Tender Taming

by Heather Graham

  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.

  When he surfaced again and looked for her, she laughed enchantingly.

  “You’re right!” she called gaily. “I never will get you under!” Smiling with coquettish invitation, she began an easy sidestroke, emphasizing the languorousness of her movements.

  As she had planned, he swam toward her. As she hadn’t planned, his nearness threw her completely. The water itself heated between them, like a whirling hot tub. She was painfully aware of his powerful sleekness, swallowing to resist the temptation to run her hands along the glistening limbs that moved beside her.

  Strategy! she reminded herself coolly, inching back to a depth where she could stand. A little thrill shot its way exultantly to her mind as she remembered his tone when he had told her she was beautiful. In her little game of retaliation, she didn’t intend to make him lose control, she simply wanted to draw on a few of his instincts. Just draw him a few little inches into her lair …

  Purposely she slowly brushed against him as they both found their footing. It was a dangerous game. The contact of his bare flesh was exhilarating; her own instincts screamed that she cling to it.

  But she faced him instead, her smile a little coy, a little captivating. Surely he wouldn’t refuse an overt gesture … yet she couldn’t let him become in the least suspicious.

  Whitney stretched a long finger to touch his raven hair, as if unwittingly fascinated. His response was gentle as he captured her hand and drew her irrevocably to him. Feigning hesitant submission, Whitney inched along his frame, gasping involuntarily with a shock that had nothing to do with the game. It was already going too well. Proof that she could elicit his desire touched along the tender flesh of her lower abdomen as her legs entangled with his.

  Now! Whitney told herself as she met his tense stare. Now, while she could still break his unprepared grip, before his lips fell to claim hers.

  With all her strength she plunged beneath the surface, and with unimaginable speed she clasped his ankle with both hands and jerked. It was working! His foot rose and his knee bent …

  But he didn’t fall and crash into the lake. The bent leg tensed and she was disbelievingly being dragged back. Stupidly realizing her mistake, Whitney released his ankle and started a mad dash away.

  Too late. His hand sank into her hair, the fingers curled and she was pulled back, his grip not painful but forceful.

  Her eyes were clouded with fear when they met his cold ones. “Dirty play, wasn’t that?” he inquired tautly.

  “All’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?” Whitney demanded flippantly. His features were tense and his jaw was crookedly locked.

  “Those are the rules,” Eagle agreed, the glint of his eyes a glacial blue. “As long as they apply to both parties.”

  A shudder of fear gripped her, but he gave no notice. The hand that laced her hair tilted her head back, and his mouth slowly and surely came over hers. Whitney’s lips were parted with amazement, aiding and abetting his assault, which certainly couldn’t be called unprovoked. She had gambled and lost. But how far would he carry his retaliation? How far did she want him to carry it? She had stiffened, ready to fight him no matter how feeble her efforts. But her fight lasted less than ten seconds. His kiss, a strange combination of harsh demand and persuasive tenderness, was drugging her, numbing her to acquiescent submission. His foot wedged around hers, holding her his prey, while his tongue deeply plundered the recesses of her mouth, seeking hers, hypnotizing it into a return play.

  Immersed in the warm, assured command of his mouth, she thrust deeply herself, tasting and seeking, running the tip of her tongue in light discovery of his pearl white teeth. His mouth left hers to follow a slow, moist suctioning trail across the softness of her cheek to her earlobe, down the length of her neck, to the shadowed hollow of her breasts. His sleek length along hers held no secrets, and she found she was no longer pushing against his broad chest but burrowing into it, striving to be submissively accessible to the wonder of his driving touch.

  His hands were on the small of her back, pressing her closer and closer. They lowered to cradle her buttocks and lift her sligh
tly, arch her hips to his so that she could feel the full force of the virile masculinity she had tauntingly elicited against her body. A sigh escaped her, and her lips fell to his shoulder, where her teeth grazed gently as tremors scurried from her head to her toes, flashing convulsively with dizzying heat. She was freezing with fear but burning with anticipation. One of his hands moved in seductive exploration, rounding the contour it held, gently splaying her thigh in search of further secrets.

