Читать книгу Typical Male - Cait London, Cait London - Страница 9

Two

In Micah Blaylock’s refinished log cabin, Tyrell knew how hi ancestor must have felt, wanting to claim his reluctant bride The thought shocked him; he had streamlined his life and wasn’t prepared for elemental emotions for a woman.

Tyrell fought a groan. He’d just escaped a cold, empty life with Hillary Mason. The last thing he needed to do now was to stand in a Rocky Mountain meadow, watch Celine’s soft sweet mouth hurl threats at him and notice that she was al woman. That she was firm, soft in the right places and had hai that magically, silkily curled around his finger, ensnaring and delighting him. The same color as her lashes, the strand seemed to sparkle in the cloudy day, the varied sun-lightened shades warming his fingers. He’d wanted to run a fingertip across her lashes, those long softly bristling lashes with spark flashing at the tips, and those freckles. He’d wondered if they danced on the rest of that milky skin.... If a grown man could swoon, he almost did when she’d smirked. Those flashing green eyes turned sultry, darkening. An intoxicating little dimple had played on her left cheek; he’d begun to wonder how it would feel beneath his fingertips and how her bottom would feel cupped in his hands.

Celine Lomax’s bottom. It was now propped over his shoulder. He glanced at his hand, open and splayed, possessively digging in on her bottom. The soft flowing surface burned his palm. He frowned and forced his fingers to straighten, his palm rigid and flat He lifted his hand slightly away. She’d ruined his career; she should be hauled into court and—

She believed Cutter Lomax; she wouldn’t believe anything else until Cutter’s lies were proven wrong. Cutter’s reputation for land fraud, shakedown and other money-making schemes was legendary. Tyrell’s grandfather, Luke Blaylock, had gained a scar from Cutter’s blade; he’d tried to stop Cutter from mistreating a worn-out horse.

She’d stopped screaming and wiggling. She was using the limp, deadweight method to wear him down. Tyrell hefted Celine from his shoulder and plopped her into a chair. Her body balled as if to hurl herself at him. Celine’s furious green eyes dominated her pale face, her mouth pressed into a tight line. Under her ball cap, which was on sideways, her curls seemed to explode, fiery red around her face. One dainty ear was framed in her curls. It was a delectable ear, unpierced and sweet. A virgin ear. He wanted to nibble on it.

Every muscle in his body flexed; goose bumps rode his body. Instincts he’d hidden from the world shot him a solid thump, low in his stomach. He breathed uneasily, shaken by the need to take her to his bed. In the small one room, he caught her scent and hoped his nostrils didn’t quiver, inhaling every nuance. She smelled like rain on a tender rosebud as yet unfurled — sweet, tight and exciting to explore.

Tyrell did not want to explore Celine Lomax; he wanted her out of his life. He shoved the backpack no woman her size ought to be carrying into her hands. He ran his hands down his wet face, plucked off her ball cap and tossed a dry towel over her head. “It’s raining sheets out there. The creeks will be swollen by now and —”

She hadn’t moved, the towel remained draped over her head. Rain ran down her bare legs and a pool of water formed around her worn boots. Tyrell studied her as he swept another towel over his head, chest and arms. He hurled it and the wet bandanna from his forehead into a corner and watched her, his hands braced on his hips.

He wanted to kick off his sodden moccasins. But Cindi, his brother Roman’s adopted daughter, had painted his toenails and braided his hair as he slept yesterday. Tyrell studied Celine under the towel, small capable hands fisting her backpack. He studied those hands — compact and strong, just like her. Unpainted nails, blunt working tips and white knuckles — she was in a snit, all right. So was he. He wasn’t happy about discovering his shocking interest in a woman who wanted to destroy him.

He decided to let her sulk and turned to stuff wood into the old iron stove to warm the cabin. She’d tromped into his retreat; he wasn’t the offender. He simply wanted to take time to realign his life...without distraction. Tyrell wasn’t a man to be distracted easily. He glanced back at her. She sat very still Too still.

