The beam of a powerful flashlight suddenly flared in her face. Blinking in the unaccustomed brilliance, Whitney choked, “Pleeease …”
A grunt was her only verbal reply, but she was gently hoisted from the mud by a pair of strong, masculine arms. She was not being attacked. The arms carried her toward the light that had been her own destination.
The man holding her seemed to have no difficulty maneuvering a silent and graceful trail through the muck, nor did it seem that her weight was any more troublesome than a feather to him. In a matter of minutes she could see that the light was coming from a small wooden cabin that appeared more inviting than the Washington Hilton. Another moment and they were mounting three planked steps and the door was being firmly kicked open by a high-booted foot. Inside, the cabin was surprisingly cool and comfortable, furnished sparsely but adequately with large leather and wood couches that sat upon deerskin rugs.
Whitney was deposited upon one of the couches, and she finally had a chance to take a good look at her unknown-assailant-turned-rescuer. Her eyes traveled from the high black boots to form-fitting, worn jeans that hugged tightly muscled thighs and trim hips, then on to the powerful chest she had leaned against. It was clad in a simple, now muddied, white cotton shirt. Above the broad shoulders were a strong, corded neck and a face that left Whitney speechless with amazement.
The man was an Indian. Or was he? The best of two races seemed to be combined in a profile as proud as a hawk’s—sharp, rugged and severe. The cheekbones were high, the nose long, straight and imperious with an ancient dignity. The lips were sensuously full, grim and tight.
His hair was raven black, almost blue black in the gaslight, and long—reaching to his neck. But the most startling aspect was his eyes. Brilliant as diamond studs against the handsome bronze of his face, they were a blue as bright as a summer sky and as intense as a blazing sun. They were bordered by high, well-defined brows and framed by lashes as musky and dark as the sinister night.
Totally unnerved, Whitney uttered a tactless exclamation. “You’re—you’re an Indian!” she stuttered. Remorse at her lack of diplomacy filled her immediately. He had dragged her from the mud and she was spilling muck all over his neat cabin. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, tripping over her words as he continued to survey her silently. “Not that you are an Indian—” Oh, God! What a thing to say! What was the matter with her? But he wasn’t helping any, not saying a thing—just staring at her with what might be a quirk of sardonic amusement twitching the tight line of his lips.
“You do speak English?” Whitney snapped, irritated by his silence and the annoying feeling of inadequacy he was instilling within her. He was making her appear to be a blithering fool!
“Yes.” His voice was velvety; a deep, rich baritone.
Attempting to draw on some dignity—which was difficult when she was sitting in a huddle with bare feet, torn stockings and her hair and clothing plastered to her smudged body—Whitney spoke again, haughtily, slowly, thinking out her words before she uttered them. “Forgive me if I sounded terribly rude. I thought I was following a road to a service station. I can see now that this is your private property. If I could just use a phone—”
“A phone!” The black brows rose in ridicule. “Sorry. Southern Bell hasn’t installed lines yet in this block of the Glades.”
Whitney’s emerald gaze flared like firelight as she flushed uneasily. Without a flicker of facial movement or the slightest change in intonation, her towering host had aptly proved his complete knowledge of the English language. “Forgive me,” she repeated, unable to keep the acid from her own tone. “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with my surroundings.”
His arms were crossed negligently over his chest as he stared down at her with an austere, emotionless expression that still managed to convey to her his belief that she had just mumbled the understatement of the year. Whitney’s flush heightened as his electrifying blue stare wandered briefly over her entire person from muddied head to muddied toe with ill-concealed contempt. Yet despite the anger his gaze elicited, she experienced a new type of chill—one that hinted of fire rather than ice. It was as if his eyes could really send out jolting currents of heat. Unwittingly she found herself studying his form again, remembering the comfortable security of being carried in the strong arms … resting her head against the rock-hard chest.
