Typical Male

“You Actually Want To Reopen The Old Feud. You Want Revenge.” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Epilogue Copyright

“You Actually Want To Reopen The Old Feud. You Want Revenge.”

It was to Celine’s benefit that Tyrell knew this was not a whim, but a need that drove her every breath. “You got it, buddy.”

“Well, then,” he said slowly. He stretched slowly, and Celine blinked at all that male body rippling in front of her. She swallowed abruptly as an unfamiliar little feminine lurch that she couldn’t define stabbed at her. Celine liked everything in black and white; she did not like unsteady emotions.

Tyrell’s slow smile might have devastated another woman. “I guess you’ve got to deal with me, then. I appreciate the notice. And thanks for referring to me earlier as a ‘big, juicy tomato.’ I’m honored, and you’ve gone to all this trouble, too, to pick me from my vine. My, that makes me feel so special.”

Tyrell Blaylock, the man she’d ruined, was flirting with her!

Dear Reader,

Merry Christmas from Silhouette Desire—where you’re guaranteed powerful, passionate and provocative love stones that feature rugged heroes and spirited heroines who experience the full emotional intensity of falling in love!

The always-wonderful Cait London is back with this December’s MAN OF THE MONTH, who happens to be one of THE BLAYLOCKS. In Typical Male, a modern warrior hero is attracted to the woman who wants to destroy him.

The thrilling Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB concludes with Lone Star Prince by Cindy Gerard. Her Royal Princess Anna von Oberland finally reunites with the dashing attorney Gregory Hunt who fathered her child years ago.

Talented Ashley Summers returns to Desire with That Loving Touch, where a pregnant woman becomes snowbound with a sexy executive in his cabin The ever-popular BACHELOR BATTALION gets into the holiday spirit with Marine under the Mistletoe by Maureen Child. Star-Crossed Lovers is a Romeo-and-Juliet-with-a-happy-ending story by Zena Valentine. And an honorable cowboy demands the woman pregnant with his child marry him in Christy Lockhart’s The Cowboy’s Christmas Baby.

Each and every month, Silhouette Desire offers you six exhilarating journeys into the seductive world of romance So make a commitment to sensual love and treat yourself to all six for some great holiday reading this month!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

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Typical Male

Cait London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAIT LONDON

lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She enjoys research trips meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number, she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” Cait says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift”

For my daughter Karla

One

“A woman, and she looks like trouble.” Tyrell leaned back into the shadows of Wyoming’s Rocky Mountain pines and firs and studied the woman marching up the rugged path to his cabin hideaway. Her stride wasn’t easy, but firm, with a purpose — she wanted something.

His ex-fiancée had used other methods. But his sister, Else, the matron of the extensive Blaylock family, walked like that, and she always had a purpose.

Tyrell wiped the sweat from his chin with his forearm. Chopping wood took away a measure of his dark mood. He traced the zigzagging route of a red fox in the brush, then scanned the cloudy sky where a golden eagle seemed to hover in the high winds. At this altitude, late May was cold, though the ranches below were decked in spring’s vivid green. Six months ago, he had been a top executive, a chief of finance for a New York corporate office. Now the only peace he’d found was about to be invaded by a woman.

He wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone, even his family Else didn’t like her brothers to escape her. James, Logan, Dan Roman and Rio all had wives and only lightly mourned the freedom of “holing-up.”

Until Tyrell had settled the storms within him, he was doing just that, taking a “breather” and coming home to the source of his peace—the mountains and his family.

He hefted the ax and placed his thoughts in numerical order He liked numbers; they had always served him well. He swung the ax at the trunk of the tree and began to count his thought with each solid whack. One—when he’d found what he needed settled that savage edge riding him, then he would—He swung the ax again, coming down on the first cut to create a wedge that would eventually fell the tree. Two—go in for the kill, find out who started the rumors about him. Someone had been tracking his life, his credit cards, his bank account, his method of travel and telephone bills. Three—the ax bit into the wood with an expert cut that would eventually topple it. Returning home was all part of his plan to sort out his life. And it would be a long time before he’d trust a woman.