He could almost feel the whack of his mother’s behave yourself wooden spoon on his shoulder. The Blaylock males were trained to honor and treat women well. That spoon now belonged to his sister, Else, and she wouldn’t have been happy with him packing this fierce little fireball into his sacred lair.

He scowled at Celine Lomax, troublemaker in his life. He knew he had a savage temper, the surface of which was only scratched even when he discovered Hillary and her father’s rejection. He knew that of all the Blaylocks, he was perhaps the most elemental, and that was why he protected himself with an icy veneer. Deep within him, Tyrell knew that he had inherited arrogance and passion from his conquistador and Apache ancestors. He’d learned to conceal it early, and even in lovemaking, he was controlled. But the mountain fed his need to release that savage passion and here, in the wilds, he was free of tethers.

Tyrell studied Celine’s damp, gleaming legs. He could almost feel them around him, the slender feminine muscles tightening — His body lurched sensually, unexpectedly. He frowned at the towel covering Celine’s head and crossed his arms over his bare chest. She’d invaded his woman-free retreat. Still bitter about Hillary’s defection, he wanted a temporary breather from the whole female sex and he did not like bumps in his life. Celine was definitely a strawberry-blond bump.

He swallowed tightly, fear rising in him. Maybe she was crying. Hillary cried prettily to get her way, some new bauble or a glittering social event that he didn’t want to attend; Celine’s cry would be genuine. His stomach clenched again. Celine Lomax was too real, emotions pouring off her like molten lava. He ran his hand over his stomach as an old ulcer threatened to start up; one delicate sob from Celine and he didn’t trust himself. He scowled at her; she was unbalancing not only his life, but his emotions. A man who prided himself on cool logic, Tyrell looked at her uncertainly and waited.

From beneath the towel, she spoke quietly, biting the words. “You’re bigger and stronger. It’s a typical male ploy to use strength when threatened. But you’re outmatched.”

Tyrell didn’t like the bully-image she’d just hurled at him. He did like those flashing green eyes. Celine Lomax was definitely a passionate woman, all engines running full speed ahead, the air humming around her. Her hair seemed to foam into a brilliant, curling mass around her head, framing her small, set face. He pushed away the grin playing around his mouth. “Oh? How so?”

She ripped the towel away and stood. She jammed on her glasses and lifted both strawberry-blond eyebrows. “Because I’m right. I’ll prove that I’m right,” she stated firmly.

Tyrell almost admired her. Her loyalty to the cruel man who had torn apart lives was unquestionable. Cutter Lomax was notorious for his temper and his schemes.

Hillary’s loyalties ran to herself and money; this woman had wagered everything on a man’s word—a grandfather she loved deeply—without question.

She glanced around his neat cabin, the wood flooring planks he had just repaired, the single bed and spartan table and chairs. “So this is what I’ve reduced you to. Not quite the old upscale town house, is it? The sunken living room, designer furniture, that neat little office with a big window overlooking the city? Oh, my. I hope you’re not missing that pretty stainless-steel kitchen and the fancy gadgets. What? No cappuccino maker?”

Tyrell did miss that cappuccino maker. Now he knew how she’d gotten Mason’s top client list. She had mentioned enough names to seem authentic. “Don’t tell me. The maid, right?”

“Hey, Elaina was glad for the help that day. She’s got a brood at home, you know. The youngest had the flu and was up all night. I helped her clean her house, of course, and she did need the money — her husband is out of work and it was Christmas. I liked her and just helped tidy a bit. I went home with her and she took a luxury bath while I cooked supper and helped the kids with homework.”

She scanned the cabin, taking in the paperbacks neatly stacked against the wall and the kerosene lantern on the table next to the rough-hewn, homemade bed. “I’d expect a black-silk-sheet guy like you to hole up in something more classy than a mountain cabin.” She hitched up the backpack. “Gee whiz, no high-priced entertainment center, wide-screen TV and sound system here. Got to run. I’ve got a lot to do, taking Lomax land back.”

