Читать книгу Typical Male - Cait London, Cait London - Страница 8

One

“A woman, and she looks like trouble.” Tyrell leaned back into the shadows of Wyoming’s Rocky Mountain pines and firs and studied the woman marching up the rugged path to his cabin hideaway. Her stride wasn’t easy, but firm, with a purpose — she wanted something.

His ex-fiancée had used other methods. But his sister, Else, the matron of the extensive Blaylock family, walked like that, and she always had a purpose.

Tyrell wiped the sweat from his chin with his forearm. Chopping wood took away a measure of his dark mood. He traced the zigzagging route of a red fox in the brush, then scanned the cloudy sky where a golden eagle seemed to hover in the high winds. At this altitude, late May was cold, though the ranches below were decked in spring’s vivid green. Six months ago, he had been a top executive, a chief of finance for a New York corporate office. Now the only peace he’d found was about to be invaded by a woman.

He wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone, even his family Else didn’t like her brothers to escape her. James, Logan, Dan Roman and Rio all had wives and only lightly mourned the freedom of “holing-up.”

Until Tyrell had settled the storms within him, he was doing just that, taking a “breather” and coming home to the source of his peace—the mountains and his family.

He hefted the ax and placed his thoughts in numerical order He liked numbers; they had always served him well. He swung the ax at the trunk of the tree and began to count his thought with each solid whack. One—when he’d found what he needed settled that savage edge riding him, then he would—He swung the ax again, coming down on the first cut to create a wedge that would eventually fell the tree. Two—go in for the kill, find out who started the rumors about him. Someone had been tracking his life, his credit cards, his bank account, his method of travel and telephone bills. Three—the ax bit into the wood with an expert cut that would eventually topple it. Returning home was all part of his plan to sort out his life. And it would be a long time before he’d trust a woman.

A hawk, seeking a mouse, soared in the clear blue Wyoming sky as Tyrell gripped his ax tightly. The woman continued he steady march toward his sanctuary. The few women in Tyrell’ life had always wanted something—cash, career, status. At one time, he’d wanted those things, too. Now he didn’t; he wanted peace. Tyrell’s gaze swept over Jasmine, the small Wyoming town nestled in the valley below. His ancestor Micah Blaylock had settled the valley and had taken a bride, and the Blaylock name was rich with honor and respect. The youngest of seven children, Tyrell had come home again to find that honor and family values he’d tossed away the years he’d worked to build Mason Diversified. Mason’s, a top shipping and label company now owned many subsidiary companies with varied interests but Tyrell had paid a dear price. He’d been away from his family and his roots too long.

Micah Blaylock’s old cabin had been Tyrell’s refuge—rebuilding it had given him what he’d needed.

It wasn’t easy to move back into his family. He couldn’t forget his father’s last telephone call — Tyrell should have come home and didn’t. He’d been too busy chalking up profits for Mason Diversified.

He inhaled the fresh morning air, scented of spring. Soon there would be wild roses beginning to bud. A mountain blue bird shot across the sky, and new leaves shimmered on the cottonwood trees. And the air around him simmered with regrets. Now his parents were gone, killed in an accident on icy roads. He wondered if that ice had shrouded his heart, pictures of their crushed car in the deep canyon haunting him.

He studied the woman invading his peace. Then, with a curse, he expertly threw the ax he’d been using to cut wood; the ax handle rotated once in midair, the steel sinking deep into the trunk of an aspen tree. “If she makes it past that old rock slide, it will take her about two hours to get to the meadow, and she’s not getting past that. I came up here for peace and quiet.”

The woman, dressed in a ball cap, a dull red sweater against the morning chill and khaki shorts, placed one hand on a boulder and vaulted over it. Her small round glasses glinted, washed by the cloudy morning sun as she leaped over a stream and continued steadily upward on the rocky path. In a direct as-the-crow-flies line, she was not far from Tyrell’s cabin; however, the winding trail around a small canyon added to the walking time. From his high vantage point, Tyrell noticed her hiking boots and the slender athletic legs above them. Her backpack shifted as she vaulted over a log.