“Umm—I—” she was babbling again, bewildered by the intensity of the physical reactions he was evoking from her while merely standing above her. Why was she behaving like a schoolgirl? He was ruggedly handsome and undoubtedly attractive; that she grudgingly acknowledged. But she had met many men with blatant sex appeal. Maybe that was the difference. This man’s inherent sexuality was in no way blatant or contrived. It was part of his essence, natural and almost untamed, like the elements around them.
“My name is Whitney Latham,” she offered, squaring her shoulders. “I know you think me a complete fool and I do apologize. But I really could use your help—” Something flickered through his ice blue gaze as she mentioned her name and then was gone. Something that appeared for that minuscule portion of time to be recognition and—and dislike! Why? Whitney wondered. Maybe she was imagining things. She had to be! His face gave away about as much as a statue of chiseled granite.
“There is little I can do to help you except offer you the hospitality of the cabin—such as it is,” he interrupted curtly as her voice trailed away. “I don’t know how you managed to get an automobile anywhere near here. I can’t even get a dirt bike or jeep back to the highway now.”
“Oh!” Whitney’s lips formed a circle of dismay.
“My brother will be by in the morning with the air-boat,” he supplied more kindly, her forlorn expression having touched whatever semblance of a heart he had. The hint of a grin twitching around his eyes, he left his towering stance to move with swift grace to the left side of the cabin, which served as a makeshift kitchen with a butane stove, sink, cabinets and some sort of small icebox. Setting a battered gray coffee pot upon the stove, he added, “In the meantime I can offer you a warm drink and a shower—cold, I’m sorry to say. And a dry place to sleep for the night.”
“Thank you,” Whitney murmured.
The coffee began to perk immediately, as if it had been hot and ready before she interrupted him with her unexpected arrival. In a daze Whitney watched the brown liquid bubble. The night had not gone at all as planned! She should be in a comfortable hotel room right now, sipping a cool, delicious glass of wine. She should be showered and clean, pampered with her favorite soaps and fragrances, reading about the Everglades. Instead she was a tired, dispirited, mess! The uninvited guest of an intimidating dark stranger in the middle of the forlorn and desolate swamp …
“Tell me,” he said, his blue gaze unfathomably upon her as he brought her a cup of the steaming black coffee, “how did you come to be prowling around my cabin?”
“Prowling!” Whitney repeated indignantly, bristling at his insinuation. “I wasn’t prowling! I was trying to get help. There is a sign out there that says gas—”
“The storm must have blown it down from somewhere.”
“Nevertheless, there is a sign by your road,” Whitney informed him stubbornly. “I needed gas so I followed the arrow off Alligator Alley. Then I ran out completely about half a mile back—”
“So you walked through the swamp in your bare feet?” He shook his head slightly as if acknowledging that there was indeed a Great Spirit who must look after fools and ignorant women.
“Yes. No,” Whitney retorted. “I lost my shoes in the mud—”
“Don’t you know a damned thing about the Glades? Only a complete idiot would come walking out in this terrain in the middle of a stormy night!” His tone was a growl, his stare a dagger that pierced her. “You must have wanted something very badly.”
Whitney gasped, stunned more by his hostility than his blatant insult. Not in a position to tell him where to shove his opinions, she carefully lowere
d her own tone to one of controlled anger and coldly replied, “I think we have established the fact that I acted foolishly. And I do not know much about the terrain.” Gaining momentum as her irritation increased, she grated, “And yes! I did want something very badly—help! I was frightened to begin with, and you nearly scared me to death! Why were you skulking after me?” Come to think of it, she thought as she awaited his reply, he was still scaring her to death! What did she know about him? He was charismatic and compelling; he was rude and dominating. She was literally his prisoner in the frightening Glades.
“Madam,” he answered slowly, sipping his own coffee, “even I do not have perfect vision in the darkness. I seldom receive social calls at my cabin on flooded nights like this. I heard you; I followed you to find out who you were and what you were up to. Then I did try to help you and all I got for my efforts was a lump on the forehead.”
