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