  Torn by irresistible sensation, Whitney realized she was getting so much more than she had bargained for, so much more than she had known existed … God! She longed for it to go on, to savor the feel of him, to taste, touch and explore. She wanted the trembling, aching torment to find its way to ultimate culmination …

  But she was afraid. So very afraid.

  His mouth moved to the high peak of her breast, and his teeth raked it just slightly. The searing sensation was so great that she totally lost her breath; and as her flesh rippled with the jolt, a fear of the crippling delight that rendered her helpless despite her desire suddenly bubbled to the surface.

  Her sigh became a plea …

  Eagle released her so abruptly that she spattered back into the water, barely keeping her face above the surface. His face was a cold mask; his eyes were glittering orbs. “Go, rabbit,” he said icily, “run. I told you I wouldn’t force you. If and when you’re feeling like a woman, you can come to me.” He turned, leaving her wide-eyed and quivering in the water, her mouth bruised, her ego in a peculiar state between relief and humiliation.

  Eagle was cursing beneath his breath as he cut through the water for the shore with strong strides. The little bitch! She had known damn well what she was doing. By every right he should have taken her there, by the shore. She had responded to him; her body had melded to his in perfect unison; her sensuality had risen instinctively to meet his. The hidden passion he had tasted hinted of a coming together even he couldn’t imagine … But here he was instead, rushing out of the water because he had sensed her fear. A sucker! he told himself disgustedly. A real sap. She probably played her little games a million times, and that feigned innocence saved her …

  Pulling his jeans over his legs, he tucked his shirt in and impatiently jerked up his zipper. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he felt his temper begin to subside. She didn’t know that he watched her, and her face and eyes were unguarded. There was none of the usual arrogance apparent. At the moment she looked like a wounded doe, lost, bewildered and delicately stunning. Her arms were clasped protectively around her chest, and her hair, soaking wet, curled long past her waist, covering her modestly like a modern-day Godiva. There was a secret to her, Eagle decided, and he intended to unravel that secret. He wanted her to come to him with complete trust. He had the strange intuition that once would never be enough. If he drank her sweet nectar he would thirst again, and again and again …

  He walked to her then and set his hands on her shoulders, groaning inwardly as she flinched at his touch and clutched her clothing tightly to her breast. Tilting her chin to force her eyes to his, he smiled with warmth. “Don’t get all cold and withdrawn on me again, huh? You are exquisite, and I don’t think you’d be tremendously happy if I didn’t think so and tell you!” Not waiting for a reply, he became very businesslike and brusquely began helping her back into her bra, managing the lace-frothed hook with competence.

  Whitney stood compliantly still, then ducked quickly into her underwear and jeans. He began speaking again as she snapped her shirt together.

  “You are about to taste the fruits of our combined day’s labor,” he said blandly. “I’m sure my grandmother is waiting for us at the sofki pot; we usually eat our evening meals as stews. Some of the vegetables you tended will be in it, and the venison we bagged today. I hope you like it. We also eat tropical fruit at supper—mangoes, papayas, guavas. And bread from the koonti root you pounded.” His arm came casually around her shoulder as he led her through the pine trail that would bring them back to Morning Dew’s three chickees. How could he change so quickly, Whitney wondered with amazement. He had gone from passion to anger to ambivalence in the wink of an eye, while she was still a barely controlled jumble of boiling blood and frazzled nerves … no, she told herself solidly, not barely controlled. Controlled. She would manage to be as nonchalant as he.

  “I’m starving,” she answered him idly. “I have a feeling I’m going to love that stew—no matter what’s in it.”

  “Even alligator?” he teased.

  Whitney eyed him suspiciously. “Do you really eat alligator?”

  “Yes, sometimes, but not tonight. We respect the season. They are an endangered species. If you’re game, I’ll see that you get to try it sometime. If smoked correctly, it’s delicious.”

  “Fine.” Whitney shrugged, musing over his words. What did “sometime” mean? In a week’s time she would be in Naples, back in the world of business. Her days would be full with meetings, schedules and plans. Eagle would be back in his cabin …

  Or would he? She didn’t know where he actually lived. He adapted to his habitation easily. Was his real home another chickee in another village?

  It didn’t matter. At the end of the week she would accept his help with Stewart as her due. Then this tumultuous span of days in her life would fade to the background and things would return to normal.

