Tender Taming

by Heather Graham

  “Of course I do!” Whitney snapped irritably. “I—it just took me a minute to recognize you.”

  “Really?” His brows rose in an arch of doubt, then he snapped his fingers and frowned in self-reproach. “I’m sorry! I forgot to wear my feathers! That would have led you right to me!”

  “Droll!” Whitney retorted. “Very droll!” She could feel her temper rising and she was determined to remain cool and aloof.

  Eagle placed a firm grip upon her elbow and led her from the lounge to the main dining room. “I guess we’d better take our places in the combat zone,” he murmured as he walked, then smiled suavely to the maître d’, who rushed to them with a deference that further annoyed Whitney. Her companion, it seemed, had the ability to make people jump wherever he went.

  “Ah … Mr. Stewart! Right this way, sir. I have you and the lady set in the alcove,” the white-jacketed man gushed. “Please don’t hesitate to request anything at all …”

  Eagle himself seated a very stiff Whitney and nodded a friendly concordance. “Thanks, Henry. I’m sure things will be superb as usual.”

  Whitney immediately began to study the menu, although she wasn’t really seeing a word. She needed time—time to adjust to the assault on her senses his mere presence instigated. During sleepless nights she had imagined his woodsy, masculine scent on the air … in her dreams his firm hands had caressed her skin … and now here he was, in the flesh, alive and vital. She had prepared herself; yet she now had to remind herself that she hated him. He had purposely made a complete idiot out of her. Time to bite back.

  Outwardly Whitney exuded the aura she desired. Her appearance was that of a sophisticated, lovely young woman—confident, self-assured. A flick of an eyelash could convey disdain; a tilt of her head could draw instant response to a commanding authority.

  Witch! Eagle thought bitterly, scanning her over the top of his own menu. She had her stubborn mind set. She had no intention of listening to anything he had to say. And it was all so stupid! He had the wild urge to drag her out of the restaurant and force her to listen to him, to force her back into his arms. The pain was like a hot coiled thing that gnawed away at him deep within.

  He stiffened imperceptibly. Damn her beautiful little face straight to hell! She thought she had him now. Well, she didn’t. She wanted a fight—a civil fight—and she was going to get one.

  Suddenly she looked at him very sweetly. “I’m surprised you chose this place. I don’t see catfish, alligator or sofki under the entrées.”

  “I’ll suffer,” Eagle returned. He politely took the silver lighter from Whitney’s hand and lit the cigarette she had pulled from her bag. “May I suggest a bottle of their Sauvignon ’72?”

  “You may suggest anything you please.”

  Eagle would have liked to suggest a good swat on the rear end. Instead he returned her steady smile and met the hostile challenge in her eyes.

  “The duckling a l’orange is excellent.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah! And they do serve frog legs. I don’t believe you’ve attempted that delicacy yet.”

  “There are certain things I have no desire to try, Mr. Stewart.”

  “And others you sample lavishly before suddenly deciding you have no taste for them?”

  Whitney snapped her menu closed with precision and folded her hands over the snowy tablecloth. “One can find that certain things which are at first palatable leave an incredibly bitter aftertaste.”

  Eagle lightly lifted a brow and shrugged, but Whitney knew her barb had struck from the tic that pulsed in the hard line of his jaw. Smiling pleasantly through locked teeth, he reached nonchalantly across the table and casually lifted her right hand. Whitney tensed automatically, but trying to withdraw her hand from his hold, she discovered that his apparently light touch had the force of steel.

  Smiling more deeply at her attempted resistance—and the dilemma that was obvious in her eyes with the realization that she must endure his touch or create an embarrassing scene—Eagle turned her palm upward and rubbed the soft flesh in a circular pattern with his thumb. He stared at her hand with mock admiration, then met her eyes again, drawling, “What lovely skin, Miss Latham. It’s as silky as satin. Such exquisite perfection, to be marred by such a calloused tongue.”

  Whitney didn’t need to jerk her hand away. He dropped it like a hot rock.

  “If my tongue is calloused, Mr. Stewart, it has only become so recently, from what I believe is referred to as association with one afflicted with the forked-tongue syndrome.” Whitney curtly delivered her speech without batting an eyelash.