A hawk, seeking a mouse, soared in the clear blue Wyoming sky as Tyrell gripped his ax tightly. The woman continued he steady march toward his sanctuary. The few women in Tyrell’ life had always wanted something—cash, career, status. At one time, he’d wanted those things, too. Now he didn’t; he wanted peace. Tyrell’s gaze swept over Jasmine, the small Wyoming town nestled in the valley below. His ancestor Micah Blaylock had settled the valley and had taken a bride, and the Blaylock name was rich with honor and respect. The youngest of seven children, Tyrell had come home again to find that honor and family values he’d tossed away the years he’d worked to build Mason Diversified. Mason’s, a top shipping and label company now owned many subsidiary companies with varied interests but Tyrell had paid a dear price. He’d been away from his family and his roots too long.

Micah Blaylock’s old cabin had been Tyrell’s refuge—rebuilding it had given him what he’d needed.

It wasn’t easy to move back into his family. He couldn’t forget his father’s last telephone call — Tyrell should have come home and didn’t. He’d been too busy chalking up profits for Mason Diversified.

He inhaled the fresh morning air, scented of spring. Soon there would be wild roses beginning to bud. A mountain blue bird shot across the sky, and new leaves shimmered on the cottonwood trees. And the air around him simmered with regrets. Now his parents were gone, killed in an accident on icy roads. He wondered if that ice had shrouded his heart, pictures of their crushed car in the deep canyon haunting him.

He studied the woman invading his peace. Then, with a curse, he expertly threw the ax he’d been using to cut wood; the ax handle rotated once in midair, the steel sinking deep into the trunk of an aspen tree. “If she makes it past that old rock slide, it will take her about two hours to get to the meadow, and she’s not getting past that. I came up here for peace and quiet.”

The woman, dressed in a ball cap, a dull red sweater against the morning chill and khaki shorts, placed one hand on a boulder and vaulted over it. Her small round glasses glinted, washed by the cloudy morning sun as she leaped over a stream and continued steadily upward on the rocky path. In a direct as-the-crow-flies line, she was not far from Tyrell’s cabin; however, the winding trail around a small canyon added to the walking time. From his high vantage point, Tyrell noticed her hiking boots and the slender athletic legs above them. Her backpack shifted as she vaulted over a log.

“She’ll sprain something and I’ll be stuck with her.” Tyrell had had enough of women for a long time. Hillary had left deep bruises. His ex-fiancée, the daughter of his boss, wasn’t exactly the love of his life, but she suited Tyrell’s rising financial career. After a five-year relationship, he’d expected her to believe his word against the rumor mongers’. His jaw tightened beneath his two-week beard. Someone had set out to deliberately sabotage his career, starting rumors about his private life and making insinuations about selling Mason Diversified’s lucrative client list to competitors.

An aging playboy, and jealous of Tyrell’s youth and fitness, Melvin Mason had gradually grown to resent his top man on a personal basis. Mason wanted singular control of the company, now that the firm was showing high profit.

Descended from hunters, Tyrell’s eyes jerked to a bighorn sheep, leaping on the red rock cliff above the cabin. Tyrell had expected his future father-in-law and employer of the past ten years to believe him. Insecure, feeling threatened and looking for reasons to strip Tyrell’s growing control of the company, Melvin Mason had believed what he wanted and took the rumors as truth. Melvin wasn’t the understanding sort, but then Tyrell hadn’t asked for friendship. He’d pushed Mason Diversified into a sleek, high profit company and had made millions for Mason. Tyrell liked numbers lining up to make neat profit. His colleagues hadn’t questioned his integrity; they respected him. He’d expected the same from his fiancée and an employer whom he had made rich. He hadn’t asked Hillary or her father for warmth; he’d asked them to believe him. After years of association, he hadn’t doubted that they would give him time to root out the troublemaker.

They hadn’t. Without waiting, without questioning or letting Tyrell untangle the gossip, Mason had wanted the company to himself. He wanted to play power hardball, ripping away Tyrell’s position and employee benefits. A bad move on Mason’s part — the aftershocks included Mason’s top clients calling Tyrell and asking for referrals to Mason’s competitors.