Whitney gnawed her lower lip pensively. There was an ugly black bruise sprouting along his temple where the blow from her makeshift club had struck. “I—I’m sorry—I didn’t know what you were—you might have been an alligator or—”
The deep, mellow sound of his laughter interrupted her; his amusement was now open and more infuriating than ever. “This is incredible!” he said as he chuckled throatily. “You were going to ward off a hungry alligator with twelve inches of mangrove root?”
“Well, I started off with a can of Mace—”
“Oh, Lord!” he scoffed. “That’s even better. Mating an alligator!”
Fighting her rage and discomfiture, Whitney tried to lodge a protest. “I—”
“Never mind.” He sat across the room from her and turned his quizzing to another vein, still keeping his steadfast eyes locked upon her. “Where were you headed?”
“Naples—of course!” Even she knew the highway led in only one direction. “Why?”
“Just curious. It’s so pathetically obvious you’ve never been in these parts, I thought I’d make sure you were in the right state.”
That was the final straw. She had admitted her stupidity, her foolishness. She had apologized profusely for it. There was no way she was going to sit and quietly accept insults from this arrogant know-it-all! Storming to her feet with a spray of mud, she declared imperiously, “That’s enough! I don’t have to endure this from some alligator-wrestling Seminole—”
“Miccosukee,” he interrupted with droll complacency, her outburst having amused him further rather than angered him.
“Pardon?” Startled, Whitney dropped her raving from inborn and inbred politeness.
“Miccosukee,” he repeated, a handsome smile spreading across his face. “Same nation, different tribe. The US government recognized us years ago.” As she stared at him, lost and still confused by his words, he added, “But I do wrestle alligators now and then. Don’t all of us Glades Indians?” he asked, his bronze face guileless with pretend naiveté.
Releasing a pent-up breath, Whitney found herself laughing. He was teasing her, but then she deserved his words. She did have preconceived notions about a people of whom she was totally ignorant. “I don’t know,” she answered with a return smile prettily highlighting her face despite its grimy condition. “Do you all wrestle alligators?”
He sipped his coffee and grinned enigmatically. “Are you here on business?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And what might your business be?”
Whitney decided that answering his questions could cause no harm. His frank, unwavering stare was still upon her and his queries were domineering and autocratic, but he did seem to have a sense of humor. Besides, she was in his cabin and at his mercy.
“I work for T and C Development,” she said. Suddenly realizing that he was one of the Indians she would be trying to cajole to her point of view, she warmed to her subject and became professionally charming. “We have a land dispute going with the Seminole Nation,” she told him truthfully. “I’m supposed to work with a Jonathan E. Stewart and come to an equitable conclusion.” Almost to herself she frowned and added, “I wonder why the Seminoles didn’t choose one of their own to enter the negotiations?”
Amusement was back in his glacial eyes. In fact, they were twinkling away merrily; “The council believes Stewart will represent them with their best interests at heart,” he answered.
“You know about this!” Whitney exclaimed, very eager now to hear anything her host might have to say. “Do you know Stewart?”
He rose with sudden agility and took her empty mug from her hand. Walking back to the kitchen area with his silent tread, he disposed of the mugs on a butcher block and replied, “As a matter of fact, I do.” Spinning on a heel, he turned to a bureau and bent with the lithe grace of a beautifully powerful cat to comb through a drawer. Watching him, Whitney couldn’t help but indulge in wistful admiration. He was as tightly muscled and sleek as a magnificent animal. Probably, she mused, the long years of exercise, manual labor and life in the Glades had given him the superb tone more urban men worked for diligently in sports rooms across the country yet never achieved. What did he do for a living, she wondered. Fish? Hunt? Wrestle alligators …? With his proud and noble profile, she couldn’t imagine him in some innocuous occupation.
Whitney blushed a bright crimson as he turned back to her, the light of crystal in his eyes telling her clearly that he had read her thoughts and again found them amusing. “What is—uh—Jonathan E. Stewart like?” she asked, feigning indifference to his look.