Tyrell struggled to keep his expression impassive. He really resented that little tic above his left eye.

She glanced around at the cabin again. “You can’t face them, can you? Tyrell, the Blaylock failure. Ruined by a Lomax. I’ll bet you brought a consolation prize here, some woman all sympathetic and sweet Most men like someone around to make them feel all big and strong when they’re down.”

“You’re all wet, Lomax, in more ways than one. You’ll get sick out there in the cold rain because you’ve been stubborn. Then you won’t be able to dig out those nasty little land-grabbing secrets.” Tyrell stared meaningfully at the wet sweater clinging to her chest. For just a heartbeat, he wondered about those freckles on that silky skin and how they would taste. Then he pushed away the idea of Celine’s compact body against his, beneath his. He was getting tired of being pitched into an overstuffed bin of “typical males.”

“I’m wearing a backpack, Blaylock. I carry spares and a raincoat,” she tossed back and glanced around for a separate room in which to change.

When her questioning look returned to him, Tyrell crossed his arms over his bare chest and looked steadily at her. “Take your pick of any room you want,” he said and glanced meaningfully around the single room.

When she blushed and averted her face, he knew with disgust that she fascinated him. That he wanted to protect her. That nothing would be right until he drew that sassy mouth beneath his and kissed her.

“Stop glowering, Blaylock. You’re starting to steam. I’ll step outside to change.”

“No. I’ll go outside,” he said and walked from the cabin, slamming the door after him. He resented that bit of temper, the savage part of him he’d always controlled. As he stood under the porch, watching the sheets of gray rain and brooding over the invasion in his life, Celine opened the door and looked up at him. Dressed in a yellow slicker with a hood, jeans and firemen’s boots, she found him in the shadows. A golden red curl clung, gleaming, to the yellow hood, her glasses like flashing gray steel in the dim light. “Be seeing you. Ta-ta,” she said lightly, then stepped down from the porch and trudged off into the sodden forest.

Tyrell glared at her and fought the growl rising in his throat. Surrounded by tall pines and fir and with cougars and bears hunting prey, she looked like a child merrily skipping off for the school bus on a rainy day. He wouldn’t be waiting at home with chicken soup when she caught a cold and returned.

He shook his head. If she made it past the creek, she’d be fine; few people could cross the dangerous creek in torrential rains. Tyrell ran his hands through his wet hair and they caught on Cindi’s “Braveheart” braids. He tore off his soggy moccasins and his painted toenails mocked him. The fire in the old stove caused him to feel guilty and he didn’t like the nettling burden; he should stay m his nice warm cabin and forget about Celine Lomax, and leave her to her hot-tempered fate.

Tyrell again growled low in his throat and knew that his first take on Celine Lomax was right. She was trouble. Blaylock males were trained to take care of and respect women. Therefore — With a decisive gesture, he shot out a hand to turn down the damper on the stove, slowing the flames. While the fire lowered, Tyrell tore off his wet jeans and dragged on new ones, pushed his feet into socks and boots and lashed them tightly. Celine Lomax would not be on his guilt list, his family was already occupying it.

When his father called that last time, Tyrell should have come home. He didn’t, and then his parents were gone, killed in an accident on icy roads.

Tyrell reached for a thermos. He would not be responsible for Celine Lomax, once he got her off his mountain.

“Maybe I was a bit hasty. My temper has a tendency to cause me to get into trouble at times,” Celine muttered as she clung to a branch, dangling just inches above a swollen, angry creek. If the branch broke, she’d be swept away. Above her, a huge black bear was watching her struggles. “Shoo,” she shouted. “I’m all out of gingersnaps.”

She looked up at the man standing on the ground above her. “Oh, hello,” she managed cheerfully and tried for a smile. The branch she was clinging to began to crack, resenting her weight.

Within the hood of his yellow slicker, Tyrell Blaylock’s dark face scowled down at her. Then his hand shot down to claim her wrist, and in a second, he hauled her up and to her feet. The branch cracked and hurled into the foaming, rushing swollen creek.

