “doing it all.” “They are actually pretty good kids,” she said. “They go to a great day-care center when I work, and Cassie lets me out on Friday nights. It’s not such a bad life and I...” Her voice broke off suddenly.
“What?” The sincere compassion in his eyes urged her to go on.
“I wouldn’t trade a one of them for anything in the world,” she said softly.
“I don’t blame you.” Wesley picked up the tray and preceded her to the living room. “Good coffee,” he commented as he sat comfortably on the sofa. The crooked grin softened his rather severely chiseled features, blending the angles of his high cheekbones and square, rugged jaw. “Good coffee is a sign of a good woman, you know.”
It was easy to laugh with him, and she needn’t have worried about the evening. He made no move to touch her as they talked, and she again found him interesting as they discussed a number of subjects. He wasn’t Terry, he didn’t fill the air with imaginative views and vociferous dreams, but as the time passed by them, she slowly forgot to make comparisons.
“So tell me more about you,” he said suddenly, disarming her with the question thrown casually into general conversation.
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, fiddling with her empty coffee cup as he lit a cigarette. Remembering what she was up to, she batted murky lashes with a sweet smile. “You’ve spent the day here; you’ve seen it all.”
“Why did you give up dancing?”
She feigned a cough. She certainly couldn’t tell him her strained finances were the cause. “I haven’t given it up. I teach now. As for going back and joining a company full time...I’d have to head for a larger city, and with the children small, I like the size of Gettysburg.”
“You danced when your husband was alive.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. Sloan replied slowly, puzzled at his sure knowledge.
“Yes, when Terry was alive he could be with the children nights. He painted at home, and his work was doing very well—” She broke off swiftly, frightened that she had come so close to giving herself away. Falling into another radiant smile, she hastily turned back his question. “How did you know that I was dancing when Terry was alive?”
Tiny dimples appeared in Wesley’s bronzed cheeks. “I saw you in Boston. About seven years ago.”
“Oh!” His revelation was startling. “What were you doing in Boston.”
“Celebrating with friends. My team won the Super Bowl that year, and we were about crazy after the hectic season and grueling training.” The dimples flashed again as he grimaced. “I think I fell in love that night. You were absolutely magnificent. Half the audience must have known from my shouting that you were a girl from my own town.”
“Really?” Sloan laughed, but she eyed him nervously. He was teasing her, of course, flattering her. “Why didn’t you come backstage?”
“Because I knew you were married.”
“Oh.” A silence hung heavily on the air between them. Sloan reached awkwardly for the tray to return it to the kitchen, but Wesley’s hand came over hers. She started nervously and met his probing green gaze. His touch had felt like an electrical charge.
“Tell me about your husband,” he said softly. “It’s obvious that you loved him very much. I’d like to hear about him.”
“Terry?” Sloan’s eyes clouded to a misty blue. “Terry was a dreamer, a happy-go-lucky dreamer. He was a wonderful man; he loved the world. He was very talented and”—she couldn’t lie about Terry—“yes, I loved him very much.”
“Do you have any of his work?”
“Only one piece,” she said lamely. How could she explain that she’d had to sell the others? She couldn’t. She’d have to spin another notch in her web of lies.
“Terry lost most of his paintings in the accident.”
“I’d like to see the painting that you have.”
“I’m afraid it’s of me,” Sloan said apologetically, rising. “It’s in my bedroom.” She turned to lead the way quickly, annoyed to find that she was blushing again.
The painting, she believed, was Terry’s finest piece. He had caught her in a graceful pirouette, her hair spinning red and gold around her, her dress of sheer gauze fluttering in touchable folds. The painting seemed to live, the radiance of the dance immortalized for eternity in the vibrant blue exuberance of her eyes. No amount of poverty could ever bring her to sell the painting. It had been a special gift from Terry, a tangible link to the essence of what they both had been.
Wesley stood staring at the painting for a long time. “He was a very fine artist,” he finally said, “A brilliant one.” He turned to her suddenly. “I assume it’s not for sale.”
“No,” Sloan said. Then she moistened very dry lips. It was time to take a shot in the dark. “No,” she repeated with what she hoped was a sensuous smile. “I’m afraid the painting goes with me. You can’t have one without the other.”
“Oh?” His brows raised slightly, and there was a definite, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, I have already determined to have the one.”
Time hung suspended, and static rippled the air as Sloan stared at him, not breathing, mesmerized. Who is seducing whom here? she wondered briefly.
Wesley broke the invisible bonds that stretched between them. “I’ve got to get out of here.” He chuckled, glancing at his watch. “I’ve way overstayed my welcome.” He glanced back to Sloan, his eyes light yet strangely guarded. “What do you do on Sundays?”
“Uh...laundry, usually,” Sloan stammered, annoyed that she should give him such a humdrum reply, but not as quick as he to break the spell of the unnerving moment.
Wes grinned with lazy ease. “Could I twist your arm into doing something else?”
Sloan laughed sheepishly. “You could twist my arm easily, but I’m afraid I still can’t go out. Cassie and George spend the day with his parents and—”
“And the children would need a sitter,” Wes finished for her. “But they might as well meet Florence and get to know her early.”
Not quite sure what he meant by such a comment, Sloan offered another weak protest. “Wesley, how can we just spring three children upon this lady? I’m sure she’s busy with your house—”
“Florence would rather be busy with kids any day. And I promise you, she’s a wonderfully unique person. She doesn’t just tolerate little ones—she loves them.”
