Tender Taming

by Heather Graham

  “Are you with us? We’re all set. You weren’t daydreaming about a luxury suite on the beach, were you?” he queried blandly.

  “No … no …” Whitney rushed away from him, scampering down the embankment to the canal where the airboat now waited, its propeller beginning to rev.

  “Ever been on one of these before?” Randy asked loudly as she picked her way through the weeds and climbed to the flat bed of the airboat.

  “I’ve never even seen one before!” Whitney admitted.

  “You’re going to love it!”

  She did love it. The sensation of racing over the sea of grass was exhilarating. A rush of air whipped around her face and through her clothing as they passed through the canal and over miles of marshland, flushing birds into graceful flight with their noisome coming. Randy slowed the airboat, and Whitney felt that strange current of electricity as White Eagle set an arm around her waist to point out the reason for the delay—her first sight of an in-the-wild alligator.

  “’Gator or crocodile?” Eagle quizzed, his voice and breath whistling softly in her ear.

  “’Gator!” she responded smugly. “Crocodiles are coastal!”

  “Right.” His arm remained around her as they hovered closer to the beast. Whitney shivered involuntarily. The animal was a green color that blended well with the high grass; its jaw, even as it sat motionless, raised several inches so that she could see the open, waiting mouth and its rows of razor-sharp teeth. Black beady eyes observed them in a silent, chilling stare.

  The arm around Whitney tightened reassuringly. It was odd; the man teased her mercilessly, yet he intuitively knew when she was really frightened and was there to protect her.

  “Next hammock!” Randy said, and in another moment they were pulling up to one of the clumps of earth, pines and cypress.

  No one could live here, Whitney decided immediately. They were nowhere! Although the region of solid ground seemed to encompass a large enough area of space, she could see no sign of human habitation.

  “Ah—home!” Eagle proclaimed, offering Whitney a hand as he jumped off the airboat with a splash. The grin was twitching at his lips at the dismay she was finding difficult to hide. “You can still chicken out, you know,” he told her as they sloshed to the shore, Randy and Katie following behind.

  Whitney inched her nose into the air and smiled acidly. “No, thank you.”

  “Don’t let him harass you,” Katie warned softly from behind. “You can come back with Randy and me.”

  “She can—and she knows it,” Eagle said, his gaze upon her as sharp as blue steel. Taking her hand, he led the way through a path in the trees Whitney would have never noticed. The landscape abruptly made an incredible change as they walked, becoming an exotic subtropical paradise. Strings of wild orchids, blooming in pastel purples and pinks, splashed against the green and brown earth shades with a magical splendor. Vines and moss played upon the trees, giving the woods a mystical beauty that lurked somewhere between a woodsy glen and a jungle in deepest Africa.

  The trail broke into a clearing dotted with thatched-roof chickees. A happy, musical sound greeted Whitney’s ears: the warm sound of children’s laughter. The clearing was indeed alive with human habitation. Eagle called something in his native language and a scurry of colorful activity immediately surrounded them, the children with their excited brown eyes, a cluster of women dressed in beautiful long garments that ranged the spectrum of a rainbow.

  Whitney hovered in the background while the others were greeted with hugs and affection. Even Randy, she noticed, was welcomed like a long-lost brother. Though faltering in his speech occasionally, he valiantly attempted to keep up with the flying conversation, and his efforts were obviously appreciated.

  The growlingly familiar pang of jealousy suddenly assailed Whitney. A number of the Miccosukee women were very pretty, young and as shapely as slender willows. They wore their adoration for White Eagle nakedly in gentle almond eyes.

  “Whitney,” he announced, and his crystal eyes came to her as if he had just explained her presence. His hand pulled her into the group, and he repeated her name. “Whitney.”

  She was now the center of attraction. Shy and soft-spoken, the women offered her gentle smiles. Whatever White Eagle had said about her, it had been complimentary. Eagle began to rattle off names to her, some as common as “Katie,” some she wondered if she would ever manage to pronounce, much less remember. It did appear, though, that Eagle’s clan intended to accept her into the fold.

  “We’d better say hello to Morning Dew and get going,” Randy said to Katie, “if we’re going to make it back in time.”

  Eagle and Katie both nodded, and Eagle said something to the group before dragging Whitney along behind him across the clearing. “Where are we going now?” Whitney demanded.

  “Deeper into the dome of hell!” Eagle laughed wickedly. “My grandmother prefers to live in solitude. She seeks company on her terms only.”

  Whitney wanted to question him further, but he dragged her along at such a pace that she found speech impossible. A number of chickens and pigs shared the clearing with its human inhabitants, and avoiding the clucking and squealing animals gave her mind thorough occupation. Gritting her teeth as they left the melee behind and entered another trail through the wilderness, Whitney felt with a heavily sinking heart that Eagle had been right in his taunts—she was too soft. She would never be able to stick out the week. In about two minutes she was going to turn, duck tail and run helter-skelter for the airboat, her last link with the known world …

  “This, my dear, brave Miss Latham, is it.”

  Whitney crashed into his back as he halted his rapid stride abruptly. Peering around his shoulder, she saw that they had come to another clearing, one occupied by only three well-spaced chickees. One was floorless, and a large pot issuing steam sat in the middle over a crackling fire. One was far to the left with planking three feet off the ground; the last was to the right and identical, shaded by massive pines. As Whitney blinked, an old Indian woman, wrinkled like a prune from countless years of exposure to the sun and elements but as tall and straight as an iron rod, came to them on a soft and silent tread. Her eyes were as black as coal, and despite her great age it was easy to see that Eagle and Katie had inherited their lustrous hair from her. She was dressed regally in the gaudy calico of her people, and row upon row of beads adorned the entire length of her neck. Her pleasure at the sight of her grandchildren was obvious and yet subdued; she accepted them like a queen receiving homage. Once again Whitney hovered in the background, lost while they conversed in the Miccosukee language. The old woman’s eyes were upon her with unabashed speculation, and Whitney’s ears pricked like a dog’s when she began to hear her own name and that of Jonathan Stewart mentioned.

  She was surprised and dismayed when Morning Dew frowned, angered over whatever was being said. It was she who clutched Whitney and pulled her into the group, her gnarled hands amazingly strong and her words vehement although still soft and controlled. Eagle said something impatiently, then as if remembering whom he addressed, he quieted his own tone and went into a lengthy explanation. Whitney caught Randy Harris’s eye and imploringly demanded, “What is going on?”

  Suddenly they all went silent.

  “Eagle will tell you,” Katie said hastily, kissing her grandmother’s cheek and grabbing Randy’s hand. “We’ve got to go. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  Eagle was staring at her with his bright blue eyes full of mockery and challenge. “Well?”

  “I—I—yes, but what—”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHITNEY 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 lic
k 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.