“I was doing just fine,” Celine said, returning his glare. She was bone-chillingly cold, her muddy jeans plastered against her legs. She struggled against the hand that cupped the back of her head while Tyrell wiped a clean red bandanna over her muddy face. She gasped for air and pushed at him.

He held her more tightly and mopped the cloth over her face one more time. Tyrell Blaylock’s slow devastating grin knocked the air she’d just reclaimed from her terror. “Typical. Now this is where you tell me that you were right and I was wrong, right?”

“Are you always this mouthy?” With one finger, he hooked her glasses from her face; he edged aside his raincoat and began cleaning them with the bottom of his black sweatshirt.

She sniffed. “I’m a Lomax, remember. I speak my mind,” she stated in a very proper tone. She watched him, warily as his grin remained. She plucked her glasses from him and thrust them on. Her quick mind shot for his problems like a dart on its way to the big red X. “So things aren’t that good with your family, either, huh? You can’t go to them and ask for money, can you, hotshot?”

The scowl jerked back. Tyrell’s jaw tightened and she knew that she’d hit a tender wound. She almost felt sorry for him. He looked like a shaggy outcast, scarred and wary of kindness. She almost put her hand on his cheek. But she couldn’t soothe a Blaylock; her grandfather had cursed her kind heart more than once. Cutter had said they were a treacherous lot, all tall and dark and moody, especially the men. They were hunters, Cutter had said, and savages beneath the fancy manners they used with women.

Because she’d betrayed Cutter’s memory, she dug in and attacked. “You had everything you wanted, didn’t you? I’ll bet your family missed you when you tore off into the world with all those scholarships in your fist. I checked your favorite airline’s records...you didn’t visit that much and when you did, you didn’t stay. Jasmine telephone calls were few since you were eighteen. Oh, you came back for your brothers’ weddings, but you didn’t stay. So, there’s big family trouble, and it’s a close family from what I heard at the gas station. So you must have hurt them. It’s an easy deduction. You’re up here. They’re down in the valley.”

“We visit,” he explained tightly, and glanced across the creek to the bear. “Let’s go.”

She crossed her arms. She’d let him off the hook for now. Her family life had been yells and threats and pain and revenge. Close, demonstrative and loving families were not in her experience, despite her love for Cutter and her father. She had believed in her grandfather without that comfort.

Tyrell had his soft spots and one of hers was not to be treated like a delicate piece of fluff. She’d managed her own life since she was old enough to feed herself. “I’m not going anywhere with you and do not pick me up again. I’m not a child. That typical macho stuff won’t work with me and besides that, you look like you’ve had enough of a bad day. You should go back to your nice little cabin. Stay there, why don’t you, while I tidy up my grandfather’s claim.”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced at the tree that had just been torn free by the rushing, churning water. He fished a small thermos bottle from the rain jacket he was wearing and thrust it at her.

Exhausted, determined to take nothing from a Blaylock, Celine hesitated before her hands settled on the warm thermos bottle.

“It’s coffee,” said the man who wasn’t her prince. His voice was raw, as if something was sticking low in his throat and couldn’t decide whether to come out as a growl or a groan. He looked tense and angry. “Warmed over, but hot. Are you going to drink it, or love it?”

She realized she’d been smoothing the shape with one hand, an up and down motion, enjoying the warmth on her frozen fingers. She studied him as she twisted the cup free from the bottle. She poured the hot coffee into the cup and said, “I suppose you’re going to catch a cold and blame it on me.”

The sound coming from Tyrell was definitely a choked growl.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” she pushed, smirking at her triumph. She sipped the hot coffee. “Ah, there’s nothing like a slug of hot coffee on a rainy day. But don’t think coffee will make points with me. I’m not backing off.”

