Typical Male. Cait London
without that comfort.
Tyrell had his soft spots and one of hers was not to be treated like a delicate piece of fluff. She’d managed her own life since she was old enough to feed herself. “I’m not going anywhere with you and do not pick me up again. I’m not a child. That typical macho stuff won’t work with me and besides that, you look like you’ve had enough of a bad day. You should go back to your nice little cabin. Stay there, why don’t you, while I tidy up my grandfather’s claim.”
“Uh-huh.” He glanced at the tree that had just been torn free by the rushing, churning water. He fished a small thermos bottle from the rain jacket he was wearing and thrust it at her.
Exhausted, determined to take nothing from a Blaylock, Celine hesitated before her hands settled on the warm thermos bottle.
“It’s coffee,” said the man who wasn’t her prince. His voice was raw, as if something was sticking low in his throat and couldn’t decide whether to come out as a growl or a groan. He looked tense and angry. “Warmed over, but hot. Are you going to drink it, or love it?”
She realized she’d been smoothing the shape with one hand, an up and down motion, enjoying the warmth on her frozen fingers. She studied him as she twisted the cup free from the bottle. She poured the hot coffee into the cup and said, “I suppose you’re going to catch a cold and blame it on me.”
The sound coming from Tyrell was definitely a choked growl.
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” she pushed, smirking at her triumph. She sipped the hot coffee. “Ah, there’s nothing like a slug of hot coffee on a rainy day. But don’t think coffee will make points with me. I’m not backing off.”
An hour and a half later, she wished she hadn’t gone to sleep on Tyrell’s hard shoulder. She sniffed delicately, her nose against his throat. Scented of wood smoke and leather and that darkly intense, brooding scent, Tyrell tensed, glaring down at her; he edged slightly away. She pushed herself into the opposite corner. “I’m not happy, Blaylock,” she muttered drowsily, trying to push away the heavy weight of lost sleep. “You can’t just carry me down a mountain, and shove me into your four-wheeler.”
The sleek, roomy, leather-cushioned monster cost more than thirty of her junkyard pickups, bonded by wire and tape, and running on bald tires. “I’ll bet you’re behind on the payments for this rig.”
“Don’t talk.” Tyrell’s big dark hand tightened on the steering wheel, the other shifting the floor gear expertly. The dashboard lights glowed on the taut planes of his face. At that moment, he did look like his conquistador ancestors.
“You can’t handle the truth, can you? That your family land was built on the destruction of the rightful owner? Where are we going?” She studied the tall pine trees on the narrow dirt road, lasered by the vehicle’s lights.
“I am taking you out of my life.” The words were clipped and cold, quivering with frustration.
“You can try, Blaylock,” she said, burrowing into the warm blanket he had briskly tucked around her. She yawned and stretched, and tried valiantly to open her eyes.
The next time she awoke Tyrell was carrying her—back- pack, blanket and all—up the stairs of a lighted porch. Celine studied his profile, that set jaw, the muscle tensing in his cheek. Too bad his black, glossy lashes were so long and straight, shielding his eyes; she wanted to revel in how she’d shaken his safe little world, to see his fear. A tall, dark woman with a friendly face opened the house’s door the same time as Celine tried to squirm out of Tyrell’s arms. He held her tightly against him. Too close and too warm. He looked at her in a narrowed, hot, steamy way and his body seemed to ripple around her.
“See? I told you, you’d catch a cold,” she crowed and shot him her best smirk. His nostrils seemed to flare, his face tightening and darkening. A nasty little tic in his cheek began; the vein in his temple surged.
Celine blinked. Tyrell Blaylock looked nothing like the suit-clad steel stiletto she’d seen on that New York street corner. She had the strange and fascinating notion that this man was not far from his Native American and Spanish ancestors and that now, he wanted to carry her off to his isolated home. She stared at him and wondered why he held her so close, his body seeming to hum to hers.
Her hand, resting on his chest, picked up the hard staccato beat of his heart; heated vibrations that she did not understand started all over her body.
Tyrell glared at her. There was that slight flare of his nostrils again, a tic over his left eye. “You’re an emotional man, Tyrell Blaylock. Maybe too sensitive for your job in New York. I did you a favor.”
The woman at the door laughed outright, undaunted by his glare. “Tyrell? Sensitive?”
“Take...this, Else. She’s muddy and she’s got a mouth that never stops. Her name is Celine Lomax. She needs a place to stay for the night,” he said to the woman who resembled him. He dropped Celine to her feet, snagged her neck with a big, warm hand and shoved her inside. As though an afterthought, he reached inside to rip his blanket from her. He eyed her darkly with enough impact to lift the hair on her nape, then he closed the door between them.
Fully awake now, Celine blinked. A cat was twining around her legs, a friendly-looking man was smiling at her from the living room, and the house was definitely a home, fresh with scents of children and baking bread. Over her dress, Else wore an apron and a small sleepy child tucked on her hip. This was a Blaylock home and one Celine might tear apart.
She wasn’t certain what to say, or how to act. Delicious aromas wafted to her, and as a reminder that she hadn’t eaten, her stomach clenched. Latticed pies sat on a counter, and next to the smiling man was a rocking chair still teetering as if Else had been rocking the child.
Homes terrified Celine—she knew little of them. The warmth in this home reached out to her like a magnet; she’d dreamed of homes like this, and a mother—terror rose, chilling her. She had to escape. “He’s getting away,” she explained hurriedly and opened the door.
Else laughed aloud. “I know. You’re welcome to stay here tonight. But if you’re going to catch my brother, you’d better hurry. My brothers get moldy when they’re not stirred up and Tyrell is definitely—You’ve got him on the run. I wouldn’t lose any advantage by letting him get away like that.”
“I do? You wouldn’t?” Celine turned to study Tyrell’ quick stride toward his four-wheeler. “I do have him on the run, don’t I?”
“He had the last say, you know. I wouldn’t let him get away with that if I were you.”
“You wouldn’t?”
Else grinned, cuddling the sleepy child closer. “If I went you and he dumped me like a stray cat, I’d want him to pay.’
“Thanks. You’re right. I can’t let him get away with shoving me around.” Celine took a second to study Else, the matroi of the Blaylock family. The gas station attendant had said that Else had ruled her brothers and had taken.over her mother’ place in the community. Celine shivered; she didn’t know what a mother’s place was—her mother had walked out.
Else hugged the sleeping child tighter to her and nodded, he eyes dancing with amusement. Celine pushed away that little quiver of warmth, a woman who for the moment agreed with her, almost like a friend. Celine hurried out the door; she couldn’t think about Else Blaylock Murphy now. She had to get Tyrell.
Tyrell Blaylock presented a good, solid target. Above those long jeaned legs and narrow hips, his black sweatshirt covered a good rangy width of back and shoulders. Celine hurled the weight of her body at him; she hit him squarely in the bach with both open hands. He lurched forward a step and pivoted in one motion, crouching slightly. “I’ve had enough of you for one day, Lomax,” he said between his teeth as he straightened He flung the blanket he’d been carrying onto his four-wheelen
“You deserve it. You had no right to drop me off like an unwanted