Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  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

  SLOAN 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 theory that her students—even the best—should have a sound education to fall back on. She, more than anyone, knew that they would have a struggle surviving in their chosen field. But although Jim Baskins was a great department head, he was under the chairman of Fine Arts, who was under the dean, who was under the vice-president of the school, and so forth. The politics in her job drove her crazy.

  She mused over the budget wars recently fought in the last faculty meetings as she entered the ring of offices shared by theater and dance, thanking the student secretary for her messages and following the labyrinth of cubbyholes until she found her own—an eight-by-eight square with a small desk and two chairs. The rest of the proposals for dance finals awaited her approval, and she slipped into a sweat shirt, chilled now by the air conditioning in her damp leotard and tights, before seating herself to concentrate on the projects. A chosen few would be previewed on Saturday when she and Jim made their own contributions to the welfare of the Fine Arts department at the annual performance. And time, Sloan thought with a grimace, was slipping away. Wrinkling her nose with distaste at the loss of time she so often endured with the red tape of the paperwork, Sloan focused her attention on what actually constituted teaching.

  Sloan picked up the first folder and pursed her lips in a tolerant grimace as she saw that Susie Harris wanted to tap her final to the Doobie Brothers’ “A Fool Believes.” The music wasn’t conducive to tap, but Sloan believed in letting the kids—kids! they were eighteen to twenty, young adults—try their wings and learn from their own mistakes. Besides, she had seen some very good work come out of the highly improbable.

  Sloan scribbled a few lines of advice on Susie’s folder and set it aside. Dan Taylor wanted to do a modern ballet to Schubert...

  Sloan set the folder down. Her effort to concentrate was fading. Chewing the nub of her pencil, she thought back to the previous night and Wesley. He hadn’t mentioned marriage again; he hadn’t touched her again. He had returned their relationship to a casual one, idly discussing the upcoming school performance. At her home he had played with the kids, picked up Florence, and left, saying nothing about seeing her again...

  The tip of the eraser broke off in her mouth, and Sloan wrinkled her face in distaste before ruefully plucking the rubber from her tongue. She was going to have to stop being such a nervous wreck—and definitely improve her hunting technique. Wesley was supposed to think of nothing but her all day long, not vice versa. And she had been thinking of nothing but Wesley all day, to the extent that her students must be thinking Mrs. Tallett was mellowing. She was considered the roughest taskmaster in the department, knowing that only grueling work could take even the most talented to the top.

  In all dance classes, you perspired.

  In Mrs. Tallett’s classes, you sweat!

  Sloan was aware that her budding Nureyevs thought her a strict drill sergeant, but she was totally unaware that they were devoted to her and many considered her a miracle in a small college. Half the males in her classes were also in more than a little bit of puppy love with her. She was beautiful, tall, svelte, sophisticated, and although her voice could be a cutting whip, it was a soft-spoken voice. She was tireless and demanding, but she had the grace of movement they all strove for, and she participated in her own strenuous workouts.

  If you got out of Mrs. Tallett’s classes alive, you had a good chance of making it as a dancer.

  Today, she had been mellow. She had been busy throwing her energies into furious movement, hoping she could exhaust her frame from remembering the burning touch that had made her forget everything else...

  A soft tap on her door became persistent and sharp before she heard it. “Come in,” she called quickly.

  It was Donna, the student-assistant secretary, and her pretty round face seemed somewhat in awe.

  “What is it, Donna?” Sloan asked.

  “He’s here, Mrs. Tallett. To see you,” Donna said disbelievingly.

  Sloan frowned, sighed, and forced herself to be patient. “He who is here to see me, Donna?”

  “Adams. The quarterback. Wesley Adams, the quarterback!” Donna said the name with awe, then rambled on, “Oh, Mrs. Tallett! He’s gorgeous! What a hunk! And so nice. And he’s here! Right here in Gettysburg. To see you. Oh, Mrs. Tallett, what do you suppose he wants?”

  Sloan couldn’t prevent the rueful grin that spread across her features. She lowered her eyes quickly, not to allow Donna to view the self-humor she was feeling. She might be the attractive and judicial Mrs. Tallett, but she was still a teacher, a mature if sophisticated woman.

  Wesley was a national hero, living in the never-never land of eternal youth. It was hard to accept the fact that her students would think of her as a Cinderella chosen by the godlike prince in a miraculous whim of luck, but that was how they would see it.

  “Donna,” Sloan said with tolerant patience, “Wesley Adams is from Gettysburg—and he no longer plays football. And yes, he is a very nice man. Show him back, will you please?”