An hour and a half later, she wished she hadn’t gone to sleep on Tyrell’s hard shoulder. She sniffed delicately, her nose against his throat. Scented of wood smoke and leather and that darkly intense, brooding scent, Tyrell tensed, glaring down at her; he edged slightly away. She pushed herself into the opposite corner. “I’m not happy, Blaylock,” she muttered drowsily, trying to push away the heavy weight of lost sleep. “You can’t just carry me down a mountain, and shove me into your four-wheeler.”

The sleek, roomy, leather-cushioned monster cost more than thirty of her junkyard pickups, bonded by wire and tape, and running on bald tires. “I’ll bet you’re behind on the payments for this rig.”

“Don’t talk.” Tyrell’s big dark hand tightened on the steering wheel, the other shifting the floor gear expertly. The dashboard lights glowed on the taut planes of his face. At that moment, he did look like his conquistador ancestors.

“You can’t handle the truth, can you? That your family land was built on the destruction of the rightful owner? Where are we going?” She studied the tall pine trees on the narrow dirt road, lasered by the vehicle’s lights.

“I am taking you out of my life.” The words were clipped and cold, quivering with frustration.

“You can try, Blaylock,” she said, burrowing into the warm blanket he had briskly tucked around her. She yawned and stretched, and tried valiantly to open her eyes.

The next time she awoke Tyrell was carrying her—back- pack, blanket and all—up the stairs of a lighted porch. Celine studied his profile, that set jaw, the muscle tensing in his cheek. Too bad his black, glossy lashes were so long and straight, shielding his eyes; she wanted to revel in how she’d shaken his safe little world, to see his fear. A tall, dark woman with a friendly face opened the house’s door the same time as Celine tried to squirm out of Tyrell’s arms. He held her tightly against him. Too close and too warm. He looked at her in a narrowed, hot, steamy way and his body seemed to ripple around her.

“See? I told you, you’d catch a cold,” she crowed and shot him her best smirk. His nostrils seemed to flare, his face tightening and darkening. A nasty little tic in his cheek began; the vein in his temple surged.

Celine blinked. Tyrell Blaylock looked nothing like the suit-clad steel stiletto she’d seen on that New York street corner. She had the strange and fascinating notion that this man was not far from his Native American and Spanish ancestors and that now, he wanted to carry her off to his isolated home. She stared at him and wondered why he held her so close, his body seeming to hum to hers.

Her hand, resting on his chest, picked up the hard staccato beat of his heart; heated vibrations that she did not understand started all over her body.

Tyrell glared at her. There was that slight flare of his nostrils again, a tic over his left eye. “You’re an emotional man, Tyrell Blaylock. Maybe too sensitive for your job in New York. I did you a favor.”

The woman at the door laughed outright, undaunted by his glare. “Tyrell? Sensitive?”

“Take...this, Else. She’s muddy and she’s got a mouth that never stops. Her name is Celine Lomax. She needs a place to stay for the night,” he said to the woman who resembled him. He dropped Celine to her feet, snagged her neck with a big, warm hand and shoved her inside. As though an afterthought, he reached inside to rip his blanket from her. He eyed her darkly with enough impact to lift the hair on her nape, then he closed the door between them.

Fully awake now, Celine blinked. A cat was twining around her legs, a friendly-looking man was smiling at her from the living room, and the house was definitely a home, fresh with scents of children and baking bread. Over her dress, Else wore an apron and a small sleepy child tucked on her hip. This was a Blaylock home and one Celine might tear apart.

She wasn’t certain what to say, or how to act. Delicious aromas wafted to her, and as a reminder that she hadn’t eaten, her stomach clenched. Latticed pies sat on a counter, and next to the smiling man was a rocking chair still teetering as if Else had been rocking the child.

Homes terrified Celine—she knew little of them. The warmth in this home reached out to her like a magnet; she’d dreamed of homes like this, and a mother—terror rose, chilling her. She had to escape. “He’s getting away,” she explained hurriedly and opened the door.

Else laughed aloud. “I know. You’re welcome to stay here tonight. But if you’re going to catch my brother, you’d better hurry. My brothers get moldy when they’re not stirred up and Tyrell is definitely—You’ve got him on the run. I wouldn’t lose any advantage by letting him get away like that.”

