Tender Taming (16 page)

“And what is this ‘Miss’ they call you at the office? You are a ‘Mrs.’”

“Actually, I’m a ‘Ms.,’” Whitney said and started chuckling. “What on earth difference does it make?”

“You had a husband!”

“I don’t now.” Or did she? A strong, noble man with blue eyes …

“—will be down late next week …”

“What?” Oh, God, what had he said while she was wandering?

“Gerry. I’m sending him down. He needs a little sun and sand anyway, and you know how concerned he is, even if you did walk out on him.”

“No, Dad, no.”

“You mean you’d refuse to see him—as an old friend?”

“Of course not. It’s just—”

“Good. You’ll see him next week. He can accurately assess the situation. Take care of yourself, now, daughter, and we’ll expect to hear from you soon.”

The phone went dead. Whitney stared at it incredulously for countless seconds before she again turned to her pillow. Thank God none of them could see her now! she thought grimly, pounding her fist into the padded receptacle. They would label her certifiably insane and have her put away for good!

But she had to pound the pillow. When she was through, she would prepare to prove her strength of will calmly and ruthlessly to all of them, mindless of any toes that had to be stepped on.

The land problem proved to be far more complex than Eagle had explained. The Miccosukees and the Cow Creek Seminoles were two entirely different tribes, with separate interests. Both were claiming pieces of the land purchased from the government by T and C. Jonathan E. Stewart was representing both tribes, but separate deals had to be made with each.

Greg Tanner, the friendly, fortyish manager of the Naples office, scratched his forehead distractedly as he tried to explain the confusing situation. “Neither tribe is fiercely against selling land—it’s this particular
piece
of land. Maybe a stubborn streak; I don’t know. That’s where you fit in. When you meet with Stewart, you’ll hopefully understand.”

Whitney smiled enigmatically. “I’m sure Mr. Stewart and I will understand one another perfectly,” she purred.

“We do want that land,” Greg said with a sigh.

“We’ll get it,” Whitney assured him. “The right amount of pressure might be just what Stewart needs. I think I know the pressure points.”

“Oh, Whitney—” Susie stuck her head into the inner office and pushed her stylish gold-rimmed spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Stewart’s secretary just called. She wanted to make sure the meeting was still on for today.”

“Yes, it’s still on,” Whitney said and smiled. So Eagle thought he had sent her running!

“Mr. Stewart would like to make it lunch, then. One o’clock at the Golden Dragon. Will that be all right?”

“One thirty,” Whitney corrected, “will be fine.” She might as well let him have fair warning that he wouldn’t be twisting her by the tail anymore!

Besides, she wanted to run back to her motel room before she met him. She wanted to be absolutely perfect—Miss Virginia to a
t.

And she was. Her few days of lounging in the sun had given her a lovely golden tan, which she emphasized by wearing a cool white knit dress that left her arms and shoulders bare and lightly formed to her figure, flattering it in a subtle way that left the observer wondering how such a chaste dress could mold so accurately around slender curves. She left the feathery waves of her hair fluttering around her face while she swept the waist-length back portion into a sophisticated twirl that would add a few inches to her height. Her compact purse and trim heels were a matching green, coordinates to her eyes.

At precisely one thirty she arrived at the Golden Dragon, sure that she would meet Eagle with cool, unflinching eyes.

Unfortunately she hadn’t counted on Eagle’s drastic change of appearance. She met him in the lounge, and she didn’t flinch because she was too busy—to her extreme annoyance—gaping.

The long black hair was gone. It still reached to his collar, but the cut was stylish. He wore a vested navy pinstripe suit with a casual finesse that would immediately draw any feminine eye. The stark white of his tailored shirt set off a light blue tie to perfection—the silk was an exact match to his eyes. When his eyes finally lit upon her, Whitney momentarily forgot all her resolves. He had never looked sexier; he was refined, yet still rugged. Like a chameleon, he had changed to suit his environment and done it remarkably well. His Indian blood was still apparent; it always would be in the strong lines of his bronze face, but no one on earth would ever take him for an unsophisticated backwoodsman or question his capabilities in speaking the Queen’s own English.

“Miss Latham.” He stated her name coolly, with his blue gaze flicking lightly over her as he left his stance by the bar to greet her. A crooked smile came to his lips—the almost-sneer she had been expecting. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? I’m sure you have a lot to say.”

“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 raised 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.