“She’ll sprain something and I’ll be stuck with her.” Tyrell had had enough of women for a long time. Hillary had left deep bruises. His ex-fiancée, the daughter of his boss, wasn’t exactly the love of his life, but she suited Tyrell’s rising financial career. After a five-year relationship, he’d expected her to believe his word against the rumor mongers’. His jaw tightened beneath his two-week beard. Someone had set out to deliberately sabotage his career, starting rumors about his private life and making insinuations about selling Mason Diversified’s lucrative client list to competitors.

An aging playboy, and jealous of Tyrell’s youth and fitness, Melvin Mason had gradually grown to resent his top man on a personal basis. Mason wanted singular control of the company, now that the firm was showing high profit.

Descended from hunters, Tyrell’s eyes jerked to a bighorn sheep, leaping on the red rock cliff above the cabin. Tyrell had expected his future father-in-law and employer of the past ten years to believe him. Insecure, feeling threatened and looking for reasons to strip Tyrell’s growing control of the company, Melvin Mason had believed what he wanted and took the rumors as truth. Melvin wasn’t the understanding sort, but then Tyrell hadn’t asked for friendship. He’d pushed Mason Diversified into a sleek, high profit company and had made millions for Mason. Tyrell liked numbers lining up to make neat profit. His colleagues hadn’t questioned his integrity; they respected him. He’d expected the same from his fiancée and an employer whom he had made rich. He hadn’t asked Hillary or her father for warmth; he’d asked them to believe him. After years of association, he hadn’t doubted that they would give him time to root out the troublemaker.

They hadn’t. Without waiting, without questioning or letting Tyrell untangle the gossip, Mason had wanted the company to himself. He wanted to play power hardball, ripping away Tyrell’s position and employee benefits. A bad move on Mason’s part — the aftershocks included Mason’s top clients calling Tyrell and asking for referrals to Mason’s competitors.

After Hillary’s and Mason’s reactions to the rumors that Tyrell had a sleazy private life, he hadn’t cared who started the trouble; he’d had enough after a long series of Mason’s attempts to undermine him. Prior to the final break, the day Mason ordered him out of the building, Tyrell’s instinct told him there was trouble. Two weeks before that day, Tyrell had moved to protect the investments and retirement portfolios of his staff and fellow workers, who wanted him to fight and who believed in him. Then, when their investments were safe and established in accounts outside Mason’s reach, Tyrell had set to work destroying what he’d built. On that final day, one touch of his finger to just one computer key, set into action damage that could not be repaired.

Descended from Apaches and Spanish conquistadors with a mix of European settler thrown in, Tyrell knew how to fight. He knew how to streamline profits and he knew how to fatten loss. He left Mason with a shell of a company, the same as it was ten years ago. Then he’d walked away, sickened by the lifestyle he had once wanted.

To mend, he’d come back to Jasmine, Wyoming, and his family, the Blaylocks. He’d sort out his disappointment and anger, in himself and in Mason, and then he’d rebuild his life.

Startled by his sudden flash of temper, Tyrell rhythmically slapped his thigh. Damn it, he wanted privacy, not visitors and chitchat or a helpless woman underfoot. The woman walked across a fallen log bridging another creek and Tyrell held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t fall. Instead she sat on a gray boulder and drew off her ball cap. Short, vibrant strawberry-red curls gleamed in the dim gray morning, her face small and pale in the distance.

“She’ll sunburn in this high mountain sun, even though it is cloudy.” Tyrell narrowed his eyes as she removed something from her backpack, stripped off her glasses and began rubbing her face and legs. “So she knows about sun protection, but there’s a whole lot more up here that can make life hard on a woman, including me. She’s not getting past my meadow.”

He glanced at the clouds and mist swirling around the blackrock jagged mountain above him. This was his element now, where he could trim his dark savage temper chopping wood and adding onto his log cabin. Rain was not far away, the air was heavy, fragrant with dampness. When the rain began, she’d change her mind and start back after resting. Then he could return to the peace he had to have....

“I want him to see me coming. I want him to know that I am Cutter Lomax’s granddaughter and that I’m taking away his family homestead.” Celine Lomax smiled tightly, coldly. After a full year of working to destroy Tyrell Blaylock, she was closing in to take away the Blaylock land. She’d spent her entire savings to finance recouping the land that was her birthright, according to her grandfather, Cutter Lomax. She knew his flaws, but they hadn’t stopped her love of him. Perhaps it was Cutter’s strength; her father and his son, Link, had been a much weaker man who failed at everything. Perhaps it was his expression when he talked about the land that had been taken from him. Or perhaps she’d always fought for the underdog, and Cutter’s lost claim appealed to that element of her nature. She, who had only two men for relatives, had held them close and dear, despite their flaws. Whatever the reason, she believed her deceased grandfather, without question.