“I do? You wouldn’t?” Celine turned to study Tyrell’ quick stride toward his four-wheeler. “I do have him on the run, don’t I?”

“He had the last say, you know. I wouldn’t let him get away with that if I were you.”

“You wouldn’t?”

Else grinned, cuddling the sleepy child closer. “If I went you and he dumped me like a stray cat, I’d want him to pay.’

“Thanks. You’re right. I can’t let him get away with shoving me around.” Celine took a second to study Else, the matroi of the Blaylock family. The gas station attendant had said that Else had ruled her brothers and had taken.over her mother’ place in the community. Celine shivered; she didn’t know what a mother’s place was—her mother had walked out.

Else hugged the sleeping child tighter to her and nodded, he eyes dancing with amusement. Celine pushed away that little quiver of warmth, a woman who for the moment agreed with her, almost like a friend. Celine hurried out the door; she couldn’t think about Else Blaylock Murphy now. She had to get Tyrell.

Tyrell Blaylock presented a good, solid target. Above those long jeaned legs and narrow hips, his black sweatshirt covered a good rangy width of back and shoulders. Celine hurled the weight of her body at him; she hit him squarely in the bach with both open hands. He lurched forward a step and pivoted in one motion, crouching slightly. “I’ve had enough of you for one day, Lomax,” he said between his teeth as he straightened He flung the blanket he’d been carrying onto his four-wheelen

“You deserve it. You had no right to drop me off like an unwanted cat. What’s the matter? Can’t take a Lomax? Afraid of me?” she shot at him. As a child, before she’d learned to fend for herself, she’d been shoved into other places and some of them weren’t friendly. She knew she’d been unwanted by her mother, but she didn’t have to take that as an adult—from a Blaylock. Unknowingly Tyrell had really hit a sore spot.

“You’re pushing, Lomax,” he said between his teeth. “I don’t like it.”

“Really?” She slathered the word in delight; she’d gotten to him. She launched her best smirk at him.

His eyes narrowed as he towered over her. Battling her instincts to step back, Celine deepened her smirk up at him. She knew she was getting to him because that tiny muscle above his left eye started quivering.

“It’s the dimple,” he muttered with disgust, just before he pulled her into his arms and fused his mouth to hers.

She’d been kissed before—when she was an experimenting teenager. She hadn’t had time to explore her own needs, and that one brief painful teenage experience with sex was enough to last forever.

Stunned, she stared at Tyrell’s closed lashes, the line between his brows. Enclosed by his arms, by the heat coming from his body, Celine reached for his hair to pull him away. Her fists latched to the sleek damp strands and then the incredible heat and hunger of his mouth upon hers caused her mind to blank for a heartbeat

He’s devouring me, burning me, she thought distantly as her fingers curled into the strands and her eyes closed to seal in the pleasure riding her. Tyrell’s open hands claimed her close, one riding low on her hips, the other at the back of her head, supporting her and pressing her close to his body.

His obviously aroused body.

She wanted to stop and think, to dissect her options, but the tropical storm flashing inside her burned out any logic. She simply felt. Tasted. Hungered and dived into all the exciting textures surrounding her. Tyrell slanted his mouth, taking the kiss deeper, his hand surged beneath her bottom and lifted her firmly up to him.

She burned, his ragged breath sweeping across her face. She couldn’t let the excitement escape her, and locked her arms around his shoulders. Tyrell groaned, trembled and hefted her higher. Locking her legs around his hips, wrestling to keep that heat and excitement close, Celine almost sent them toppling to the ground. Tyrell spun and leaned back against his four-wheeler, his tongue flicked greedily at her lips, his face burning against hers. His big hands cupped her bottom, and when his mouth tore away from hers, she cried out softly.

His black stare shot down to lock on her shirt, her breasts pushed against his chest He began to tremble and because she couldn’t resist his uncertain, wary look, she stroked his hot cheek. He looked as if he’d explode, his familiar scowl down at her deepening. “Now you’ve done it,” he muttered and placed his hands on her waist, firmly removing her.