He answered with a chuckle and a friendly question. “What do you imagine him to be like?” He had pulled a flannel shirt from the drawer and held it as he walked nearer to her.
“Crusty, old and hard to deal with!” Whitney returned honestly, too unnerved to lie or hedge diplomatically. “Am I close?”
“You will find him hard to deal with!” was the reply. “Here.” He tossed the flannel shirt to her and Whitney quickly threw up her hands to catch it. Pointing to a curtain at the rear of the cabin, he said, “Shower is that way. You’ll find everything else you might need—except hot water. I’d like to meet you devoid of mud, and then I’ll try to help you a little by giving you a brief education on the Seminole Nation.” Grinning contagiously, he moved to her side and offered her his hand.
Glancing nervously at it, she noted that it was firm and tanned although lighter than she would have expected, and the long, wiry fingers were oddly well manicured and neat. His touch sent another strange heat-chill through her, and she glanced at him tentatively as she came to her feet and brushed past him, her head tilted up as he ranged a good foot taller than she. His masculine scent assailed her at this close range, a pleasing scent that was low-keyed and woodsy, pleasing and titillating, a scent that fit his aura of virility to a t. “Thank you,” she murmured uneasily, clutching the shirt to her breast and rushing past him to the curtain, completely bewildered by his effect on her and therefore nervous as a stray kitten. What was the matter with her?
The bathroom was surprisingly modern. New tiles sparkled in the shower stall, contemporary porcelain and brass formed a sink and its fixtures and an intricately carved wooden cupboard hung above the sink. Double shiny fixtures adorned the wall; apparently her host was planning on providing hot water at some future date. At least, she decided, a modicum of civilization had come to the Glades! The room offered a great deal in the way of efficiency except—except there was nothing between her and her host but the curtain … Crunching her lower lip, she curiously pondered the uniquely compelling stranger as she tentatively began to doff her mucky clothing.
She was sure he wasn’t going to come barging through the curtain. However rude his comments might have been, not one was in the least insinuating or suggestive. He had seemed totally unaware that she was even of the feminine gender—except to sniff disdainfully at her sex’s foolishness. Any indecent thoughts had been generated in her own mind. No! Whitney protested her silent admission with horror. But yes. She—who had decided after her short-lived and s
toic marriage that great and erotic passion was something only read about in books—was wondering yearningly what it would be like to have those strong arms wrapped around her with desire … the tight lips with their sensual play of amusement softening to caress her flesh … the whole of his sinewed body exposed to her appreciative view …
A cold shower is just what you need! she scolded her muddy reflection in the mirror above the porcelain sink. How ridiculous! She did not—repeat, did not—like domineering men, and he would certainly fit such a description. Tomorrow she would get out of here and never see him again. She would forget these strange feelings that were so foreign to her … forget the dizzying sensations he had awakened that she, for all her sophistication and assurance, hadn’t known or even believed existed …
His voice, just outside the curtain, caused her to jump. She had forgotten that he could move without a sound. A soft, husky chuckle sounded. Through the curtain he knew he had startled her—he knew he had sent her blood racing.
“I wanted to let you know there’s a clean towel over the rack and soap and shampoo in the cabinet behind the mirror.”
“I found them; thanks,” Whitney answered shakily in return.
Nothing more followed. Had he moved away again? Her wide green gaze lighted upon her own reflection. Did he know that he frightened and yet magnetized her, this half-breed with his brilliant, knowing blue eyes. That he shook her cool confidence to the core?
Appalled by her own thoughts, she scoffed but couldn’t deny them. A strange longing swept through her as she peeled away her torn stockings and slip. Did he find anything appealing about her? Her skin, beneath the crust of mud, was good, soft, silky and pampered. Her figure tended to the slim side, but it was adequately curvy and her breasts were high and firm and … and what? Not voluptuous, she thought with a sigh.
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