Sandra Marton - Taming of Tyler Kincaid

by The Taming of Tyler Kincaid

  "Nothing," Tyler muttered, and reached for the half-empty champagne bottle he'd gone downstairs and snagged. "Not one damned thing."

  "Oh, dear."

  He swung around. The bathroom door was open; Adrianna stood limned by light in the opening. He had to admit, she was magnificent. All that long golden hair, the black silk nightgown barely containing her breasts and clinging to her body, touching her the way his hands would… if he let himself touch her. She stood with one long, shapely leg thrust out through the thigh-high slit in the skirt of the gown, her high­-arched foot encased in a black silk slipper with a heel so high it made his blood pressure soar.

  "Talking to yourself, darling?" she whispered.

  She came toward him, her walk slow, her hips swinging. The scent of Chatiel drifted to his nostrils; he knew from ex­perience that she'd touched it to all her pulse points, and to the soft skin of her thighs.

  Take her, his blood sang, bury yourself in her ...but his brain reminded him, coldly, that taking her now would only delay the inevitable. Despite everything she'd done, she de­served better than that.

  "Adrianna." He cleared his throat, walked to the nightstand where she'd left her flute of champagne, picked it up and offered it to her. "We have to talk."

  "Talk?" She smiled, took a sip of the wine and eyed him over the delicate rim of the glass. "Seems to me we can do better than that, darling. Here I am, all ready for bed, and you're still standing there in your suit." She put down her glass. "I'll help you, shall I?" Her hands went to his tie, to the first button on his shirt. "Let's get you out of this and—­"

  "No." Tyler caught hold of her wrists, drew down her

  hands. "Dammit, listen to me."

  "You're hurting me, Tyler."

  He looked at his hands, saw them crushing her delicate bones. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly, and let go of her. "Ad­rianna. About tonight—"

  "The party."

  "Yes. Right. The party." Only minutes ago, he'd intended to end things between them by telling her she'd had no right to make the damned party, to invade his space, to presume things about their relationship that weren't valid, but she was looking up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth just starting to trem­ble. Instead of anger, he felt a quick, almost overwhelming despair. "I know that you must have gone to a lot of trouble, arranging it..."

  "And you wish I hadn't."

  "Yes. I wish you hadn't."

  "I don't understand." Tears rose in her eyes, threatened to spill down her cheeks. "I only wanted to make you happy, darling."

  "I know. But—" But what? Could a man really be angry ,it a woman for caring about him enough to want to give him a surprise party? "But," he said gently, "I never celebrate my birthday, Adrianna."

  "That's just plain silly."

  "It's fact."

  "Oh, pooh." The tears that had threatened vanished in an instant. She smiled and put her palms flat against his chest. "We'll change all that."

  "No." He caught her hands again, this time being careful not to apply any pressure. "No, we won't."

  "Of course we will. Next year—"

  "There isn't going to be a next year, Adrianna." He let go of her, ran his fingers through his dark hair. "Look, I'm trying my damnedest not to hurt your feelings, but—"

  "My feelings? My feelings? Dammit, Tyler!" Her voice rose and he looked at her in surprise. He'd never heard her speak so stridently before. "Don't you dare patronize me. You don't give a rat's tail about my feelings." She lifted her hand, poked it, hard, into his chest. "You're just angry because I got tired of waiting for you to move our relationship on to the next phase."

  Tyler's green eyes grew cool. "There is no next phase. Adrianna."

  "Of course there is. All this nonsense, not letting me leave some of my things here, not ever spending the whole night at my place..." Her chin rose. "Acting as if letting me know those silly gate and door codes would violate national secu­rity."

  His gaze went from cool to frigid. "I told you, right up­front, how things were going to be."

  "No commitment. No forever-after."

  "The no forever-after was your contribution."

  "Maybe so. That was the way I felt, at the time—but I changed my mind."

  "That's not my fault, baby," Tyler snapped. "I kept my end of the deal."

  "And you're known for that, aren't you? For always keep­ing your end of the deal. Cool-headed Tyler Kincaid, never undermined by sentiment, in business or in his dealings with women."

  Tyler puffed out a breath in exasperation. "Look, there's no point to this. I don't want to quarrel with you—"

  "No. You just want to tell me I overstepped my bounds, that I had no right to waltz into your house, into your life."