  No. Things would never return to normal again. Whatever this man was, she was never going to be able to forget him.

  Little pricks of unbidden excitement started finding their way back into her system. A wave of hot panic washed over her in a black wall that momentarily blanked her vision. What if she lost? What if she found she couldn’t stand up to the rigors after a few days of grueling labor? Was she really to be his winning stake? She was walking normally beside him, but she felt as if her feet did not quite touch the ground, as if helium held her afloat. Would he really demand payment?

  God! The groan reverberated within her own mind. She didn’t know what she wanted herself. There had been seconds in the water when she had wanted him to forget his words and promises—moments when she had wished that he would take her and let her discover what it could be like … force her into knowing if the ecstasy she had felt hints of could really exist …

  She glanced at him to find him surreptitiously watching her with his keen, probing stare. Flushing, she searched her mind for a topic of casual conversation. There were always a million things she wanted to ask him when he was walking away from her!

  “What was your grandmother angry about this morning?” she asked hastily.

  Eagle chuckled pleasantly in his low baritone. Watching the amusement spread into his features, Whitney was again struck by the appeal his face had for her. It wasn’t a “pretty” face, but it was strongly molded and so full of character as to be arrestingly interesting. No one would ever forget his relentless stare or his charming, boyish laugh. He was a creature of fascinating conflict, a rogue, a gallant. Sometimes she was sure she would never grow tired of looking into those crystal blue eyes.

  “My grandmother was angry with me because of you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because she thinks I dragged a naive, sweet innocent into the woods to lure into a dishonorable situation.”

  “Oh.” Startled by the honesty of his reply, Whitney stopped to adjust a boot, lowering her hair over her eyes as she moistened her lips for her next question.

  “How did you convince her that that wasn’t the case?”

  Eagle shrugged. “I didn’t. Believe it or not, we live by high moral codes. She saw you—I would never be able to convince her that I wasn’t after that shapely little body!”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So why isn’t she angry anymore?” Whitney persisted with exasperation.

  “Oh, that ‘so.’” He stared at her again with a brow twitched high in cynical amusement. “I told her I was going to marry you at the Corn Dance.”

/>   “What?” The shout erupted incredulously from Whitney.

  His eyes hardened and narrowed a fraction. “Don’t worry about it—the ceremony won’t be legal to you. You won’t be obligated in any way.”

  Whitney realized her jaw was hanging open when she attempted to speak. Closing it, she moistened her lips. “Would you mind telling me what the hell the Corn Dance is and what type of illegal ceremony you think you’re going to coerce me into?”

  “As I said,” he replied coolly, “it won’t really affect you. And don’t pull that indignant, affronted-maiden bit on me. I’ve discovered you have more than a bit of the teasing vixen in you, and if you persist in provoking me far enough, I’m sure that I can discover some real savage in myself and knock that royal superiority right off your sweet face.”

  “Why you—you arrogant brute!” Whitney hissed, clenching her fists tightly by her side as rage engulfed her. A saving grace of prudence kept her from tackling him. She was learning certain lessons.

  “Watch that forked tongue,” Eagle warned grimly, his stance as tense as hers. “Don’t count on my not losing my patience. I have my limits, too, Whitney.”

  “Damn you!” Whitney swirled around and slammed her fist into a pine. She had to hit something!

  “Smart move,” Eagle drawled lazily. “There is hope for you.”

  Crooking her elbow, Whitney lowered her head onto it and leaned against the pine, striving for composure. In a muffled voice she politely demanded, “Would you please explain this Corn Dance ceremony to me? I know you like to be secretive, but I do believe I have a right to know certain things, since you plan on my participation.”

  “Witty and sarcastic still,” Eagle commented assessively, “but the language and phrasing are much improved. The Corn Dance is one of a few remaining rituals to survive the times. It takes place once a year, and major tribal decisions are made and domestic matters handled. The Miccosukees seldom break the white man’s laws, and our law is recognized within the tribe and the state. The date of the Corn Dance is kept a secret; very few outsiders are ever privileged to attend. As it happens, the Corn Dance begins tomorrow. If you are really interested in the tribe, you should count yourself lucky. You’re being given a golden opportunity.”