Triple treat

by Boswell, Barbara

  Tyler smiled. He liked her can-do spirit. None of that poor-helpless-little-me whining for her. She probably could've caught Dylan with her teeth!

  He looked over her shoulder and saw the round blue plastic pool, half-filled with water, standing across the yard. Then he glanced down at Carrie, who was wearing a modestly cut two-piece swimsuit, bright yellow with white polka dots. Her legs were quite long for someone of her petite stature, he noted, remembering he'd noticed that last night, too. And her legs were very shapely, from ankle to thigh. He found himself staring appreciatively.

  "You seem to be making a habit of this," said Carrie.

  Tyler jerked his eyes away, and to his consternation, a guilty flush stained his neck. "Uh, I don't know what you mean." An elementary principle—when caught in the act, stonewall!

  "Catching my runaways," Carrie said, smiling up at him. "First Emily last night, then Dylan today. Thank-you once again."

  Tyler swallowed hard. Her legs were definitely a weapon, but her smile apd those intense blue eyes of hers were an arsenal all their own. He stared at her, bemused.

  "Bath," Franklin exclaimed, pointing to the little pool. He was wearing white swim trunks printed with green frogs.

  Emily wore a ruffled pink bathing suit and was doing her upside down trick, hanging over Carrie's arm.

  "Bath," echoed Dylan excitedly, nearly jumping out of Tyler's arms. Tyler tightened his grip, a bit more adept at coping with the wriggling bundle than he'd been last night, with the gymnastics-prone Emily.

  "Bath! Bath! Bath!" Everybody took up the cry, each louder than the other.

  "Swim," corrected Carrie. "You're going to swim in your pool." She started across the yard toward the small blue pool.

  Tyler automatically followed her. What else could he do? He was holding her kid, wasn't he? "Fim," Dylan said conversationally.

  Tyler looked at him. "You mean, swim? Hey, you got it. Swim, not bath." He was rather impressed. He'd never actually credited babies with the ability to think, but this child had obviously listened to Carrie and comprehended her correction. His diction was pretty bad, though. "Swim," Tyler corrected. "S-w, not/."

  "Fim," repeated Dylan.

  "Yeah, well, you're on the right track. Keep practicing." Tyler put Dylan into the pool as Carrie deposited Franklin and Emily there.

  "Bath!" Franklin cried ecstatically, splashing in the water.

  "Swim," Tyler corrected. "Say swim. Come on, kid, show your brother that you're as smart as he is."

  "By all means, set up that competitive drive," Carrie said dryly. "After all, they're eighteen months old and it's never too soon to teach them all about competition in the global marketplace, hmm?"

  "Brothers are natural competitors, nobody has to teach them to be," Tyler retorted. "My earliest memories are of trying to beat my older brother at any game I could—at anything I could." He smiled reminiscently. "Of course,

  since Cole was three years older, I never had any luck there, but I did have the extreme good fortune to have a younger brother, Nathaniel—'-

  "And you were always able to win against Nathaniel, the way Cole won against you," Carrie surmised.

  Tyler beamed. "That's right. Every brother should have a kid brother to triumph over. Builds character."

  "Or character disorders," Carrie said dampeningly. "I want my boys to be friends, not rivals."

  "Fim!" shouted Dylan.

  "Bath!" crowed Franklin.

  Carrie and Tyler looked at each other and laughed. "Suddenly they're dueling linguists," Carrie said. She sat down on the edge of the rickety chaise lounge positioned by the side of the pool.

  Her knees were feeling peculiarly weak. That smile of Tyler's had actually affected her physically, leaving her wide-eyed and winded, as if she'd been socked directly in the solar plexus. In addition, there was the visual impact of his bare chest—muscular, broad and hair-roughened; his long, strong legs, and his well-worn jeans that enhanced every masculine line. Oh, he wore them well, all right. Carrie gulped. She allowed her eyes to linger on him for a moment longer, before dragging her gaze away.

