Tender Taming (8 page)

“See you next week, then,” Katie interrupted, impulsively kissing her cheek, too. “Don’t worry—Gram isn’t mad at you. ’Bye!”

“Good luck!” Randy called.

They started back through the path in a sprint, and Whitney was left to helplessly watch them go. Eagle came behind her and his steel-sinewed arms encircled her waist

“Would you run?” he whispered in a husky taunt. “If so, run now. In another minute you will irrefutably be my woman for the coming week. You have entered the devil’s den, and the devil is about to demand his due.”

Gut panic gripped Whitney like a wall of ice. It was more than a teasing threat that Eagle had issued. There was an underlying tension in his voice that hinted of a deep fury, as if he was extracting vengeance.

For what, she wondered.

Then, as she snapped around in his arms to make a fear-inspired, acidic retort, she knew.

She was going to pay for her impulsive words when they met—for calling him an Indian with shocked amazement, for haughtily demanding if he could speak English.

Worst of all, she was going to pay because he had read what she felt in her heart—that she was superior to him. And now there was nothing left to do except bluff her way through it. If his arms were steel, her will would be concrete. She would prove her mettle and take great pleasure in forcing White Eagle to realize he was not dealing with a hothouse Southern belle!

“Devil’s den?” She smiled sweetly with mock innocence. “This is a paradise. I’m going to love it!”

“Hmmm … I hope so,” Eagle replied, tapping her chin lightly with a playful gesture. The threat was still in his eyes as he stared down at her, yet it was tempered now with a mixture of other emotions, all of which were veiled. What were those emotions, Whitney wondered. A dawning of respect along with something else?

A shiver coursed through her. In the heart of her femininity she had finally read the blatant message of coolly controlled desire. White Eagle had been touched by the same inexplicable, electric attraction as she. He knew her fascination; he knew her fear and doubt.

And he played a waiting game, on his own territory, where he was sure that he would win.

Knowing the answer before she voiced the question, Whitney could not hide the waver in her tone as she demanded, “You never did tell me what you expect to get out of this bet.”

“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” he drawled, and the current between them was almost visible in the air. “You.”

W
HITNEY SAT HUNCHED UPON
her rock, her arms wrapped tiredly around her knees, a single eye resting sorrowfully upon the hand that cradled her cheek. She had never known it was possible to achieve so many calluses in one day, and her nails—usually perfectly manicured and sporting the latest in fashion colors—were broken, chipped and split. She shifted slightly and soreness riddled her back. Groaning, she awkwardly tried to massage the pain.

It wasn’t Eagle but Morning Dew who had proved to be her taskmaster. In one afternoon Whitney had learned that the life of an Indian woman was still rugged indeed. So far she had been called upon to wash clothes by hand, tend the garden of late summer vegetables, feed an assortment of domesticated animals, sew until her fingers could no longer hold a needle and pound upon a strange root until it became a powdery substance that would be used as flour.

Not that Morning Dew hadn’t been kind. She had clucked in perfect English like a mother hen over Whitney and taken her under a competent wing. Immediately after Eagle had stated his terms, he had spun from her as if the interchange had never existed, spoken to his grandmother, then informed Whitney that he would see her later. When she had asked where he was going, he raised and wiggled a teasing brow. “Off to play Indian brave, of course.”

Sunset was coming to the Everglades. As Whitney watched, the sky began to take on a myriad crimson and golden hues. The colors rippled and danced upon the calm, glassy sheet of the lake she sat before, creating a dazzling display. Numerous long-legged birds, trusting in her stillness, stood sentinel along the shore, forming silhouettes against the brilliant pink horizon. She realized her earlier words of bravado had not been a lie—visions of pure paradise lurked within the desolate hammocks of the deep woods.

“Ooohhh …” she moaned again, trying to shift in order to ease the throbbing of newly discovered muscles.

“Rough day, huh?”

Whitney spun with a belligerent stare to see that Eagle was standing two feet behind her. Damn him! she muttered inwardly with irritation. His ability to come upon her totally undetected was most annoying.

“Not at all,” she retorted nastily. “The washer didn’t clog up once and I didn’t have a bit of trouble at the grocery store.”

