Cait London - Typical Male

He glanced at the clouds and mist swirling around the blackrock jagged mountain above him. This was his element now, where he could trim his dark savage temper chopping wood and adding onto his log cabin. Rain was not far away, the air was heavy, fragrant with dampness. When the rain began, she’d change her mind and start back after resting. Then he could return to the peace he had to have....

“I want him to see me coming. I want him to know that I am Cutter Lomax’s granddaughter and that I’m taking away his family homestead.” Celine Lomax smiled tightly, coldly. After a full year of working to destroy Tyrell Blaylock, she was closing in to take away the Blaylock land. She’d spent her entire savings to finance recouping the land that was her birthright, according to her grandfather, Cutter Lomax. She knew his flaws, but they hadn’t stopped her love of him. Perhaps it was Cutter’s strength; her father and his son, Link, had been a much weaker man who failed at everything. Perhaps it was his expression when he talked about the land that had been taken from him. Or perhaps she’d always fought for the underdog, and Cutter’s lost claim appealed to that element of her nature. She, who had only two men for relatives, had held them close and dear, despite their flaws. Whatever the reason, she believed her deceased grandfather, without question.

As a surveyor, she had the skill to demolish the Blaylock claim to land Cutter Lomax said was rightfully his. She’d built her life, chosen her career, for this moment. Cutter’s revenge had been passed on to his son, Celine’s father, and she’d teethed on revenge. Now it was hers to carry out.

The unmarried, pampered, playboy baby of the Blaylocks was the perfect starting point

Today, she was edgy, tired and riding on nerves and coffee. For years, she’d worked overtime in freezing sleet, snow higher than her head and egg-frying temperatures. She’d hoarded every penny to finance tearing down the Blaylocks and their friend Boone Llewlyn. Except for long silk thermal underwear that was worth the high price, her wardrobe ran to anything she could wad into a duffel bag and wash in an icy creek. If she needed more, she stopped in a thrift shop along the way.

Light rain began and mist layered the meadow ahead of her. She shifted her aching shoulders under the heavy backpack that contained everything she owned. She’d paid her father and grandfather’s medical bills and spared nothing for herself. She’d teethed on “taking down the Blaylocks,” a phrase repeated by both men and now she was primed for action.

Raindrops fell from the shimmering aspens, dampening her clothing. She inhaled 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.”