  “Sure thing!” Donna’s huge, cornflower-blue eyes still held wonder, and she hesitated as she backed out of the room.

  “What else, Donna?” Sloan asked with a raised brow.

  “Could you...would you...I mean, I’d love...”

  “Love what?” Sloan prompted, holding in her exasperation.

  “An autograph,” Donna breathed quickly.

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you an autograph.” Sloan smiled. “He can stop back by your desk on the
way out and write whatever you wish. Okay?”

  “Okay!” Donna grinned and disappeared.

  Only as the door closed did Sloan realize she was once again a mess. Her leotard, tights, and leg warmers were at least new and unfaded, but her hair was drawn back in a severe bun, and the sweat shirt she wore was an old and tattered gray one. Her makeup had been through Monday’s schedule—Ballet III, Jazz II, Modern I, Advanced Tap, and Aerobics. So had her body.

  And it would take Donna about fifteen seconds to walk back to the central office, another fifteen or twenty to return...

  Sloan made a dive beneath her desk for her handbag and hastily gave herself a light mist of Je Reviens and glossed her lips quickly with a peach-bronze shade that matched her nails. Tendrils of hair were escaping the knot at her nape, but it was too late to worry. She had been thinking of Wes all day, but never expecting to see him.

  The raps came on her door again, and she shoved her purse back beneath the desk. “Come in.”

  A giggling and blushing Donna pushed open the door and led Wesley in. Sloan could immediately see why the girl had been so taken. Wes had dressed for business today, and he was stunningly, ruggedly good-looking in a way which could let no one wonder which was the stronger, virile sex. In a navy three-piece suit, stark white shirt, and burgundy silk tie, he looked every inch the cool, shrewd businessman while still exuding an aura of an earthy power. Very civil—his omniscient-seeming green eyes were light, his grin warm—while still conveying that raw, almost primitive masculinity that women, no matter how liberated, sought in a male.

  He smoothed back the breeze-ruffled silver-tinged hair that was the only thing out of context with his sleekly tailored appearance as he entered her office, overpowering everything in the small space. “Hi. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do dance teachers get off at five like the rest of the work force?”

  Sloan rose and smiled. “Not always, but you’re not disturbing me.” He was disturbing her, but not as he thought.

  Donna still stood in the doorway, agape at their casual greetings. “Thank you, Donna,” Sloan dismissed her gently. She cast a quick, apologetic glance Wes’s way. “Mr. Adams will stop by your desk on the way out.”

  Wesley quirked a puzzled brow but agreed with her, smiling to the girl. “Sure, I’ll stop by on my way out.”

  “Thank you,” Donna murmured, flushed and pleasantly pink as she closed the door.

  “Why am I stopping by on my way out?” he asked playfully as he took the one chair before Sloan’s desk and they both seated themselves.

  “An autograph. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Dark brows knit loosely above Wes’s ever-changing green eyes. “I don’t mind at all, but I wasn’t planning on leaving. Not without you.”

  “Oh?” Sloan felt her heart begin to pound harder.

  “I was hoping you’d come to dinner with me.”

  The pounding became thunderous. She certainly couldn’t pat herself on the back for playing the femme fatale too well, but he was coming to her anyway. Had he really cared something for her all those years? It was impossible to tell whether he spoke with meaning or if his words were the pleasant, teasing games that all men—she thought—played. All men except Terry. She couldn’t think about Terry right now, but unfortunately, neither could she accept Wesley’s invitation. She had nothing tangible to go on yet, and she had commitments she couldn’t disregard even if she did.

  “Wesley,” she murmured unhappily, “I’d love to go to dinner with you, but I can’t. Jim and I do a dance as well as the students, and I need a little practice time by myself. And I have to pick up the children and spend time with them and feed them—”

  “I’ve already taken all that into consideration,” Wesley interrupted her, giving her his dazzling, lopsided grin. He leaned his elbows upon her desk to draw closer, and the effect of his nearness was mesmerizing. “We’ll pick up the kids together and run to your house so that you can shower and change. Then we’ll take the kids over to the steak house, come back so that you can spend time with them and practice, and then we’ll go out. Florence will be ready anytime we are. And you won’t have to worry about your time with your children—they’ll be in bed before we go. We won’t stay out late—I know morning comes quickly on working days.”

  Sloan stared into his eyes feeling a bit of awe and wonder herself. She may not be in love with Wesley, she decided, but she couldn’t recall liking or even respecting a man more! He was one of the most sensitive men she had ever met, understanding in every way, not just tolerating her children, but taking great care to keep their needs at the top of his priority list.

