Typical Male. Cait London
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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.