Cait London - Typical Male

Every muscle in his body flexed; goose bumps rode his body. Instincts he’d hidden from the world shot him a solid thump, low in his stomach. He breathed uneasily, shaken by the need to take her to his bed. In the small one room, he caught her scent and hoped his nostrils didn’t quiver, inhaling every nuance. She smelled like rain on a tender rosebud as yet unfurled — sweet, tight and exciting to explore.

Tyrell did not want to explore Celine Lomax; he wanted her out of his life. He shoved the backpack no woman her size ought to be carrying into her hands. He ran his hands down his wet face, plucked off her ball cap and tossed a dry towel over her head. “It’s raining sheets out there. The creeks will be swollen by now and —”

She hadn’t moved, the towel remained draped over her head. Rain ran down her bare legs and a pool of water formed around her worn boots. Tyrell studied her as he swept another towel over his head, chest and arms. He hurled it and the wet bandanna from his forehead into a corner and watched her, his hands braced on his hips.

He wanted to kick off his sodden moccasins. But Cindi, his brother Roman’s adopted daughter, had painted his toenails and braided his hair as he slept yesterday. Tyrell studied Celine under the towel, small capable hands fisting her backpack. He studied those hands — compact and strong, just like her. Unpainted nails, blunt working tips and white knuckles — she was in a snit, all right. So was he. He wasn’t happy about discovering his shocking interest in a woman who wanted to destroy him.

He decided to let her sulk and turned to stuff wood into the old iron stove to warm the cabin. She’d tromped into his retreat; he wasn’t the offender. He simply wanted to take time to realign his life...without distraction. Tyrell wasn’t a man to be distracted easily. He glanced back at her. She sat very still Too still.

He could almost feel the whack of his mother’s behave yourself wooden spoon on his shoulder. The Blaylock males were trained to honor and treat women well. That spoon now belonged to his sister, Else, and she wouldn’t have been happy with him packing this fierce little fireball into his sacred lair.

He scowled at Celine Lomax, troublemaker in his life. He knew he had a savage temper, the surface of which was only scratched even when he discovered Hillary and her father’s rejection. He knew that of all the Blaylocks, he was perhaps the most elemental, and that was why he protected himself with an icy veneer. Deep within him, Tyrell knew that he had inherited arrogance and passion from his conquistador and Apache ancestors. He’d learned to conceal it early, and even in lovemaking, he was controlled. But the mountain fed his need to release that savage passion and here, in the wilds, he was free of tethers.

Tyrell studied Celine’s damp, gleaming legs. He could almost feel them around him, the slender feminine muscles tightening — His body lurched sensually, unexpectedly. He frowned at the towel covering Celine’s head and crossed his arms over his bare chest. She’d invaded his woman-free retreat. Still bitter about Hillary’s defection, he wanted a temporary breather from the whole female sex and he did not like bumps in his life. Celine was definitely a strawberry-blond bump.

He swallowed tightly, fear rising in him. Maybe she was crying. Hillary cried prettily to get her way, some new bauble or a glittering social event that he didn’t want to attend; Celine’s cry would be genuine. His stomach clenched again. Celine Lomax was too real, emotions pouring off her like molten lava. He ran his hand over his stomach as an old ulcer threatened to start up; one delicate sob from Celine and he didn’t trust himself. He scowled at her; she was unbalancing not only his life, but his emotions. A man who prided himself on cool logic, Tyrell looked at her uncertainly and waited.

From beneath the towel, she spoke quietly, biting the words. “You’re bigger and stronger. It’s a typical male ploy to use strength when threatened. But you’re outmatched.”

Tyrell didn’t like the bully-image she’d just hurled at him. He did like those flashing green eyes. Celine Lomax was definitely a passionate woman, all engines running full speed ahead, the air humming around her. Her hair seemed to foam into a brilliant, curling mass around her head, framing her small, set face. He pushed away the grin playing around his mouth. “Oh? How so?”

She ripped the towel away and stood. She jammed on her glasses and lifted both strawberry-blond eyebrows. “Because I’m right. I’ll prove that I’m right,” she stated firmly.

Tyrell almost admired her. Her loyalty to the cruel man who had torn apart lives was unquestionable. Cutter Lomax was notorious for his temper and his schemes.

Hillary’s loyalties ran to herself and money; this woman had wagered everything on a man’s word—a grandfather she loved deeply—without question.

She glanced around his neat cabin, the wood flooring planks he had just repaired, the single bed and spartan table 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.