Tiger Prince

She needs to win.

Dilam's words in the belim tent came back to him. Well, she hadn't won this time. He would never forget her expression of numb horror as she had looked at the damage wrought by the elephant. He had felt something twist inside him and he wanted to reach out and—

Comfort? The instinct meant nothing, he assured himself. It was entirely natural to admire a foe who had fought a valiant fight, but that did not mean he was softening toward her. He could not soften.

He turned heavily away from the window and moved across the room to the chair by the fireplace. Soon it would be over. The loss at Elephant Crossing had been only the begi

Christ, of course it was what he wanted. This rawness fraying his nerves was only impatience now that he was so close to his aim.

Impatience . . . and lust.

The dark blue curled tile roof of the summerhouse shimmered gray in the moonlight. Light streamed from the arched windows, casting fan-shaped shadows on the grass.

He was waiting for her.

Naturally, he was waiting for her, Jane thought impatiently. He had been waiting for her for over three years.

She braced herself and then walked quickly down the terrace steps and the path leading to the summerhouse.

She could get through this. He was only Ruel, not the mandarin she had let her fears exaggerate to giant proportions. He could not harm her if she did not allow it. She drew a deep breath as she reached the door and then flung it open. She said flatly, "I'm here."

"I see you are." Ruel was sitting in a superbly crafted Louis XV chair before a marble-tiled fireplace. He wore all white, as he had the day they had arrived at the palace, and his golden tan and sun-streaked hair shimmered in the firelight in sharp contrast to the elegant garb. He appeared perfectly at ease in this tastefully furnished room with its air of restrained European luxury. But then, Ruel always appeared confident and at ease wherever he was, she thought bitterly, be it pounding spikes in a torrent of rain, presiding at the di

He rose to his feet and wrinkled his nose. "And, unfortunately, I not only see you, I also smell you."

"I could hardly ride twenty-five miles in heat and dust and not smell of horse." She closed the door. "If you don't like it, I can leave."

"Oh no, I was never one to forgo a meal because I had to prepare it myself. It makes the feast only more satisfying to know it's been created to one's exact specifications." He stood up and moved across the room toward the lavender- and cream-colored brocade curtain that divided the room. "In fact, I anticipated this little problem. I had boiling hot water brought from the palace ten minutes ago." He pulled aside the curtain to reveal a small area that appeared much larger due to the mirrors that graced all three walls. A royal-blue and white Chinese carpet gave only occasional glimpses of the polished oak floor and, across the room, a white satin spread covered a wide bed draped in diaphanous mosquito netting. He smiled faintly as he followed her gaze and then gestured to a hip bath filled with steaming water occupying the corner immediately to the left of the brocade curtain. "It's fortunate you were on time, or the water would have turned cold."

"It wouldn't have mattered," she said quietly. "I assume you're going to watch me?"

Some indefinable emotion flickered across his face. "Most certainly."

She sat down on a wide white satin-tufted chaise longue a few feet from the tub and took off her boots and wool socks. "I thought you would."

"Why?"

"You want me to feel . . . exposed, humiliated." She stood up and started unbuttoning her shirt. "It's all a part of it."

"How perceptive of you to realize that. Actually, I had in mind something else as well." He paused. "A mistress is handled with a little too much delicacy. I thought I'd let you sample the joys of being treated as your mother was treated."

She felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Her fingers clenched on the second button. "You did?"

"Can you think of a more fitting revenge? You surely didn't think I'd beat you with a whip or strap you in an iron maiden? Remember when we discussed my aversion to snakes and I said everyone was afraid of something?" His gaze narrowed on her face. "Isn't this what you fear most? To be a whore like your mother?"

"Yes," she whispered. Slavery, submission, captivity. God, she should have known Ruel would have the instinct to strike her the cruelest blow possible.

"Well, aren't you going to run away?"

For a moment she was wildly tempted, but that would be another defeat. "No."

For an instant she thought she saw a flicker of disappointment in his expression, but she must have been mistaken, for he was now smiling mockingly. "Then, by all means, proceed. Your water is cooling."

"Not yet." She met his gaze. "I want your promise."

"My promise?"

"When I leave here, we're quits. I want your promise you'll avoid coming to the site except when absolutely necessary."

"I thought we'd already agreed on that."

"I want your promise."

He was silent a moment before he said curtly, "You have it."

"Good." She was acutely conscious of his eyes on her as she quickly stripped off the rest of her clothes and turned toward the tub.

"Wait. Turn around."

She went rigid and then slowly turned to face him.

He was leaning against the wall, his gaze moving slowly over her. "You're thi

"I always lose weight when I work hard."

His lips tightened. "I suppose that comment was made to make me feel guilty for forcing you to—-"

"You didn't force me. It was my choice." She stared challengingly into his eyes. "And I almost beat you."

He smiled faintly. "Yes, you did. But almost isn't good enough." His gaze moved down to the curls surrounding her womanhood. "Turn in a circle. Slowly."

She felt heat suffuse her body but somehow managed to keep her expression blank as she obeyed him.

"Even though you're thi

"May I get in the tub now?" she asked jerkily.

"Not yet. Turn your back to me."

Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she turned around and stood still, spine rigid.

"Marvelous buttocks." His voice thickened. "Tight and firm . . . Do you remember the painting in the maharajah's car?"

She felt like a slave on an auction block, like one of the whores in Frenchie's tent. Slavery. Block it out, she cold herself. She was giving him what he wanted; he was making her feel what he wished her to feel. "No, I don't remember. Are you finished?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Get into the tub."

She quickly covered the few steps to the hip bath and the next moment thankfully sank into the soapy water. Don't look at him. Just get it over with. The heady scent of jasmine and lemon drifted up to her from the water as she grabbed the sponge floating on the surface and began briskly rubbing her shoulders.

"Not so rough," he said mockingly. "I don't want you damaged."