As a surveyor, she had the skill to demolish the Blaylock claim to land Cutter Lomax said was rightfully his. She’d built her life, chosen her career, for this moment. Cutter’s revenge had been passed on to his son, Celine’s father, and she’d teethed on revenge. Now it was hers to carry out.

The unmarried, pampered, playboy baby of the Blaylocks was the perfect starting point

Today, she was edgy, tired and riding on nerves and coffee. For years, she’d worked overtime in freezing sleet, snow higher than her head and egg-frying temperatures. She’d hoarded every penny to finance tearing down the Blaylocks and their friend Boone Llewlyn. Except for long silk thermal underwear that was worth the high price, her wardrobe ran to anything she could wad into a duffel bag and wash in an icy creek. If she needed more, she stopped in a thrift shop along the way.

Light rain began and mist layered the meadow ahead of her. She shifted her aching shoulders under the heavy backpack that contained everything she owned. She’d paid her father and grandfather’s medical bills and spared nothing for herself. She’d teethed on “taking down the Blaylocks,” a phrase repeated by both men and now she was primed for action.

Raindrops fell from the shimmering aspens, dampening her clothing. She inhaled the mist, loving it. She preferred to work outdoors, rather than in an office. Her jacket was in her backpack; she should have been cold, but her fast march and her dark mood kept her warm. Celine was halfway across the alpine meadow, lush with mountain grass and gleaming with dew, when she saw him.

She gripped a damp stalk and tore it from the fragrant mountain earth. Through the layers of rain and mist, she recognized Tyrell Blaylock from the photograph she’d taken of him waiting for a New York taxi. He’d had the lean look of a predator, narrowed black eyes, taut jaw and a mouth that looked as if it had been cut into stone. This man’s face was just as hard and hawkish, bones thrusting against his dark skin, though on that New York city sidewalk he had been dressed in a designer shirt and tie, and an expensive pin-striped suit.

Now rain shimmered on his body and he had that same alert, impatient hawkish look. Cutter had said that the Blaylocks resembled their Apache and Spanish conquistadors’ ancestors, that they were a dark, gleaming, powerfully-built family. Cutter had said you could tell a Blaylock by their “Spanish eyes”—expressive eyes—and now this tall, rangy man’s were spearing her.

Unnoticed by him, she’d studied him six months ago. She’d expected Tyrell Blaylock’s straight, gleaming, blue-black Native American hair to be neatly, expensively clipped. She hadn’t expected the heavy shoulder-length cut to be pushed back from his hard-boned face with a sweaty red bandanna headband. The twin narrow braids framing his face added to the savage look.

She hadn’t expected the sweat gleaming on the dark skin of his bare chest, and his taut, powerful arms. His muscles rippled across his body as he walked smoothly toward her. She jumped when a taut muscle on his chest contracted suddenly, the dark nipple shifting on the smooth, gleaming surface. Celine blinked. An expensive gym-pampered body was smooth, but the ridges shifting under Tyrell Blaylock’s darkly tanned skin were those of a workman, more defined, edgy, taut. Wearing only his worn jeans and the red bandanna tied over his forehead, Tyrell could have emerged from the West a century ago. The long knife sheathed at his waist did not soften his appearance.

When he stood near her, Celine fought a shiver. His worn moccasins were locked to the spring earth, long hard legs braced wide, and his arms crossed over his chest in a forbidding pose. Tyrell Blaylock, up close and away from his city veneer, towered over her five-foot-six height. And there was nothing friendly in his black, searing eyes. Maybe she’d gone too far, maybe she’d pushed Tyrell over the edge.... How would he react when she told him...? She couldn’t worry about Tyrell’s sensitivity; she’d come too far, committed too much to his destruction. “I’m Celine Lomax and you are Tyrell Blaylock, lately of New York and Mason Diversified. We’ve never met. Spare me the ‘how do you do’s.”’

