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
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
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