  The timely arrival of a stoic waiter saved Whitney from an immediate reprisal on her comment.

  “I believe the lady wishes to order for herself,” Eagle said coolly, inclining his head.

  Whitney decided on the shrimp cocktail and roast lamb. Eagle ordered oysters on the half shell and frog legs. As an afterthought he ordered the wine. “Two glasses, please, although I’m not sure the lady will be joining me.”

  He stared at Whitney, his blue eyes glacial daggers, until the waiter returned with the wine and hovered uncertainly after Eagle’s initial taste and murmur of, “Very good,” perplexed over how to handle the situation.

  “Miss Latham,” Eagle prompted, “you have this poor man in distress. Wine?”

  Whitney shrugged. “If you insist.”

  “Oh, Miss Latham,” Eagle protested sardonically, “I never insist. But you know that.”

  Resisting an urge to kick him beneath the table, Whitney turned a dazzling smile on the waiter. “Thank you. I’ll be delighted to try the wine.”

  The waiter poured the wine and promptly disappeared. Eagle raised his glass to her in a toast. “To ‘civil’ compromises.”

  Whitney raised her glass in return, quirking her lips with skepticism. “Certainly.”

  Eagle watched her as they sipped the wine. “I hope this is palatable, Miss Latham, and that you’re not plagued by a bitter aftertaste.”

  “I doubt that I shall be, Mr. Stewart. This is a reputable establishment. I’m sure the wine lives up to its fine label.”

  “I see. What you see is what you get?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You are reading books by their covers,” Eagle mused with a twist of acid mirth. “Tell me, what difference does a change of jacket make—especially when you are well aware of the contents of the pages?”

  His insinuations were brash, but Whitney, though fighting the color that threatened to engulf her, was determined not to let him wedge beneath her skin. She issued an exaggerated sigh and spoke to the rim of her wineglass. “Are we speaking of contents? Or another cliché? It seems you can take the man out of the swamp but not the swamp out of the man.” Her gaze lifted pointedly to his. “I suppose I’m lucky you wore a shirt of any kind.”

  Calculated to demoralize, her comment brought a laugh instead. Mocking hurt shock, Eagle objected politely. “Miss Latham! You wound me to the quick. I always wear a shirt. Except when I’m alligator wrestling. Or”—the timbre of his voice lowered a shade and his angers lightly covered hers again—“when I’m bathing. Or in bed—sleeping, or engaging in other activities. But then I’m telling you things you already know again.”

  Whitney didn’t need to worry about color. The blood drained from her face. She wrenched her fingers away quickly so that he couldn’t sense their trembling and curled them around her wineglass. She couldn’t chance meeting his eyes and stared at the golden liquid instead. The gentle caress of his fingertips alone had filled her mind with startling recall, heating a core deep within her—a traitorous physical core. But she had to indifferently deny him …

  “My memory can be short, Mr. Stewart, very short. Especially when things are best forgotten. We are here to discuss land, anyway, not clothing.”

  “You brought up the subject, Miss Latham, not I.”

  “Fine; then I shall also drop it.”

  Neither one of them had raise
d his or her voice a hair, nor had they dropped the glacial smiles that twisted their faces into frozen masks of conviviality. Still, the atmosphere itself was charged. Whitney realized just how thick an aura of animosity surrounded them when the waiter chose to return at that moment. He served their appetizers with trembling fingers and dashed away, practically tripping over the wine stand.

  “Let’s get to land, Mr. Stewart,” Whitney said, glad she could concentrate on spearing her shrimp. “I’ll be very blunt. We’re prepared to offer the Indians—both tribes—substantial restitution. If you don’t care to accept our generous offers, I shall be more than happy to drag you into court.”

  Eagle calmly swallowed an oyster. “May I say, Miss Latham, that I’m glad you are with the diplomatic corps of T and C Development and not the United Nations?”

  Whitney smiled and viciously twisted her lemon wedge. “As I’ve told you, Mr. Stewart, you may say or suggest anything you please.”

  “A charming concession,” Eagle grated.

  “Well?”

  “You will not get that land, Whitney.”

  “But I will—Mr. Jonathan ‘White Eagle’ Stewart.”