His black brows scowled down at her, and Celine braced herself for what she had promised Cutter and her father she’d do — take away Blaylock land. Cutter had blamed Luke Blaylock, Tyrell’s grandfather, for gaining the affections of Garnet, the woman he wanted. He’d blamed Boone Llewlyn for thwarting his real estate plans; he’d blamed them both for ruining his life and fortune. He’d blamed Celine for being female instead of the grandson who could reclaim his land, and Cutter had died a bitter man. “I see you recognize the name. Cutter Lomax was my grandfather. I’ve come to survey and make good my grandfather’s claim on what is now Blaylock land. Don’t worry. I don’t intend to take the whole Blaylock and Llewlyn land, but I am reclaiming Cutter Lomax’s honor and his land. You’ve heard of Cutter Lomax, of course. He is a legend in this country. The Blaylocks and Boone Llewlyn were afraid of him. That’s why they ruined him.”

“How did you know about New York and Mason Diversified?” His words were clipped, deep and laden with warning, each one hitting her like lightning bolts. Those black eyes slowly took in her worn sweater, her ragged cutoff khaki pants and her worn hiking boots, topped by thick socks.

Celine lifted her head. She didn’t need dresses or New York designer labels; she had money enough to do what she had to do. She’d have to work while ferreting out the truth, but she’d always worked, keeping house for Cutter and her father for as long as she could remember. They’d said her mother didn’t love her, that she hadn’t cared enough to stay. Celine had Cutter and her father, and then they were gone after years of drinking and mourning their loss to the Blaylocks.

Their revenge had become hers; their anger at the Blaylocks was one of her first memories. She’d come this far and now she pushed out the words she’d been savoring, shafting them at him. “You’re licking your bruises, Blaylock, and I’m the one who gave them to you. You won’t be dissecting struggling little mail-order companies anymore and shoving them into Mason Diversified’s hungry jaws. You won’t be boxing in and buying shares for takeovers anymore. But hey, maybe you could work in one of their label factories — packing shipping boxes or something. Let’s sea — they were a label company until you moved in. Then they became international, and with your calculator for brains, they started grasping struggling little companies. They had to ship those mail-order products, so you watched for a sinking company and moved in for the kill. You revamped Mason’s financial structure and employee benefits, and streamlined operations. I can see why Mason believed everything. As chief financial officer, you knew too much, had too much control and powerful friends, and you posed a threat to him.”

His gaze ripped down her body, then jarred as it locked with hers. “Lomax,” he said flatly, as if the word stood for trouble.

“You got it, Blaylock. The name is Lomax. The company I was working for sent me to do the survey on a building and parking lot for Mason Diversified’s in Montana. I caught the name on the contract and dug out a few facts, like Jasmine, Wyoming, home of the Blaylocks, who my grandfather said stole away his life. He hated the Blaylocks and Boone Llewlyn and for good reason. He died penruless and so did my father, and I paid their bills. They should have had an easier life...thanks to the Blaylocks and that land-grabber Boone Llewlyn, they didn’t. It wasn’t hard to follow your trail back to corporate headquarters in New York, and guess what? There was the baby of the Blaylocks, right in my sight.”

“You...are the woman who ‘accidentally’ bumped into my fian—to Hillary Mason in a shopping mall and said that you were pregnant with my child? That we had a toddler at home and you were destitute because I wasn’t providing for you?” The words were carefully placed, echoing loudly when Tyrell’s voice was deep and soft, too soft.

Celine forced a cheerful smile. That hit-and-run disguise had worked; they’d never find the woman again. His frown deepened. “You’re the woman who sent the thank-you letter to Mason. You said that I’d sold his private client list to you, contact information that was vital to sales and promotion of products?”

“I was proud of that letter. A few chats with employees who think Mason is insecure and jealous of you, and I was off to the races. I told Mason that I thought it was very nice of him to allow you to sell a ‘best client’ list to a competitor.”

“Mason was too furious and eager to get me out to check on that. You are, of course, the same woman who again bumped into Hillary at the doorway of Mason Diversified Corporate Building. But this time you were dressed in a leopard skin bodysuit and six-inch heels and wearing a long blond wig and fake eyelashes. You asked the way to my office to perform the services I had requested at noon? You hoped you wouldn’t get that much oil on my desk this time?” His eyes drifted down her compact, athletic body and her worn clothing.