  Tyler Tiemaine was a marvelous-looking man, and he seemed to become even more attractive with every passing glance. And he knew it, of course. Carrie knew he knew it. He had that innate confidence of one who has always been admired and prized—-especially by the opposite sex. Carrie was sure that she wasn't the first woman to be rendered breathless by his smile and virile physique, but this was definitely a first for her. She'd never before simply looked at a man and felt the sharp slash of sheer desire,

  Carrie felt a swift stab of disloyalty toward Ian's memory. Ian had been blond and handsome and his wholesome boy-next-door looks had appealed to her from the first time

  she'd seen him, in the lunch line at their dormitory cafeteria six years ago. Her heart clenched, remembering that innocent time. It seemed so poignant and so sad to look back, knowing the tragic end that awaited laughing, warmhearted Ian.

  Carrie slid her sunglasses, which were resting on the top of her head, down over her eyes and thought how much she loved Ian. How much she would always love him, forever and ever. Nobody would ever take his place. And if she were to occasionally glance at another man, it didn't mean a thing. She was human, wasn't she? One would have to be an android not to react, even slightly, to Tyler Tremaine's traffic-stopping looks.

  Tyler stole a quick glance at Carrie. He was glad she'd put on her sunglasses; those gorgeous eyes of hers disarmed him too thoroughly. Maybe it was the intensity of the color that mesmerized him or the alert intelligence reflected in them, which made him listen more intently to her, no matter how inane the topic. Whatever, he turned his attention to the children, with something akin to relief.

  "Okay, Emily, you must have an opinion on this matter." Tyler knelt beside the pool where Emily sat methodically filling a milk carton with water and emptying it into a plastic pail that floated nearby. "Let's hear the feminine viewpoint. Is this activity a bath or a swim?"

  Emily gave him a long look. "Wa-ner," she said calmly, resuming her project.

  "She said water," Tyler said eagerly, ignoring the mispronunciation. Carrie nodded her confirmation.

  "Wow, she's the smartest one of all." Tyler was astonished. "She's made the leap that it's all water, be it a bath or a swim."

  "Isn't it lucky you didn't have a sister," mocked Carrie. "She would've taken on you and your brothers and won every time."

  Tyler rolled his eyes. "Your poor brother has my heartfelt sympathy. You and your sister probably led him around by the nose. From the little I've seen of the three of you together, you still do."

  "Don't ever let Ben hear you say that." Carrie grinned. "He's always harbored under the delusion that he is the undisputed leader of us three."

  Tyler shook his head. "Poor chump."

  At that moment, Franklin and Dylan each reached for the fat rubber duck floating in the middle of the pool. Franklin grabbed it by the tail just as Dylan grabbed the head.

  "Mine!" Both screamed in unison.

  "That's their new word," said Carrie wryly. "They learned it last week and have been using it enthusiastically ever since."

  Neither child would cede the duck, and the shrieks of "Mine!" resounded through Tyler's head like gunshots. "Aren't you going to do anything?" he demanded. "They're getting awfully noisy."

  "This from the man whose party blasted the entire neighborhood at nine-million-trillion decibels?" Carrie shrugged. "Anyway, they're just enjoying a little brotherly tiff. I thought you'd approve. Doesn't it bring back fond memories?"

  "Well, if you can't be bothered to intervene ..." Scowling his disapproval, Tyler snatched the duck away from both boys and handed it to Emily who was calmly pouring and emptying, ignoring the spat entirely. "Your sister gets to keep the duck, guys," he said righteously. "You see what happens when you yell and—"

  He didn't have a chance to finish. Dylan and Franklin both burst into howls of rage, crying and wail
ing at the top of their lungs. They advanced on Emily like a charging army. Emily took one look at the duck in her hand and another at her brothers and threw the toy out of the pool. It was too much for Dylan and Franklin to deal with. They

  began to cry in earnest, sinking down onto the floor of the pool, looking very frustrated and very, very small.

  "I feel like the school bully," Tyler muttered grimly. He retrieved the duck and offered it to the boys, but both were crying too hard and refused to accept it. When he handed it to Emily, she threw it out of the pool again.

  Carrie got into the pool and took Dylan and Franklin on her lap.

  "How do you stand it?" Tyler stared at them, his expression a mixture of horror and awe. She had to live like this, amidst cries and babbling, twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year. Three-sixty-six during leap year. Why, working weekends at the hospital dealing with hysterical women in labor and their panicky husbands probably felt like a vacation to her!