  Eagle dipped his head and swallowed his last oyster, and the appetizer plates were immediately whisked away. Their entrees were carefully served and more wine poured—by the maître d’, Whitney noticed vaguely, rather than their nerve-racked waiter.

  “How is the lamb, Miss Latham?” Eagle inquired politely.

  “Quite tender, thank you.”

  Cutting a morsel of his own food, Eagle chewed thoughtfully. “Tender and delectable,” he mused. “However, I—like you—have recently discovered how the most tender and delectable … ah … tastes … can become quite sour. One is enticed to feast and then voilà! The banquet disappears!”

  Banquet! He had made his statement innocently, innocuously, but still his voice rang with caustic insinuation. She had never been anything more than a diversion, like a meal, pleasingly gourmet as it may have been. Her face was no longer ashen; it flooded scarlet. The man had no scruples whatsoever. Neither would she. Her temper was rising, but she had to keep cool. They were on her territory now, and a verbal battle was one she could win.

  “Banquet, sir? Rather a fish hooked and dangled on a line, deceived by the lie of a lure. But even fish that look like easy prey can sense deception and slip hooks.”

  “I see. Now we’re talking about wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

  “You flatter yourself, Stewart,” Whitney flared. “We’re talking about liars, con men, despicable cheats—” she choked off her own words. What was she saying, she wondered sinkingly. He was goading her into comments that were childishly imperious. Even while wishing she could take back her remark, she knew she couldn’t. Her name-calling was below the belt, but she couldn’t afford the weakness of an apology. Whatever he thought of her snobbishness, he would just have to think.

  Eagle’s eyes narrowed to slits of ice blue. “You intend to make two tribes of Indians suffer because you imagine you’ve been done a wrong by one man?”

  Whitney pushed at her lamb toyingly with her fork. She had lost her appetite. “Suffer? I don’t intend to make anyone suffer. You took me out to meet the Indians so that I could have a good understanding of what I was doing. Well, I do. I’m convinced that they need all the help I can give them. Grinding corn all day may be your idea of amusement, but it isn’t mine. There is no need for anyone to spend every waking moment in grueling labor these days. There is no need for anyone to live in a thatched hut. The community we’re offering will provide well-paying jobs for men and women alike. Surely you can’t resent that, Mr. Stewart.”

  “I don’t resent your community. Build it, by all means. The economic advantages will most certainly be enjoyed by some; the interaction between the white and Indian societies will no doubt be beneficial. I’m simply afraid that you’ll have to build elsewhere. I will be happy to help you find another suitable spot.”

  “Mr. Stewart, we had men in the field for months trying to find the perfect location,” Whitney said stubbornly, positive that she held the edge. That Eagle had pushed aside his own plate and now stared at her calmly, his arms crossed confidently over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, merely served to strengthen her determination.

  “The land is not perfect if it belongs to someone else.”

  Whitney expelled a condescending sigh of exasperation. “We are willing to buy the land for more than it is actually worth! Honestly, White Eagle, there are times when I feel they definitely misnamed you! Balking Mule would have been much more apt!”

  “How clever!” Eagle arched a black brow high. “Coffee, Miss Latham?” Without her consent, he motioned to the waiter, who set steaming cups before them. When they were again alone, he moved like a coiled snake and leaned across the table. His voice was a smooth, silky hiss that left Whitney struggling with her willpower simply not to jump back from his advance.

  “Since we’re being clever here, Whitney, I’ll let you in on an astute observation. Someone should take you over a knee, plant a few good whacks on your behind and send you back to Virginia to be grounded until you grow up! I’m sure you have brains and a mind, but I’m equally sure that you must be sitting on them! You won’t be winning this one. If you persist in this cause—still not understanding a thing that’s going on even though it all sits directly beneath your haughty little nose—you’re likely to propel yourself right out of a job.”