  "Dammit!" Tyler threaded his hand through his hair again. "Look, if I'd wanted a birthday party, I'd have thrown one for myself."

  Adrianna rolled her eyes. "Good God, what a sin! Arranging a party—"

  "Don't you get it? I didn't want a party."

  "A party to which I invited a bunch of your friends—" "They're not my friends."

  "Of course they are!"

  "They're people I know, that's all. They only bother with me because of what I can give them."

  "Which is precious little, Tyler."

  Tyler's mouth thinned. "What in hell is that supposed to mean?"

  Adrianna swung away from him and stalked into the bath­room. "That magazine article the other week called you `bril­liant.' Figure it out for yourself."

  He strode after her, watched as she stripped off the gown, pulled a T-shirt and jeans from her nightcase and put them on.

  "I've set up deals for half the men who were here tonight," he growled, "and the other half wishes I would. You think that's giving them precious little, huh?"

  "Is that what you think people want from you? Deals? Money? Power?"

  Tyler stared at his mistress. She was fully dressed now, still wearing those high heels. Now, strangely, they struck him not as sexy but sad.

  "Look," he said, struggling to sound calm, "it's late. We're both tired. I think it's best if I drive you home."

  "I'm perfectly capable of driving myself home, thank you."

  She was, and he knew it. Tyler shrugged his shoulders, folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

  "Suit yourself."

  "I intend to." Adrianna shot him a glittering smile. "It would never have worked, Tyler. I guess I always knew that, in my heart. After a while, whenever I looked at you, I'd see the look in your eyes that says `Keep Out,' and it would have killed me."

  Her words drained the anger from him.

  "It isn't you," he said softly. "Despite anything I said, it isn't you."

  "Sometimes..." She drew a deep breath. "Sometimes, I wonder if there's anybody inside you, Tyler. If you feel things, like the rest of us."

  "Adrianna... "

  "The thing is..." she said, with a little laugh. "The thing is, I fell in love with you. And I know you could never fall in love with me."

  He thought of lying to her, of softening the blow, but he knew, too, that the one thing he could give her now was the truth. He reached out, tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear.

  "No," he said gently, "I couldn't. I wish it were different. I really wish—"

  Adrianna put her hand lightly over his mouth. "Don't lie to either of us, Tyler. That isn't your wish. We both know that I'm not the woman for you. I'm not the one you're look­ing for."

  Tyler gave a mocking laugh. "I'm not looking for a woman. Not now, not ever. "

  "Everyone's looking for someone, whether they know it or not."

  "You're wrong."

  Adrianna smiled gently, rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his mouth.

  "Goodbye, darling," she whispered.

  Tyler watched her walk from the room. He sank down on the edge of the bed, listened to the distant click- click of those ridiculous high heels fading, then to the even more distant sound of her car. At last, he
stood and walked slowly to the window.

  The moon was setting, dipping into the branches of the old oak just outside his bedroom.

  There was nobody inside him, Adrianna had said, but she was wrong. Tyler smiled bitterly. The boy named John Smith was still there, whether he liked it or not. There was an emp­tiness in his heart, a yearning sometimes that he couldn't put a name to or get rid of by burying himself in his work, or even by pounding his gloved fists against the body bag at his gym­

  She was wrong about him looking for a woman, too. How could a man look for a woman when he was still searching for himself?

  He stood at the window for hours, watching as night gave way to dawn. At six, exhausted, he fell on his bed and slept. When he opened his eyes, it was after nine.

  Tyler reached for the telephone.

  "Carol," he said, when his secretary answered, "you re­member that private detective we used last year? The one who found out who was selling our research plans to our compet­itors? I'd like his name, please, and his phone number. No, no that's fine. I'll call him myself." A moment passed. Then Tyler scrawled down the name and number his secretary gave him. "Thank you," he said.

  He disconnected, took a deep breath and dialed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CAITLIN MCCORD had a passion for horses, dogs and kittens but, because she was a reasonably sane woman, she didn't like them all in one place at the same time, especially if the dog was barking, the horse was rolling its eyes and the kitten was hissing like a rattlesnake.