The leopard-seductress image didn’t fit her now; she’d played the part to perfection and even enjoyed dressing up as a femme fatale. The seductress-for-one-day could never be traced. Celine allowed her smile to grow. “I was on rest and relaxation leave from my company. New York seemed to be the place to visit. Your ex-fiancée was shocked. Especially when I told her that all of my ‘working’ girlfriends knew and liked you.”

“Exactly how did you get your information about me?” His question was like a whip cracking the cold, misty air.

“Your secretary is such a motherly woman. We had a chat in the ladies’ room. That day, I was the scrub woman down on my luck.” She almost felt guilty. When she’d begun sobbing, Mary’s arms had enclosed her like a mother’s. But Celine didn’t know about a mother’s arms, and she had a job to do—get revenge.

“You took advantage of Mary’s soft heart. That wasn’t nice, Lomax. You realize that you can get into legal trouble for damaging my reputation and career. You wouldn’t like the penalties. Why would you admit this now? To me?”

“I wondered when you’d get to that. You won’t raise a fuss. You’ll protect your family and your reputation — what’s left of it. You won’t want anyone knowing that the Blaylocks and Llewlyn were land grabbers. It’s all so simple, Blaylock. I want you to see me coming. I knew you’d run back here to lick your bruises —”

One black eyebrow lifted, challenging her; the morning air sizzled with electricity. Tyrell’s gaze drifted lazily over her face. “Lick my bruises? Run back here?” he repeated slowly, the sound was that of a wolf growling low in its throat just before he—

She’d been threatened before; it was her earliest memory. “You’re here, aren’t you? And not cuddled up to Hillary-poo?”

“Let’s keep on track, Lomax. Why did you choose me? I’ve got a big family.”

“You’re the baby, Blaylock. The soft spot of the family. Five brothers and one sister and they all dote on you. You were prime for the picking, like a big juicy tomato. I checked out your career and reputation and then I studied you. There you were, standing on that street corner, waiting for a taxi. You fairly dripped in expensive designer labels, you checked time on a wristwatch that cost more than some cars. And you just had that spoiled, pampered city-boy look.”

She took a breath. “I just didn’t like you when I saw you. I didn’t care if my tactics worked. I was coming to Jasmine anyway to survey Lomax land, but taking you down — you know, a Lomax taking down a Blaylock, was just something I had to try. I had time off, and pushing a Blaylock out of his cushy job seemed right. If your fiancée and your boss hadn’t believed me, that was just fine, too. But it was worth the effort, and it paid off, didn’t it?”

Anger boiled out of her as she drove home the spear. Tyrell Blaylock had everything and an easy life road; she’d had to scrimp and work for every penny. He’d zipped through college on academic and athletic scholarships; she’d had to care for her sick grandfather and father and work for grocery money, and provide for them. They were all she had — they said her mother had run off when she was only a year old. She hadn’t had tune to date, but finally, as a teenager, she reached for romance. What she found was brief, painful sex in the back seat of a car.

She studied his tall angular body. A man with Tyrell’s looks would have found everything so easy, including sex; she resented that, too. “You were looking at a solid-gold future with the Masons. I wanted to ruin you just as your grandfather and his friend Boone ruined my grandfather. So I gave you a few well-picked Christmas presents and you went down.”

“That’s called stalking, Lomax. I could stop everything with one phone call to the police, but I won’t. I’m going to enjoy the look on your face when you find out that the land has always been Blaylock.” Tyrell’s expression shifted slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking as though he was restraining a grin. He reached to run his thumb along her cheek. “A drop of sun lotion you didn’t rub in when you stopped to eat that sandwich,” he explained.

He’d been watching her. Just as she had watched him. A slight cold chill lifted the hair on her nape. Men just did not watch her, she was part of a work crew—a brief passing glance during a poker game was tops and that was to see if she was bluffing. Now, Tyrell Blaylock was dissecting her piece by piece. Celine inhaled and locked herself to what she had to do; she couldn’t be derailed by him searching out every freckle on her face, by studying her green eyes... well, one did have that spot of brown. She fought the shiver that lifted the hair on her nape; she hadn’t been studied that close — ever. She brushed away the thought that Tyrell was looking at her as a prospective sensual encounter. Men considered her as one of the boys.