Sloan lifted helpless hands. “What did you have in mind?”
“That, Mrs. Tallett, is a loaded question!” Wes warned teasingly. “If I answered you honestly, you’d throw me out.” He was serious, bluntly, appraisingly so, but his winning grin took the sting out of the words. Even so, Sloan blushed. “Since I don’t dare answer you honestly,” he continued without apology, “what would you say to a picnic in the park?”
“A picnic sounds nice,” Sloan mouthed automatically.
“Good,” Wes said quickly, before she could think. “I’ll be by tomorrow about ten with Florence. Is the time okay?”
“Fine...” Sloan murmured, dazed. She was supposed to be the aggressor here, but so far she wasn’t working very hard.
Wesley smiled and kissed her cheek lightly, as he had her sister’s the previous evening. “Good night, Sloan.” His long strides brought him quickly to the front door. “Thank you for a wonderful day.”
“Thank you,” Sloan called, but he was gone. Still dazed, she returned to the living room and picked up the coffee tray.
Everything was working out perfectly—to her benefit. Even in her moments of highest confidence, she had never imagined that Wes would make it so easy for her to set her little marriage trap. Instead of feeling wildly victorious, she was nervous as hell. As pleasant as Wes continued to be, there was a quality about him that was quietly powerful.
He had been a professional football player, she reminded herself. Such a sport bred a man who was innately domineering, physically fit...threatening with that primitive, almost untamed masculinity.
“What a ridiculous thought!” she chastised herself aloud. She was turning Wes into a charging tiger that might pounce in a moment of brute force. He was nothing like that. And she wasn’t a member of an opposing defense to be tackled or plowed out of the way.
Still, there was something about him. She had sensed it that first night. Something that hadn’t been there in his youth. A confidence and control that allowed him to be pleasant because he would have the strength to handle any situation that did get out of control with quick, ruthless ease.
She shivered suddenly, and the shivering brought her out of her mental wanderings. She realized she was still rinsing a well-rinsed cup. “I’m inventing things!” she whispered to herself. “Wes is the nice guy he appears to be. And he likes me...”
But how did he “like” her? He was thirty-four, but he had never married. She was sure—simply from that virile masculinity that he exuded—that he had had a multitude of affairs. He was a sensual man—she was already keenly aware of his effortless magnetism. He was probably thinking of nothing more than an affair now.
“It can’t be just an affair!” Sloan spoke aloud to herself again, her tone desperate. He had to marry her!
He wanted her. Even if her instincts had been faulty, he had come right out and said as much. Yet how badly did he want her? Enough to marry her?
A flash of heat washed over her from head to toe as she thought about the strange moment when they had stood together in her bedroom doorway. Admittedly, she had felt stirrings she hadn’t experienced in over two years. Her senses had reeled more from his mere nearness than they had from any kiss by a would-be suitor.
Sloan dropped the saucer she had been holding into the dishwasher and crouched to the floor, circling her knees with her arms. She was attracted to Wesley, and the feeling was terrifying. She had to keep the upper hand; she had to be able to deny and demur all the time.
“And I will!” She fought the dizzy confusion that had assailed her like a forceful wind and stood, shaking herself. Lord! she told herself impatiently. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old widow! Not some naive half-wit! Not the type of sweet innocent to be led stupidly like a slaughtered lamb into a bed of seduction!
Semiconvinced, she straightened her shoulders unconsciously. She wasn’t exactly an overly humble fool, either. She was aware of her assets—a dancer almost had to be. She knew how to play the games of flirtation and seduction herself. Granted, she had never set out to be the vamp before, but it was a role she could—and would—assume.
This was a game she was determined to win.
Sighing, she wiped the kitchen counter and slowly folded the dish towel. There was no way she was going to be happy and at ease until...until the game was over. Her mind was waging too many wars. It was wrong...she knew it was wrong to purposely set out to marry someone for money, no matter how she swore to herself to be a good wife. She should bow out of the game before it ever began. She couldn’t begin to imagine what had possessed her in the first place to come up with such an idea.
But she had come up with it. And now it had become a dream...a dream of security that was so good she couldn’t forget it, couldn’t pretend that it had never existed.
Sloan bit into her bottom lip so hard as she walked into her bedroom to slip into her nightgown that she drew blood. There was no going back now. Wesley might not know that he was now engaged in the biggest game of his life, but he was. Another Super Bowl.
And this time, he was going to lose.
Sloan slipped between her sheets and turned off her bedside lamp. Even with her mind irrevocably made up, it was a long time before she slept. She tossed and turned and woke several times. She had been dreaming, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on just what it was in her dreams that kept awakening her.
Finally, as the pale light of dawn crept slowly through the windows telling her that her fitful night was almost at an end, she realized what was bothering her.
She was no longer seeing Terry’s thin, carefree face in her dreams. She was seeing Wesley’s. The penetrating, oceanic green eyes. The pitch black hair with the wings of silver. The hard, angular, strong planes of his face. The rugged jawline. The full, sensual lips curving over perfect white teeth.
For the first time in two years she was actually dreaming of another face. Wesley’s smiling face.
But a smiling face that was very disturbing. Because in her dreams the smile was cold. It didn’t reach to eyes that were as sharply condemning as a jagged dagger of ice.