Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,22

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