She ached for that warmth, for the hard safety of his arms. She didn’t know what to do, her body trembling.

Tyrell impatiently mopped the curls from her face, studied her and shook his head. He looked up at the cloudy night and groaned. He stared at Else, who was standing in front of the open door, her arms crossed in a forbidding stance. He issued a bearlike, frustrated growl, ran his hands through his hair and down his jaw and glared at Celine. She hovered there, stunned, licking her sensitive bottom lip and tasting his hunger.

Celine couldn’t worry about the matron of the Blaylocks defending her little brother. The Precious Baby of the Blaylocks had—Stunned, Celine touched her bottom lip. It throbbed and tasted of him, dark and moody and exciting. “You bit me,” she said. “You...bit...me,” she repeated, her tone rising indignantly as she wondered where to hit him. “That was a definite nip. Just exactly why would you kiss or nip me?”

Glaring at her, he didn’t answer and he had to pay. To add just one more torment in Tyrell Blaylock’s life, she turned to Else and yelled cheerfully, “I’m not pregnant.”

The shocking insinuation that she could be expecting Tyrell’s baby was certain to cost him.

Tyrell did that frustrated bear-growl thing again, low in his throat, and grabbed her shoulders; he turned and pushed her toward the house. She dug in her heels and turned to him. “You’re just so typical male, you know. If you can’t get something one way, you try for another. Nipping will not be tolerated, Blaylock.”

With a dark, threatening look at her, Tyrell jerked open the car door and slid inside. Still staring at her, he flipped on the ignition, jerked the car into gear and tore into the dark, sweet rain-scented night.

Celine stared at him; little aftershocks zipped through her body as though she’d just stepped out of a tropical storm into the cool night. Low in her body was the most peculiar ache. She glanced at Else and found a thumbs-up sign. Celine tried a smirk and it died; she was instantly aware of the cold without Tyrell’s arms around her.

At her side, Else placed an arm on Celine’s shoulder, ignoring her stiff body. “Well, I guess you gave him something to think about. My brother has been holing up on his mountaintop for six months, rebuilding that run-down old cabin, and you got him down among the living.”

Celine snorted. “He’s mourning Hillary-poo.”

“That out-for-money, moral-less witch,” Else stated vehemently and handed Celine a thick turkey-and-cheese sandwich on a paper plate.

Celine’s empty stomach clenched at the sight of food. She wanted to reject it, not wanting to take something from a Blaylock, but instead she picked it up and began munching. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Do you want to come inside and have a glass of fresh cow’s milk to go with that?”

Celine shook her head, her mouth too stuffed to talk. She studied the older woman, a tall, older and feminine version of Tyrell. She seemed kind and a friend. “I’d like you to stay with us. Just for the night,” Else said.

“My tent is in my pickup. It’s just up the road. Thank you, but I’d better be going,” Celine said and hitched her backpack up on her shoulder. She didn’t want to think about the Blaylocks being kind and friendly. There was no reason for the Blaylocks to accept her, to make a stranger welcome. Cutter had said they weren’t to be trusted and the unexpected warmth raised her guard.

Then there was that Tyrell-kiss. She wanted to yank it from her and stomp it dead with her boots. She wanted to kill the taste of his hunger and the racing excitement within her. She wanted to relieve her temper with a really good yell.

She was just around the bend of the tree-lined country road, when the sound of an engine purred behind her. A glance at the vehicle without headlights told her it was Tyrell’s. She kept on walking, turning to punctuate her dislike of him with a glare. He didn’t take the hint, parking beside the road while she set up her tiny tent beside her pickup. Then his headlamps seared her and Tyrell drove away.

Celine threw a rock in his direction and knew it wouldn’t hit the gleaming metal monster. “Take that, Blaylock,” she muttered. Thanks to Tyrell Blaylock, the man she’d ruined, it was going to be a long, angry night.