She tried to ignore his slow gaze traveling over her cropped reddish-blond curls. She jerked her head to one side as he plucked a leaf from her hair and showed it to her, his eyebrows lifting innocently. She really did not like that slight curve to his mouth, just that bit of lift that said he wasn’t taking her seriously. He would...once she dug out old abstracts, journals and anything else she could find to prove her case. “You’re only thirty-seven, Blaylock. You can build a new career. You’re just —”

She released a smirk and eyed him. “You’re just taking a time-out now, and everyone knows you’re too high powered for this little burg. I saw you there in New York and you looked just exactly like my grandfather said Luke Blaylock looked, like ‘the lord of the land.’ I knew you were the perfect place to begin. I checked you out. You like numbers and take-overs. You won scholarships and aced college, the whole bit. You’re very smart. The braids are a nice touch, by the way. If you’re trying for a warrior effect. A city boy playing at macho games — my, my.”

His smile was tight and chilling. “Thank you for that much. You’re half my size, you’re on my mountain, and you’re calling me out — threatening me and my family. I suppose you’re also the woman who called Diversified’s switchboard. You left a message for me to bring a can of whipped cream, my Tarzan loincloth and lots of scented oil for our date at that sleazy hotel? It was a bit overkill, wasn’t it?”

She’d really put everything she had into that scenario. Pushing away a smirk, she blinked up at him innocently. “Oh, dear. Did I leave that message for Mason to give to you? How silly of me. And my size hasn’t got anything to do with —”

“And you’ve got a fast mouth.” Those black eyes dipped quickly to her mouth, searing it, then jerked back up to lock with her eyes. “You’re going to need much more than threats to deal with me or take any portion of my family’s land away. Tell me why you think you have claim to my family land.”

She lifted her chin, glaring up at him. Raindrops dripped steadily from the brim of her ball cap. She inched to the left to avoid the steady drip coming from the aspen limbs above her. “My grandfather said so.”

He lifted those black eyebrows and reached to switch her cap backward, revealing her face. His dark narrowed gaze sliced at her. “And that’s it?”

Celine jerked her ball cap visor around to shield her expression. One remark about her freckles or her family and she’d—“It’s enough. He wouldn’t lie. He told me the whole story, again and again. It never changed — He bought several pieces of property and he had a deed, the boundaries marked. He had a good house in a high mountain canyon and he was just getting a good start in ranching when your grandfather and Boone decided they wanted the land. They said it was Blaylock and Llewlyn land and that he had no right to it. They said that he’d bought a small piece of property by threatening the owners and then had moved the boundary markers on their land. Then Luke Blaylock, your grandfather and sheriff at the time, kept after him and he couldn’t work to pay the lawyers. The judge who sent him to prison on various robbery charges and assault was bought somehow, or the witnesses were. Then the Blaylocks got the land.”

Celine sucked in air, her temper raging. “I’m a surveyor, Blaylock, and a good one. I know how to read courthouse records, abstracts, and dig at the truth. If a rebar—a metal boundary marker—has been moved one inch, I’ll know. If a pile of rocks serving as a boundary in pioneer times has been moved, I’ll know. If a stone marker has been sandblasted to erase the chiseled inscription, I’ll know.” She narrowed her eyes behind her round tinted glasses and leveled a stare at him. She hoped the raindrops and steam on her lenses wouldn’t diminish the impact of her threat. “I’m especially good at forged deeds. I chose my career with just this moment in mind — to bring down the Blaylocks.”

Celine forced herself not to move as Tyrell lazily reached out a big hand. He lifted her ball cap and eased a finger through her jumble of curls. She forced herself to stand still; she wouldn’t be intimidated by his size. Celine fought a shiver as Tyrell said slowly, “Let me get this straight. You’re dedicated to proving your grandfather’s...belief was the truth.”

He was toying with her hair, winding it around his finger, studying the strands, and not taking her seriously. If there was one thing that could set off her Lomax temper, it was a man taking her too lightly. Celine wished he hadn’t seen her hands curl into fists; the quick glint of satisfaction in his eyes said he had. She grabbed her ball cap and jerked it down on her head. “Cutter Lomax would not lie to me. Those boundary markers were moved, and he did not commit robbery. The sheriff, your grandfather, sent an innocent man to jail and then took his land!”