  Carrie ignored his question, ignored him, and devoted her full attention to her sons. It took only a few moments of her cuddling and soft voice to calm the two children. Their good humor restored, they each clutched toy boats she'd handed them and crawled around the water, pushing them. Carrie got out of the water and resumed her seat on the chaise.

  Neither realized that Tyler had moved closer to it, and when she sat down her leg brushed against his back. Both moved apart so quickly, it would've been humorous, if either felt like laughing. But neither did. Carrie felt as if her skin were on fire. Every nerve ending that had contacted with Tyler's muscular back tingled and burned.

  Tyler still felt the silky smooth softness of her leg against him, as if she'd left a permanent, sensual imprint. He felt his body tighten, felt the pleasurable hardening rise of desire and stifled a groan. Now was definitely the time for one of the triplets to dump a bucket of cold water in his lap, or for all three of them to begin screeching again, an equally effective turnoff.

  But the triplets played contentedly in the pool. Carrie and Tyler remained silent and tense with sexual awareness.

  Tyler glanced covertly from Carrie to the children. They looked adorable, and watching the three of them interact was far more interesting than he could bring himself to admit. As for Carrie, she was sexy and sweet and utterly unattainable—not that he wanted to attain her, of course, but even if he had wanted to, he couldn't because he would not, could not, become involved with a mother of three. It was unthinkable.

  Tyler felt a sharp, sudden wave of anger crash through him. He didn't know why but suddenly he was as infuriated as he'd been on the day that an idiot subordinate within the Tremaine Books division had mistakenly sent fifty thousand copies of The Alternative to Beef Cookbook to the Kansas City Cattlemen's Association.

  "So this is what you do all day, huh?" He broke the silence, the sneer in his voice matching the sneer on his face. "You mediate fights among the munchkins, you chase them around, outside during warm weather, inside during cold. You feed them, you change diapers, then you feed them again so you have to change diapers again. Day in and day out, repetitious, tedious and unending, with never a moment to yourself. Pretty hellish existence, if you ask me."

  "Who asked you?" Carrie snapped, then answered her own question. "Nobody did. And nobody asked you to come over and stay either. If you find it so hellish to be around us, then get out of here!"

  Tyler looked at her. She had whipped off her sunglasses and was glaring at him, her blue eyes fierce and piercing, her expression one of pure fury. She was mad, boiling mad, and he shifted uncomfortably on the ground. He couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him with such pure, unabashed anger. Certainly no woman ever had.

  The shock of it abruptly doused his own ire. "Don't tell me you're kicking me out again?" he attempted flippantly, flashing his most charming bad-boy grin.

  Carrie was not charmed, not a bit. "Yes, I am. You're moody and you have a mean streak and I don't have to put up with any of it, not you or your bad moods or your meanness. So just—take a hike!"

  "Moody? Mean? Me?" Tyler was stunned. And stung. "Your accusations are both untrue and unwarranted and incredibly insulting. I've never—"

  "No, I'm sure you never have heard a few home truths about yourself," Carrie cut in hotly. "This is a first for you. You're rich and you're single and therefore, you're spoiled. Lots of women will put up with just about any kind of treatment from a rich, single guy like you because they have some stupid delusions that they might actually win you—the prince himself!—and live happily ever after with all your millions."

  She paused, midtirade, to breathe. Tyler opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. What she was saying had a hideous ring of truth to it. He'd certainly been aware of his status and his appeal, and he'd certainly used both to his own advantage. His behavior hadn't always been... exemplary. But no woman—not a single one!—had ever dared to tell him so. Until now.

  "Well, I don't have to put up with you or suck up to you," Carrie ranted on. "I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by telling you to go away and don't come back."

  Tyler stood and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You certainly have..." His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. "Moxie." It was one of his father's words, not his own, but it seemed to fit. "And while I don't look for moxie in the women I, uh, date—" he smiled sheepishly "—I find that I have to respect it in a—friend."

  Carrie rose, too, and they stood, practically toe-to-toe, her glaring up at him, him gazing bemusedly down at her. "I'm not your friend," she countered.

