Typical Male. Cait London
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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