  Blood spewed into Whitney’s head and her temples began to pound furiously as she gasped in outrage. “How dare you!” she grated, unable to keep a cool tone in her voice any longer. “Of all the audacious, arrogant and egotistical statements! I can guarantee you that I will not be out of a job! It is you, Mr. Stewart, who will find yourself on the defensive! You who will lose—a fool through and through to both communities by the time I finish with you! You may have an advantage in the backwoods of the Everglades, Eagle, and you certainly did manage a few tricks! But we are far from there now. Nor can you keep me from discovering real truths!” Gritting her teeth, Whitney spoke her last words between them, very slowly. “I—will—bring—you—down!”

  Eagle didn’t quirk a muscle. The only sign of his own anger was a pulse that worked furiously in twin veins along the sides of his taut neck. Motioning again to the waiter, he silently signed the check. With silent menace he assisted Whitney from her chair and firmly escorted her from the restaurant. Wincing with protest at the iron grip propelling her, Whitney tried to wrench her arm away. “Stop it!” Eagle hissed in her ear. “This is one of your ‘civilized’ restaurants, and I refuse to brawl in public!”

  A moment later they were standing in the parking lot by the BMW. “Give me your keys!” Eagle growled.

  “I hardly think—”

  “You’re right. You don’t think. Give me the damn keys.” Eagle curtly grasped them from her fumbling fingers and none too politely ushered her into the car. “Don’t worry,” he advised acidly as he joined her, “I won’t be with you long. I only have one or two things to say, but you are going to listen to them without a pack of snotty remarks in return.”

  “I don’t have to—”

  “The hell you don’t!” Eagle’s grip was now around her wrist, and she could barely twist her fingers, much less escape him. His handsome face, tense and rigid with anger, was inches from her own. A quivering of fear began to dance over her spine and she stared motionlessly into the flaring, hypnotizing blue of his eyes.

  “Now, Miss Latham, since I seem to have your attention, I shall try to be very diplomatic. The land you have chosen has special tribal value to the Indians. Sentiment—not dollars and cents. No matter what you offer, they will not sell. And they can prove in a court of law that the land is theirs. Keep your vendetta against me personal and wise up about the land. You’ll hurt a lot of people by trying to spite me.”

  “I’m not making a business decision out of spite!” Whitney sputtered. “I know they
can use what I want to give them!”

  “Then handle this with the PR with which you are supposedly so proficient!”

  “Shut up for a minute!” Eagle commanded harshly. “Take some time and think. What you are doing is because of me, and I’m not even sure quite why. Just exactly what did I do to you? I couldn’t tell you who I was that night—you would have put on your little professional act immediately, and I wouldn’t have been able to make you understand a thing. I never lied to you. I am White Eagle and I did bring you to my family and they do live that way! Yes, some of our people have electricity and modern conveniences and some even live in your whitewashed houses! It’s your anger against me that is keeping you from seeing anything! I gave you a culture, Whitney, and it doesn’t seem to mean a damned thing to you! All you see is dollar signs and grocery stores and washing machines.”

  “You gave me a culture!” Whitney blurted furiously. “You did a hell of a lot more than that. You—you—”

  “I what? I made love to you? I let you know that you were very much alive? That you were a warm, sensuous woman? You want to destroy me because of that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Whitney seethed. “You keep flattering yourself. You’re are not so incredibly special! I—I loathe your touch, I—”

  “You,” Eagle interrupted scathingly, encircling her other wrist, “have turned into more than a self-righteous, misinformed do-gooder. You’ve become a liar.”

  “A liar!” Her voice was rising to a shrill shriek. “Get out of my car!”

  “I intend to—in just a minute.” He had twisted over her now, and his breath was a warm, moist breeze against her cheeks. “I’m giving you fair warning, Whitney. I can take you, and if you force my hand, I will. I can take you in any game you want to play.”

  “You’ll have to prove that!” she hissed.

  “I will.”

  The lips that had been hovering over hers were suddenly upon them, bruising and demanding. The assault was so swift that Whitney was momentarily in shock, unable to protest. By the time she gathered her wits back together, he had taken total advantage of the situation, prying into the cavern of her mouth with an insistent tongue. And in her stupor she was responding. Her senses had taken over, and after the days of deprivation, there was nothing more natural than the sweet, addictive ambrosia of his masculine lips invading hers, or the delicious eroticism of his commanding hands seeking the swells of her breasts, which rose automatically to curve for his pleasure as she arched to him …