Tyrell’s lazy gaze lowered to study her expression. She hated her own intensity and wished she were more skilled at covering her emotions — she wasn’t; she had never played games. He spoke slowly, “You’re serious about this. You actually want to reopen Cutter’s old feud. You want revenge.”

She pounced on the words, “feud” and “revenge.” It was to her benefit that Tyrell knew this was not a whim, but a need that drove her every breath. “You got it, buddy.”

“Well, then,” he said slowly. He stretched slowly and traced a deer moving through the woods. Celine blinked at all that male body rippling in front of her. Working in the field, she’d seen men without shirts, but they were just — she swallowed abruptly as an unfamiliar need stabbed at her. Just a feminine little lurch that she couldn’t define. Celine liked everything m black-and-white descriptions, surveyed in neat definite lines with boundary markers; she did not like unsteady emotions.

Tyrell’s slow smile might have devastated another woman. “I guess you’ve got to deal with me. I appreciate the notice. And thanks for referring to me as a ‘big juicy tomato.’ I’m honored, and you’ve gone to all this trouble, too, to pick me from my vine. My, that makes me feel so special.”

She nodded grimly, satisfied that Tyrell was taking her as a serious threat. Then the notion struck her that Tyrell Blaylock, the man she’d ruined, was flirting with her. Uncertain, she eyed him through her steamy glasses. Only men desperate for women in her remote work sites had ever made passes at her. She’d squashed those ideas without hesitation. For the most part, the men she knew considered her efficient, precise and one of the boys.

A man, not one of the boys, stood in front of her, towering over her. Tyrell Blaylock was sleek, hard and unshaken by her threat. She eyed him; maybe he had a dual personality and could flip back at any moment to his sleek city-hunter image. Either way, she had him tacked to the wall and she wasn’t backing off.

His high cheekbones gleamed, a muscle moving rhythmically in his jaw. “Let’s just keep this between us, shall we, Lomax?”

“You’re already bargaining, Blaylock. That makes me happy. I’ve got you worried and that’s a good sign.”

He lifted that disbelieving eyebrow again. “You could be wrong. All you have is your grandfather’s side of the story.”

“I’m not wrong. But I agree that it would make my research easier if your family and neighbors didn’t worry about protecting their land. After I get the information I need, I’ll turn my case over to an attorney. Or your family can pay me for the land and we’ll assess damages, starting with all the medical bills of my grandfather and father.” Her stomach twisted painfully. The markers over their graves were the cheapest — She looked away from Tyrell, stiff with pain in her body and her mind.

“Do you agree that the rest of my family won’t enter this?” Tyrell asked slowly, defining the ground rules and pushing her.

She hated being pushed. She waited because she knew he wanted an answer, and she wasn’t ready to give it to him. “Hey. I’m setting the ground rules. I’m the one with a plan. I’m in control of this gig, got it? This isn’t a fancy boardroom. I’m not obligated to you.”

“You are if you want to stay out of jail and work as a surveyor again. I’m happy to play your little busybody game—”

She turned on him, burning with fury. She could have leaped upon him and — “‘Busybody game’?”

He lowered his head, meeting her glare. His fist gripped her sweater to draw her up on the tip of her toes. “You’ve got a temper, Lomax. You push my family and I’ll call in a few favors. I didn’t leave corporate America because I was forced out. I had job offers and colleagues who would have stood with me. I walked.”

“That’s a lie. I ruined you. Me...a Lomax, and you’re not blackmailing me. I don’t go down easy. You’re living up here in a cabin because you’re broke and hiding out. High wheelers and dealers can lose it as easy as they make it. Or maybe it’s just good old shame that you’ve been kicked out.”

“‘A lie,”’ he repeated slowly, dangerously, as if no one had ever dared speak to him like that. The vein in his throat stood out in relief. He hitched her a fraction higher, his breath sweeping across her face as their stares locked. “I’ll bet that backpack is heavy,” he said slowly.

“Not a bit,” she lied, though the straps would probably leave chafe marks. Her tiptoes barely touched the ground, but she wasn’t frightened. If Blaylock wanted to test her, that was fine. She’d lived with bullies all her life. “I’ve walked across deserts carrying this weight and more.”

