The Taming Of Tyler Kincaid. Sandra Marton
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why didn’t he do up the buttons? She certainly had no wish to look at the dark hair on his chest, or follow it as it arrowed down toward his belly button, over those hard abdominal muscles…
“Ms. McCord?”
There was a little tilt to the corner of his mouth and she knew, she knew, he’d done it deliberately, put himself on exhibit as if she gave a damn what his body looked like, or how many women had known the pleasure of it.
“Lots of things are against the law,” he said softly. “This isn’t one of them.”
She flushed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, owning a portable phone isn’t illegal.”
Caitlin straightened her spine. “You’re not a drifter,” she said flatly.
Tyler answered with a shrug.
“Why did you say you were?”
“You were the one who called me that, lady. Not me.”
“You didn’t try to correct me, Kincaid.”
“Correct you?” He laughed. “‘You want to wait,’” he said, mimicking her, “‘wait, but not on Baron land.’ You were into your Lady of the Manor routine. I figured correcting you would only have landed my butt in jail for trespass.”
Her color heightened but she kept her chin up and her indignation intact. “Who are you, then? And what do you want at Espada?”
He hesitated. He could tell her the truth, tell her the reason he’d come here, but the survival instincts he’d honed years before, that had kept him in one piece at the State Home and then in covert operations in the steaming jungles of Central America, were too powerful to let him make such a mistake. There were secrets here; he was certain of it. There was something in the way Abel looked at him, in the way Caitlin spoke of her role at Espada…
“Kincaid? I asked you a question. What do you want?”
He looked at the woman standing before him. Her eyes were almost gold in the morning sun; her hair was a hundred different shades of red and mahogany and maple. Her mouth was free of lipstick, full and innocent-looking, and he wondered what she’d say, what she’d do, if he told her that what he wanted, ever since he’d laid eyes on her, was to take her in his arms, tumble her into the grass, strip off that cold and haughty look, and the boyish clothes with which she camouflaged a woman’s body, and ignite the heat he knew smoldered in her blood.
Hell, he thought, and turned away.
“I told you what I wanted,” he said roughly. Grunting, he hoisted a feed sack on his shoulder and walked into the stable. “I want to talk to Jonas Baron.”
“About what?”
Tyler dumped the sack and headed out the door. “It’s none of your business.”
“Everything about this ranch is my business.”
“You just told me otherwise. You’re not a Baron, you said, remember?”
“I run Espada, Kincaid. Maybe you’d better get that through your head.”
It took all his determination not to turn around and show her that she might damned well run this ranch but she didn’t run him. This was a woman who needed to be reminded that she was a woman, and he ached for the chance to give her that reminder, but he knew it would be a mistake. Instead he decided to take the wind out of her sails.
“That’s fine,” he said easily, “but my business with Baron has nothing to do with Espada. Now, if you’re done questioning me, Ms. McCord, I’ve got these sacks to deal with and the stalls to muck out, so if it’s all the same with you—”
“Stalls? What about the horses?”
“What about them?”
“Why aren’t you working with the stock?”
“Ask Abel. I’m sure he’s a font of information.” He brushed past her on his way out the door.
“I told him you’re good with horses,” she said as she followed him back and forth. “And he knows we have a horse that needs gentling—oof.”
“Sorry.” Tyler caught her by the elbows as she tottered backward.
“That’s—that’s all right…”
Her heart rose into her throat. His hands were still on her. His eyes glinted like jewels in the shadowed darkness of the stable. And, as she looked into their green depths, she saw something that sent her pulse racing.
“I’ll speak with him,” she said. “With Abel. About putting you to better use.”
A smile curved his mouth, one so sexy and dangerous that it made her breath stop.
“Good.” His voice was soft and slightly husky. A shudder ripped along her spine as he looked down at her mouth, then into her eyes. “I’d like to be put to better use.”
“With—with the horses.”
The smile came again, lazy and even more dangerous. “Of course.”
Caitlin knew she was blushing and hated herself for it, hated this insufferably egotistical male even more for causing her face to redden.
“Let go of me, please.”
“Ever the lady,” he said, in that same husky whisper. “Except, I don’t believe it. I think there are times you’re not quite the lady you pretend to be.”
“I am always a lady,” she said coldly.
“In that case…” His hands slid up her arms and clasped her shoulders. “Maybe it’s time somebody showed you what you’re missing, Ms. McCord.”
“Kincaid.” Was that breathless little voice really hers? Caitlin cleared her throat. “Kincaid, take your hands off me.”
“I would,” he said lazily. “But that’s not what you really want, is it?”
“Listen, you—you arrogant, egotistical—”
“Kincaid? Kincaid, where in hell are you?”
Abel’s voice, and the echo of his footsteps on the cement floor, cut through the building tension. Tyler let his hands fall from Caitlin’s shoulders. He stepped aside and she slipped past him, just as the foreman stepped into the stable.
The old man looked from her to Tyler. “Is there a problem, Ms. Caitlin?”
“Yes.” Caitlin shot Tyler an angry look. “Yes, there is. I want you to tell this man…to tell him…” She looked at Tyler, whose gaze had not left her, and her throat tightened. “Starting tomorrow, let him work with the horses. With the new mare that’s afraid of her own shadow. You hear me, Abel?”
Abel’s bushy brows shot up, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”
Caitlin stood leaning against the railing of the small corral, watching Tyler and the horse and wishing she’d followed her instincts and fired him. But she’d called Jonas in New York, and Jonas had told her to let him stay on.
“Man’s up to somethin’, Catie,” Jonas had said. “You keep him there till I get back. Just you watch yourself, you hear? Don’t turn your back.”
She’d been careful not to do that. In fact, she’d made it a point to keep an eye on Kincaid. Just now, others were doing the same thing, including Abel, leaning on the rail beside her.
“Man’s got good hands,” he said, and spat into the dust.
“Yes,” she said, with an indifferent shrug. She didn’t want to think about those hands, about how they’d felt on her. “He seems to.” She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you had any ideas about putting Lancelot to stud.”
“Did