Laughing, Eagle took a step and eradicated the distance between them. Before Whitney could protest, he had pushed her shoulders back and begun massaging her neck with strong fingers that brought a mixture of new torment and sweet, easing relief. Giving in to the overwhelming urge to relish the comfort brought by his powerful hands, Whitney sighed and allowed her head to rest again upon her hands.

“Where have you been all day?” she demanded impertinently, determined that he not know how grateful she was for his soothing ministrations.

“Oh, you know … hunting, fishing, warring with the cavalry,” he replied airily.

“Very amusing,” Whitney snapped. His thumb worked into her collarbone and an unexpected surge of excitement spread through her bloodstream like hot mercury. She jerked with confusion, wondering if he had felt her reaction to his touch. “You don’t have to rip me apart!” she muttered hastily. “I’m quite sore enough as it is!”

Ignoring her viperish tongue, Eagle pulled her back into position. “Sit still. If I don’t work out the kinks for you, you’ll be in agony tomorrow. And I don’t want you slacking off around the chickee!”

Whitney clamped her teeth together and stared out over the lake. He was right and she knew it. She would awake as stiff as a poker in the morning if she didn’t allow him to work the knots out of her sore muscles.

But she had to maintain her guard with this man. For the first time in her life she was at a loss emotionally and physically. She was attracted to him like a moth to flame, yet unlike a moth, she had the sense to see the fire. He was an enigma to her, and yet his motives seemed as crystal clear as his eyes. He dared her, he mocked her. He had brought her into a world where he didn’t need to lift a finger to inflict punishment. And he wanted her.

The why of it all troubled Whitney. Intuition told her that a man like Eagle would have strong passions and be proficient in the realm of sensual delights. She knew beyond a doubt that he would attract any number of the feminine sex—and that countless women would be more than happy to appease his appetites.

So why her? Why go through this elaborate charade to win what he could obviously have for the taking? Especially when he must realize the effect his mere proximity had on her. There were moments of electricity between them that were so intense Whitney would gladly come to him with eager submission, except …

That he was an Indian? An alien to her world? He frightened her as she had never been frightened before …

And yet that wasn’t it, either. If she was really frightened of something, it wasn’t White Eagle. She had come to realize that he lived by a code of ethics that might put any city-bred man to shame.

True admission of her real fears hovered in her consciousness, but they were too deep to surface. Too painful. They had nothing to do with morality. In her heart she knew that anything between them would be right because such a feeling could come only once in a lifetime.

“Isn’t it?”

Whitney blinked. She had grown drowsy and content while he worked his magic upon her body, and now she hadn’t heard a word he had said.

Yawning, she perked her head back up. “Sorry—isn’t what?”

“The lake beautiful—and very inviting.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

His hands left her shoulders, and she felt a sense of loss. “Join me?” The blue of his eyes was very bright against the bronze of his face in the twilight as he casually began opening the buttons on his shirt.

“Join you?” Whitney echoed blankly.

“For a swim. The water here is always cool and pleasant A swim makes you feel a hell of a lot better in this climate—much less like a salt lick for cattle.”

His shirt was gone, cast over a nearby bush. “Scoot over,” he commanded, sliding down beside her on the rock to remove his boots. The heat of his body absorbed her as he nonchalantly pulled at the high zippers to free his feet and roll his socks. Like an unabashed child at a swimming hole, he stood again and Whitney heard the quick slide of his jeans zipper.

“I don’t have a suit,” Whitney whispered, hastily averting her eyes to look at the water before her.

“Neither do I.”

A whoosh sounded through the air and she knew that his jeans and briefs had joined the shirt on the bush. He was a streak of perfect bronze as he whipped past her into the lake with a clear-cut, graceful dive.

“Come on!” There was deviltry to his invitation.

“I—I—”

“I’m not going to attack you!” Eagle called cynically, rising with the cool water dripping from his form. The lake covered him to his waist and he stood facing her regally, his hands planted firmly on his hips. His hair was slicked back by the water, defining the rugged lines of his profile as he grinned.

Whitney fought the blush that was rising to her cheeks. He was laughing at her, mocking her fear.