His eyes darkened and shot down to her mouth. She licked her lips and hoped she didn’t have a crumb of that last cookie on them — that would nun her going-for-the-kill image.

“You like gingersnap cookies, do you, Lomax?” he asked in a tone that sent a jolt of electricity to every tense muscle in her body. There was just a hint of play, of curiosity, and something darker, deeper, more elemental.

Celine tensed. Whatever the ball game was right now, she didn’t know how to play. Tethered by his grip, she glared at him. In her lifetime, when uncertain, she’d found that glaring was always a safe defensive move. Tyrell’s eyes narrowed pinning her. The air seemed to slither, tingle and heat as if it were alive; it sucked away her breath, and sent tiny thunderbolts through her body. That uncertain churning in her stomach had to be too little sleep and too much coffee. She pushed away the unfamiliar tense emotion and went for a solid jab on what she suspected might be a tender spot. “When Papa jerked your position, she didn’t want a working man. Hillary-poo chose not to believe you, didn’t she? And then she couldn’t leave Papa’s money for someone who is down and out, could she?”

His expression darkened, tightened and then he abruptly released her sweater. He rubbed his jaw and the sound of beard against his rough palm echoed eerily in the misty air. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not exactly sweet?”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Blaylock,” she shot at him cheerfully. She blew away the raindrop that had been clinging to the end of her nose.

His expression softened, humor dancing in his black eyes. “You’re wet clear through, Lomax. A pitiful soggy little thing.”

She snorted at the “little thing.” She’d worked right beside her crew, blazing heat and freezing ice storms. She’d hauled wood for campfires, climbed mountains and — “At least I’m dressed, not standing half-naked in a drenching rain and playing at being a mountain man.”

Tyrell looked slowly down her body and Celine realized that her flesh had chilled, her nipples thrusting against the damp sweater. She usually wore a vest in the cold, but men’s chests did the same thing in cold weather. She was sturdily built, probably a gift from her Scots-Irish ancestors. She watched, fascinated as a dark flush rose up his cheeks. He closed his eyes, groaned and turned, striding through the wet grass away from her.

“Hey! I’m not done with you,” she shouted, trudging after him through the sodden meadow. “You haven’t heard all the good stuff yet. You’re just a typical male, you know...running when things get tough.”

He turned his head to glower at her over his shoulder, then turned and kept walking.

“Running, huh?” she called, enjoying herself for the first time in—in forever. Her grin stopped when he allowed a small wet branch to flip back in her face. She sputtered, mopping the water from her face as she hurried after him. “You did that on purpose. I should have expected something sneaky like that from a Blaylock.”

Her backpack slipped and as she struggled to tug it back up again, her glasses went awry. Tyrell appeared out of the mist and stripped the backpack away. Dangling from his large hand, it looked like a toy. With his other hand, he straightened her glasses. “Coming, dear?” he asked between his teeth. “Or don’t you know enough to get out of the rain?”

Celine tensed, leaning toward him, her fists at her side. Tyrell’s mouth jerked as though he were hiding a grin. She wouldn’t tolerate anyone making fun of her. “Are you calling me a ‘twit’?”

“If the name fits —” Tyrell easily blocked the fist she shot at his stomach. Without missing a heartbeat, he slid her glasses from her and pushed them into her hand. “Here. Hold these.”

Then he bent and scooped her over his shoulder and began loping easily through the forest. He carried her over the narrow path as if she were a child.

Tyrell jerked open his cabin door and eased through it, carrying his squirming burden. That compact, squirming body had muscles, and Celine knew how to swear. Just what he would expect from Cutter Lomax’s granddaughter.

She was stubborn, willful, hot-tempered, and he felt a warm glow just looking at her. As he looked down at her in the rain-drenched meadow he wasn’t happy about the odd light-hearted feeling curling around him. Bristling, threatening him and his family, and scented of gingersnap cookies, rain and mist, she was loyal and untouched — Untouched. Every male instinct he had told him that Celine was an innocent. Defenseless, alone and fiercely defending her grandfather’s lies as truth, Celine Lomax hadn’t a clue that he’d found her interesting—as a woman.