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