“What about snakes?” she countered.

“This pool is clear,” he assured her. “And I’ll be with you.”

Whitney hesitated slightly, an eyetooth gnawing at her lip. He definitely wasn’t going to attack her—he was almost contemptuous of her—which wasn’t particularly flattering! The water did look inviting, and the humid temperature of the Glades
had
left her feeling like a large salt deposit. She rose slowly and dully set to work on the snaps of her tailored blouse.

If she had expected him to turn away, she was in for a surprise. He watched her every movement intently, his hands still upon his hips, his magnetizing eyes still bright with amusement—and appreciation. Whitney managed to doff her shirt, jeans and boots with nonchalance; then she froze, inhibited despite his words of assurance.

Eagle laughed again as she stood on the shore in panties and bra, confused. Yet he wasn’t laughing at her, she realized, but rather with a sympathetic understanding.

“Okay!” she yelled at him, assessing the communication for what it was. “You could make this a little easier for me by taking a big jump into the lake—deep!”

He shook his head sternly. “You are beautiful, Whitney. Very fine, very delicate. Don’t hide from me.”

Unnerved by his bluntness, Whitney felt the blush of her cheeks spread through her body. “Does that mean I have no right to be modest?” she mumbled sarcastically, lowering her head as she fumbled for the hook of her bra.

His answer was soft. “No, Whitney. But we are hardly strangers. You know that as well as I.”

Unable to meet his eyes, Whitney dropped the white lacy bra to her feet and slipped from the brief bikini pants with an inborn sensuality that would have stunned her were she aware of it. There was a sharp whistle of air on the wind, but as she wasn’t watching White Eagle, she didn’t know that the sound had been that of his indrawn breath.

Eagle was thinking that her suggestion that he jump more deeply into the lake might be just what he needed. He had just calmly informed her that he would not touch her, but he had never felt a more potent rush of pure desire in his life. His natural comment that she was beautiful had been a tremendous understatement—she surpassed any terminology in any language. “Gorgeous” would not sufficiently describe her. Although slender and petite, she was built with subtle voluptuousness; her breasts were not heavy but high and firm, rosy-tipped, her hips trim and yet ever so pleasantly rounded. Her legs were long and shapely, graceful like those of a gazelle. She had been married for a year, he knew—he knew a great deal about her, in fact. Yet about her there was an air of innocence. Of trust. She could be feisty, proud, arrogant and haughty. Still … that beguiling essence remained with her …

A flash of heat that ripped through him in spasms assailed Eagle with crude violence as she sprinted into the water. Impatiently he cursed at himself, raised his arms high and plunged into the depths of the lake. With powerful strokes he whipped through the water, not surfacing until he had vigorously brought his telling body back into a semblance of control.

The water was delicious, Whitney decided instantly, relishing in its wonderfully cool feeling upon her skin. Not the swimmer that Eagle was, she contented herself with splashing around near the shore. Rising after a moment to shield her eyes against the setting sun and scan the lake for White Eagle, she frowned “Where the hell is he, anyway?” she muttered.

Beneath her, she discovered an immediate reply as her ankle was deftly wrenched and she tumbled full length into the lake. Sputtering and choking, she kicked her way back up and sought her adversary. He was about a foot away, chuckling. Without bothering to think, she threw herself at him, determined to douse his smug face beneath the surface.

But he had anticipated her impulsive response and he caught her, his hands strong against her midriff. He held her inches away, with the peaks of her nipples brushing the smoothness of his chest, gloating. For a split second he kept her there, and their eyes met in elemental challenge. Then she was once more doused.

Fuming beneath the surface, Whitney swam as far as her lungs would carry her. When she finally broke above the water, he was still watching her, still smiling smugly, still gloating. To him there was no contest.

“Never attack a stronger enemy!” he said with a laugh, verifying her thoughts. “Use strategy!” Then he was swimming away again, the certain victor.

Strategy, Whitney silently repeated. She would use strategy all right, strategy and patience. It would be a dangerous battle, but she couldn’t resist. He had the galling capacity to make her forget logic and reason and respond with pure warlike tactics. But she did intend to win—even the little battles, the skirmishes.