After Hillary’s and Mason’s reactions to the rumors that Tyrell had a sleazy private life, he hadn’t cared who started the trouble; he’d had enough after a long series of Mason’s attempts to undermine him. Prior to the final break, the day Mason ordered him out of the building, Tyrell’s instinct told him there was trouble. Two weeks before that day, Tyrell had moved to protect the investments and retirement portfolios of his staff and fellow workers, who wanted him to fight and who believed in him. Then, when their investments were safe and established in accounts outside Mason’s reach, Tyrell had set to work destroying what he’d built. On that final day, one touch of his finger to just one computer key, set into action damage that could not be repaired.

Descended from Apaches and Spanish conquistadors with a mix of European settler thrown in, Tyrell knew how to fight. He knew how to streamline profits and he knew how to fatten loss. He left Mason with a shell of a company, the same as it was ten years ago. Then he’d walked away, sickened by the lifestyle he had once wanted.

To mend, he’d come back to Jasmine, Wyoming, and his family, the Blaylocks. He’d sort out his disappointment and anger, in himself and in Mason, and then he’d rebuild his life.

Startled by his sudden flash of temper, Tyrell rhythmically slapped his thigh. Damn it, he wanted privacy, not visitors and chitchat or a helpless woman underfoot. The woman walked across a fallen log bridging another creek and Tyrell held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t fall. Instead she sat on a gray boulder and drew off her ball cap. Short, vibrant strawberry-red curls gleamed in the dim gray morning, her face small and pale in the distance.

“She’ll sunburn in this high mountain sun, even though it is cloudy.” Tyrell narrowed his eyes as she removed something from her backpack, stripped off her glasses and began rubbing her face and legs. “So she knows about sun protection, but there’s a whole lot more up here that can make life hard on a woman, including me. She’s not getting past my meadow.”

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.”

His gaze ripped down her body, then jarred as it locked with hers. “Lomax,” he said flatly, as if the word stood for trouble.

“You got it, Blaylock. The name is Lomax. The company I was working for sent me to do the survey on a building and parking lot for Mason Diversified’s in Montana. I caught the name on the contract and dug out a few facts, like Jasmine, Wyoming, home of the Blaylocks, who my grandfather said stole away his life. He hated the Blaylocks and Boone Llewlyn and for good reason. He died penruless and so did my father, and I paid their bills. They should have had an easier life...thanks to the Blaylocks and that land-grabber Boone Llewlyn, they didn’t. It wasn’t hard to follow your trail back to corporate headquarters in New York, and guess what? There was the baby of the Blaylocks, right in my sight.”

“You...are the woman who ‘accidentally’ bumped into my fian—to Hillary Mason in a shopping mall and said that you were pregnant with my child? That we had a toddler at home and you were destitute because I wasn’t providing for you?” The words were carefully placed, echoing loudly when Tyrell’s voice was deep and soft, too soft.

Celine forced a cheerful smile. That hit-and-run disguise had worked; they’d never find the woman again. His frown deepened. “You’re the woman who sent the thank-you letter to Mason. You said that I’d sold his private client list to you, contact information that was vital to sales and promotion of products?”

“I was proud of that letter. A few chats with employees who think Mason is insecure and jealous of you, and I was off to the races. I told Mason that I thought it was very nice of him to allow you to sell a ‘best client’ list to a competitor.”

“Mason was too furious and eager to get me out to check on that. You are, of course, the same woman who again bumped into Hillary at the doorway of Mason Diversified Corporate Building. But this time you were dressed in a leopard skin bodysuit and six-inch heels and wearing a long blond wig and fake eyelashes. You asked the way to my office to perform the services I had requested at noon? You hoped you wouldn’t get that much oil on my desk this time?” His eyes drifted down her compact, athletic body and her worn clothing.

The leopard-seductress image didn’t fit her now; she’d played the part to perfection and even enjoyed dressing up as a femme fatale. The seductress-for-one-day could never be traced. Celine allowed her smile to grow. “I was on rest and relaxation leave from my company. New York seemed to be the place to visit. Your ex-fiancée was shocked. Especially when I told her that all of my ‘working’ girlfriends knew and liked you.”

“Exactly how did you get your information about me?” His question was like a whip cracking the cold, misty air.

“Your secretary is such a motherly woman. We had a chat in the ladies’ room. That day, I was the scrub woman down on my luck.” She almost felt guilty. When she’d begun sobbing, Mary’s arms had enclosed her like a mother’s. But Celine didn’t know about a mother’s arms, and she had a job to do—get revenge.