Cait London - Typical Male

“That’s a lie. I ruined you. Me...a Lomax, and you’re not blackmailing me. I don’t go down easy. You’re living up here in a cabin because you’re broke and hiding out. High wheelers and dealers can lose it as easy as they make it. Or maybe it’s just good old shame that you’ve been kicked out.”

“‘A lie,”’ he repeated slowly, dangerously, as if no one had ever dared speak to him like that. The vein in his throat stood out in relief. He hitched her a fraction higher, his breath sweeping across her face as their stares locked. “I’ll bet that backpack is heavy,” he said slowly.

“Not a bit,” she lied, though the straps would probably leave chafe marks. Her tiptoes barely touched the ground, but she wasn’t frightened. If Blaylock wanted to test her, that was fine. She’d lived with bullies all her life. “I’ve walked across deserts carrying this weight and more.”

His eyes darkened and shot down to her mouth. She licked her lips and hoped she didn’t have a crumb of that last cookie on them — that would nun her going-for-the-kill image.

“You like gingersnap cookies, do you, Lomax?” he asked in a tone that sent a jolt of electricity to every tense muscle in her body. There was just a hint of play, of curiosity, and something darker, deeper, more elemental.

Celine tensed. Whatever the ball game was right now, she didn’t know how to play. Tethered by his grip, she glared at him. In her lifetime, when uncertain, she’d found that glaring was always a safe defensive move. Tyrell’s eyes narrowed pinning her. The air seemed to slither, tingle and heat as if it were alive; it sucked away her breath, and sent tiny thunderbolts through her body. That uncertain churning in her stomach had to be too little sleep and too much coffee. She pushed away the unfamiliar tense emotion and went for a solid jab on what she suspected might be a tender spot. “When Papa jerked your position, she didn’t want a working man. Hillary-poo chose not to believe you, didn’t she? And then she couldn’t leave Papa’s money for someone who is down and out, could she?”

His expression darkened, tightened and then he abruptly released her sweater. He rubbed his jaw and the sound of beard against his rough palm echoed eerily in the misty air. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not exactly sweet?”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Blaylock,” she shot at him cheerfully. She blew away the raindrop that had been clinging to the end of her nose.

His expression softened, humor dancing in his black eyes. “You’re wet clear through, Lomax. A pitiful soggy little thing.”

She snorted at the “little thing.” She’d worked right beside her crew, blazing heat and freezing ice storms. She’d hauled wood for campfires, climbed mountains and — “At least I’m dressed, not standing half-naked in a drenching rain and playing at being a mountain man.”

Tyrell looked slowly down her body and Celine realized that her flesh had chilled, her nipples thrusting against the damp sweater. She usually wore a vest in the cold, but men’s chests did the same thing in cold weather. She was sturdily built, probably a gift from her Scots-Irish ancestors. She watched, fascinated as a dark flush rose up his cheeks. He closed his eyes, groaned and turned, striding through the wet grass away from her.

“Hey! I’m not done with you,” she shouted, trudging after him through the sodden meadow. “You haven’t heard all the good stuff yet. You’re just a typical male, you know...running when things get tough.”

He turned his head to glower at her over his shoulder, then turned and kept walking.

“Running, huh?” she called, enjoying herself for the first time in—in forever. Her grin stopped when he allowed a small wet branch to flip back in her face. She sputtered, mopping the water from her face as she hurried after him. “You did that on purpose. I should have expected something sneaky like that from a Blaylock.”

Her backpack slipped and as she struggled to tug it back up again, her glasses went awry. Tyrell appeared out of the mist and stripped the backpack away. Dangling from his large hand, it looked like a toy. With his other hand, he straightened her glasses. “Coming, dear?” he asked between his teeth. “Or don’t you know enough to get out of the rain?”

Celine tensed, leaning toward him, her fists at her side. Tyrell’s mouth jerked as though he were hiding a grin. She wouldn’t tolerate anyone making fun of her. “Are you calling me a ‘twit’?”

“If the name fits —” Tyrell easily blocked the fist she shot at his stomach. Without missing a heartbeat, he slid her glasses from her and pushed them into her hand. “Here. Hold these.”

Then he bent and scooped her over his shoulder and began loping easily through the forest. He carried her over the narrow path as if she were a child.

Tyrell jerked open his cabin door and eased through it, carrying his squirming burden. That compact, squirming body had muscles, and Celine knew how to swear. Just what he would expect from Cutter Lomax’s granddaughter.

She was stubborn, willful, hot-tempered, and he felt a warm glow just looking at her. As he looked down at her in the rain-drenched meadow he wasn’t happy about the odd light-hearted feeling curling around him. Bristling, threatening him and his family, and scented of gingersnap cookies, rain and mist, she was loyal and untouched — Untouched. Every male instinct he had told him that Celine was an innocent. Defenseless, alone and fiercely defending her grandfather’s lies as truth, Celine Lomax hadn’t a clue that he’d found her interesting—as a woman.

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.