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which had begun to recede, came back full force.
    She wanted him with every bit as much fervor as he wanted her. She could openly give him passion.
    But as he laughingly helped her to her feet and brushed away the pine needles and grass that stuck to her hair and clothing, she guiltily realized that all she could offer would not really be enough.
    Wesley was a good man, an exceptionally good man—kind, gentle, understanding, and unassuming. He had survived celebrity status and wealth and retained compassion and kept a solid, worldly-but-uninflated head upon his shoulders.
    He deserved everything that a wife should give; friendship, partnership, passion and—love.
    Yet even as remorse filled her heart, he was tilting her head with firm persuasion, forcing her tremulous blue eyes to meet his sea-jade stare.
    “Please don’t look like a maiden in shock,” he entreated earnestly, the dimple flashing in his cheeks. He was still amused, but her silence was causing him considerable concern.
    Sloan opened her mouth to speak, but the ache in her heart caused the words to freeze on her lips. He shook his head, his smile stretching across his taut, bronzed features. She wondered fleetingly why he had to look so darned attractive just then, so masculine and virile, yet boyish with his dark hair disarrayed, his eyes dazzling mischievously, his crooked smile engagingly intent. He was twisting her apart.
    But again, he was—luckily for her!—misinterpreting her reactions.
    “I love you, Sloan,” he said huskily. “I told you before, my intentions are entirely honorable. Years ago, I fell in love with a wisp of a girl, an infatuation, if you will. But the dream of that girl has stayed with me all my life, paling all others. And she had her own dream, and it had to be followed.
    “But now, I’ve found her again. We’re both older and wiser. And now I know I can help her with whatever her future dreams might be. I have no intention of letting her get away again!” He kissed her again, very lightly, very tenderly, very gently. “You may think I’m crazy, Sloan, and maybe I am. I may be totally insane where you are concerned. But I do love you. I want to marry you. I know it’s too early to expect an answer from such a crazy proposal, but after what just happened, I thought I should let you know how very much you do mean to me.”
    Sloan managed a sick, weak smile. She had won, just like that. She had taken the victory before the battle, accomplished everything she had set out to achieve—in less than three days.
    Then why, she wondered miserably, was that victory so bitter-tasting, her triumph so hollow?
    Had he really been in love with her for years? Was that why he had never married? Or was it talk, the bantering type of talk that lovers often used?
    She really didn’t know which would make her feel worse, but now, for certain, she couldn’t let Wesley go.
    But nor could she rid herself of a nagging feeling of...of...
    Was it fear?

CHAPTER FOUR
    S LOAN SLID A TOWEL around her neck and closed the door to Fine Arts 202 behind her. She shook her head slightly. Melanie Anderson and Harold Persoff were in that studio practicing to Steely Dan, while the strains of Bach were also filtering through to her from Fine Arts 204 where Gail Henning—a student determined to be the next American prima ballerina—was also at work rehearsing.
    Sloan’s lips curved into a slight smile. She didn’t mind teaching; in fact she loved it. Gail Henning was going to make a fine ballerina, and Sloan was playing a part in making the girl’s dream a reality. It was a nice feeling.
    Her smile slipped and she sighed. The problem with teaching was the college. The Fine Arts department was on a low budget—in the present economy state-funded schools couldn’t afford much for the arts. Theater, dance, and music—and even visual arts—were just not practical courses of study in the world the kids would face when they left. Sloan agreed with the