Tender Taming (3 page)

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 lowered 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 stoic 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.

Although confident that she was attractive and cut a pleasant appearance, she just didn’t know if anyone would ever refer to her as enticing. She had entered marriage with shy eagerness, sure that she would discover the sensual pleasures of life and love. She had been sadly disappointed. To staid Gerry, the act of love was performed without fanfare, never spoken of and indulged in only in darkened rooms. Like an anachronism from the past, Gerry believed that sexual release was something needed strictly by males and that passion in a woman hinted of sheer wantonness.

Embarrassed and humiliated, ignorant and young, Whitney had buried her own feelings, the hint of desire she had learned and the fantasy yearnings she was convinced were abnormal. After their friendly divorce, she had remained cool and untouched, convinced that there was nothing to be found in the many overtures she had received and rebuffed.

But now her mind turned to her host. If she was ever to have such a man, she wouldn’t know what to do with him! She would be too frightened of her own inadequacy ever to come to the point of …
Stop!
she silently wailed. What on earth was possessing her? She was a career woman, authoritative in her own world. The man outside was a stranger—educated and cultured, maybe, but still a stranger! Hostility had flared between them more than any other recognizable emotion. She didn’t even know his name!

That thought stopped her, her hand pausing on the water fixture. Glancing at the curtain, she straightened and tentatively called, “Excuse me!”

“Yes?” the velvety baritone inquired politely.

“I just realized I’m standing in your shower and I don’t even know your name,” Whitney warbled apologetically.

There was silence for so long that she began to wonder if he had heard her. Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, she heard a soft rustling at the curtain and another throaty chuckle.

“My name is Eagle,” he said quietly. “In the Seminole Nation I am known as White Eagle.”

There was silence beyond the curtain. Whitney turned the spigot, and the refreshingly icy water cascaded over her.

E
MERGING FROM THE SHOWER
fifteen minutes later, remarkably refreshed and respectably if awkwardly clad in the red flannel shirt, which reached her knees, Whitney discovered that White Eagle seriously intended to give her lessons. He had shed his own muddy shirt, and his broad chest gleamed a golden bronze as he sat crossed-legged at the hand-carved coffee table, his attention focused on an assortment of books and maps. Hearing her approach, he patted a spot beside him on the deerskin rug and smiled. “If you’re going to meet with old Jonathan Stewart and tell him how to run a swamp and improve the lot of the Indians, you’d better go in with a little background information,” he told her, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And since you seem to like muck walks in the rain, we’d better start with the environment!”

Hiding another flush by furiously toweling her wet hair, Whitney sank down beside him, annoyed at the erratic thumping of her heart caused by the proximity of his bare flesh. Her lashes fluttering over the soft skin of her cheeks, she nonchalantly agreed. “All right, White Eagle, I may seem a fool to you, but I am eager to learn. And I really do intend to do all that I can to help the Seminoles and the Micco—Micco—”

“Miccosukees,” Eagle supplied, his grin broadening. Handing her an expensive new hardcover book, he added, “This will explain the different tribes that make up the Seminole Nation. You can take that and read it at your leisure. The information is important, but it won’t save your life if you do any more swamp walking.”

“I can’t take your book!” Whitney protested, ignoring his taunt. To an Indian living in the Glades in a one-room cabin, the cost must have been prohibitive!

White Eagle shrugged. “Return it to Stewart, then. Now—on to venomous snakes.” He opened another book and pointed to the four large pictures of the creatures that spanned the pages. “These are the four fellows you have to worry about in this part of the country—the coral snake, the eastern diamondback, the pygmy rattler and the water moccasin. These guys”—he pointed to the black moccasin—“are the ones that might have gotten you tonight. They are swamp dwellers and highly aggressive. The coral snake has the most toxic venom, but its bite is tight and it can only sink its fangs into areas of flesh such as that between the fingers and toes. You won’t see many of the diamondbacks if any; drainage has sent them north. The pygmy is numerous, but he’s a hammock boy; he prefers the high pine lands.”