  "Last night you said you were."

  "I just said it to get rid of you."

  "And now you're saying you aren't, for the same alleged purpose—to get rid of me. Rather paradoxical, don't you think?"

  "What I think is that you're a jerk."

  Tyler grimaced. "If I leave, I won't be back, Carrie. You won't see me again."

  She folded her arms, never taking her eyes from him. "Good!"

  He knew she meant it, too. Tyler heaved an exasperated sigh. "So why am I still standing here? After all, I'm not nailed to the ground. Why haven't I stormed out of this wreck of a yard, thanking my good fortune for having escaped such a sharp-tongued, bad-tempered witch?"

  "Except you'd spell it with a 6," Carrie said coolly.

  Tyler stared at her. She didn't look quite as angry anymore. He thought he could detect a distinct gleam of amusement beginning to glimmer in those luminous eyes of hers.

  His mouth was suddenly quite dry. "Why the hell am I still here?" he asked huskily.

  "I don't know. Maybe because you're awed by my moxie?"

  "You're laughing at me," he said incredulously. "And you're not mad anymore." He was suddenly, unexpectedly exhilarated. And enthralled.

  "I guess not." Carrie shrugged. "I admit to having the world's worst temper. I'm quick to anger but I get over it just as fast. And what you said about my life—about having to take care of the kids and all—well, it's nothing that Ben hasn't said every time he visits us. But hearing it from you..." Her voice trailed off and she shrugged again. "It offended me. I took it personally and got mad."

  "So I noticed." Tyler cupped her shoulders with his hands. It felt perfectly natural to touch her. So very right. His fingers kneaded absently, feeling the delicate lines of her

  bones, the soft warmth of her skin. He inhaled sharply and slid his hands down the length of her arms. "Look, Carrie, I-"

  She whirled away from him and stepped into the pool. "It's time for lunch/' she announced brightly. "Are you hungry, kids? Hungry for lunch?" She sounded so enthusiastic that the children grew quite excited and echoed something sounding like "yunsh."

  "Good! Come on," Carrie said encouragingly, helping first Emily, then Franklin, and finally Dylan out of the pool. Franklin and Dylan ran to the house. Emily paused and looked back at Tyler.

  "Yunsh?" she said questioningly.

  Tyler was absurdly touch
ed. "Are you inviting me to lunch, Emily?"

  Emily looked up at him with those big blue eyes of hers, looking tiny and cute with her mop of blond hair and her round, little face. She raised her small arms in an unmistakable demand to be picked up.

  "You want me to carry you?" Tyler asked. Emily did not reply, but waited expectantly. Tyler scooped up the little girl and headed toward the house. He had to, he assured himself. Snubbing a one-year-old was inexcusably churlish. "Okay, I'll accept your kind invitation, Emily. I'll have lunch with you."

  "Oh, no!" Carrie groaned. She opened the back porch door and the boys clambered inside. Sleuth, the cat, who had been napping on the glider, dashed into the house when he heard them coming.

  "What do you mean, 'oh, no'?" demanded Tyler, trailing her into the kitchen.

  "Exactly what I said. I thought you'd leave when we came inside."

  "We're not fighting anymore," Tyler reminded her. "Why do you want me to leave?"

  "Because you're exhausting," she said bluntly. "Being with you is exhausting. And I only had three and a half hours' sleep last night and right now I'm so tired that all I want to do is to feed the kids lunch, put them down for their naps and then crash into bed."

  "I like the 'crash into bed' part." Tyler grinned wickedly. "And I am not exhausting, I'm stimulating. Ask any of the Tremaine board of directors who it is that keeps those interminable board meetings from becoming deadly boring. They'll all say it's me."

  "Deadly boring can be restful. You, I repeat, are exhausting. That's why I'd like to rescind Emily's invitation to lunch."

  It was true, but only the partial truth, Carrie acknowledged grimly. The full, unabridged version would have to include those tantalizing streaks of pleasure that had spun through her when he'd touched her. The almost stunning urge to melt against his big hard body, to press herself into the wiry-soft mat of hair on his chest, to rub her legs against the muscular columns of his.