  “You are marvelous!” she whispered, and she meant every word. Another smile spread slowly across her delicately boned face, erasing the tension and strain of the day. “Thank you, Wesley,” she murmured tentatively, strangely humbled by his thoughtfulness.

  “For what?” he demanded, his gentle, probing green stare telling her all that she needed to know even as he brushed her gratitude aside as unnecessary.

  “For understanding,” she said softly.

  He chuckled, but his strong features were intense, and she was left to wonder about the depths of his sincerity. “I don’t have much time to convince you that I’m madly in love with you and should forever after be the only man in your life. Come on, we’ll take my car and worry about yours later.”

  Sloan smiled a little uneasily and straightened the folders on her desk. She would deal with them in a much better frame of mind in the morning. “The entire evening sounds beautifully planned,” she said huskily. “Just give me two minutes to check out with Jim and five minutes to hop into the shower.”

  “Take fifteen,” Wes laughed, rising. “I’ll go take care of your dancing football fan.”

  There was more than one fan in the office by the time Sloan had slipped out the back of the maze to the showers and returned to go over a few notes with Jim. Some type of student radar had gone out, and an ensemble of dancers in tights and actors in various stages of costume from the drama classes had formed in a loose circle around Wes.

  As she listened to him deal politely and quietly with the students, Sloan realized that the pleasant, low-timbred quality of his voice was truly becoming dear to her. Wes Adams did have everything; sinewed good looks, personality, charisma.

  And a fortune.

  She must have been blind all those years ago, but then they had been young. Neither had been what they were today.

  Nervousness rippled through Sloan as she silently watched him. Cassie had probably been right—Wes could crook a little finger and have any woman he wanted. For some obscure reason he wanted her, and God help her, she wanted him too, even if the feeling wasn’t love. But he had to love her, really love her, because it had to be marriage...she needed him. Desperately now, now that she had let the dream grow.

  Her fingers clenched at her side. She was going to have to be so very careful...he had to keep wanting her. For a lifetime. And he had to keep believing in the illusion she hoped she was weaving.

  An illusion of assurance, of sophisticated confidence. Of having every bit as much to offer in a relationship as he.

  Green eyes suddenly met hers over a sea of faces. The lazy, incredibly sexy grin curled its way back into the strong line of his jaw. “Excuse me,” he murmured to the students, and then he was at her side, leading her out as young men and women watched and echoed good-byes to them both.

  For a moment Sloan was tempted to laugh. Wesley would probably never realize how he had just elevated her in the eyes of the student body.

  “Nice kids,” Wes said as he steered her to his Lincoln in the parking lot. “They filled me in quite a bit on you.”

  “Really?” Sloan raised a curious and surprised brow.

  “Ummm.” He grinned with amusement. “They say you’re the sexiest tyrant ever to head a dance class. I assured them they were probably quite right.”

  “Oh,” Sloan laughed, wincing as she f
elt a blush creep over her cheeks. “About being a tyrant—or, uh...” Damn! What was she saying?

  “Sexy?” Wes supplied, chuckling as he shut her door. He walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. “Both,” he said, smiling at her. “I know you’re sexy as hell, and I can bet you can be a tyrant.”

  “Worried?” she queried in as light and teasing a manner as she could.

  “Not at all. I can fight fire with fire, my dear.”

  Sloan smiled, the right reaction since his answer had been teasing in kind. Yet a little trickle of unease worked its way up her neck. Had there been a hint of steel beneath his velvet tone, or was that only an illusion of her overactive imagination? She remembered the first night at her house...how bluntly he had called her rude. He hadn’t really been angry; he had been in complete control. Yet she shuddered at the vision of a man who possessed his dynamic force and depths of passion losing his temper.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your children,” he replied, patient and amused by her wandering.

  “Oh...” Sloan gave him directions to the day-care center.

  Three hours later—having fulfilled all obligation to family and art—they were back on the highway driving to a hotel outside the city limits that offered rooftop dining and dancing. It was odd, Sloan thought, casting Wes a covert glance as he drove, that she had really only known him four days. She had known him years ago, of course, but that was a vague memory. On Friday night she had thought his appearance nothing more than a nuisance. The intensity of their relationship since was strangely comforting—while also disturbing. She was nervous—one couldn’t be planning on marrying a man who had no idea he was being baited without being nervous—but she was now beginning to relax. For whatever heaven-sent reason, Wesley seemed to be sincere. His patience with her situation was astounding. He also seemed to be determined to pander to her every whim with tolerant amusement. Little by little, it became apparent that her inexpert vamping was working—she could almost hope she was winding him around her little finger.