  The horse, a chestnut mare with the unlikely name of Charlotte, was beautiful, terrified and new to Espada. Caitlin had spent the best part of half an hour rubbing her velvet nose and feeding her carrots while she told her they were destined to be friends. When the mare nuzzled her shoulder, Caitlin smiled, led her from the stables to the paddock and saddled her.

  That was when the dog, a black-and-tan hound with a clever nose and a foolish disposition, came wandering by.

  "Woof?" said the dog.

  The mare rolled her eyes and danced backward. Caitlin held firmly to the bridle, calmed the horse, shooed the dog and devoted another five minutes to telling her life was not as awful as she imagined. When the horse nuzzled her again, she decided it was time to ease herself gently into the saddle.

  That was the moment the dog reappeared, this time in hot pursuit of a ball of hissing orange fluff.

  Caitlin felt the mare's muscles bunch beneath her thighs. The animal whinnied, reared and pawed the air before she brought it under control again.

  Abel Jones, Espada's foreman, had been watching the go­ings-on from his window at the eastern end of the stables. He stepped out the side door into the paddock and spat a thin stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

  "Ornery critter, that horse."

  "She just needs to run off some steam.

  "Manuel ain't doin' nothin' much this mornin'." Able spat another stream of juice down toward his boots. "He'll take her out, if you like."

  Caitlin shot a grin in Abel's direction. "And spoil my fun?" She leaned forward, ran a gloved hand over the chestnut's quivering, arched neck. "I'll do it. Just toss me my hat—it fell off when this little girl tried to make like Trigger."

  The old man bent down, plucked the Texas Rangers base­ball cap from the dust, dusted it against his thigh and handed it up. Caitlin pulled the cap on, tucked her dark auburn curls up under it and tugged the brim down over her eyes.

  "Open the gate, please."

  "Sure you don't want to give Manuel somethin' to do?" "Open it, Abel."

  The foreman grunted. There was no mistaking an order, even when it was issued in a quiet voice.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, and flung the gate to the paddock wide. Horse and woman shot through in a blur.

  '`That there mare's a wild one," Manuel said, coming up alongside. "Think the senorita can handle her?"

  Abel's narrowed eyes stayed locked on the receding figures of horse and rider. "She'll handle the mare, all right." He worked the mouthful of chewing tobacco into his cheek, spat and wiped his pepper-and-salt mustache on his sleeve. "It's a stallion's gonna give her trouble, someday."

  Manuel gave the foreman a puzzled look. "We got a new stallion? Nobody told me about it."

  The old man laughed. "It's what they call a figger of speech, kid."

  "A what?"

  Abel sighed, reached for a pitchfork and thrust it at the boy. "Go muck out the stalls," he said, and stomped away.

  Tyler Kincaid was driving a battered old Chevy pickup along an unpaved road that undulated through the Texas countryside.

  He'd paid some old geezer four hundred bucks for the truck after the plane he'd chartered had flown him to a small airfield just outside town. The P.I. he'd hired said there was a private landing strip on the Baron ranch but Tyler had decided that a man reconnoitering a situation was better off doing it without drawing too much attention to himself. That was why he'd dressed inconspicuously, not in a suit and tie but in weekend clothes—faded jeans and a cotton T-shirt. He'd even resur­rected his old Stetson and his roper boots from the back of his closet.

  Tyler had figured he could rent a car someplace near,the airstrip but he'd figured wrong, which was how he'd ended up with the Chevy. The old truck groaned and rattled like the bucket of bolts it was, and there was dust kicking up through the holes in the floorboard and settling like tan snow on his boots but according to the map in his bag, he didn't have far to go. It was only another ten or twelve miles to the Baron ranch.

  The radio worked, anyway. Tyler fiddled with the dial, set­tled for a station playing the kind of country music he hadn't listened to since his years breaking horses in the hot Georgia sun, first at Boys Ranch and then on his own, after he'd left the Marines. The sentimental songs were made for the hard life of a cowboy. Right now, he just wanted them to take his mind off what he'd set out to do because he suspected that if he thought about it too long, he might admit he was making a mistake.

  Why pay a private investigator to dig into the circumstances of his birth and then go out on his own? It was foolish, maybe foolhardy ... but this was his life. If anybody was going to find the answers he sought, it was going to be­

  The engine hiccuped, made a noise like a sick elephant and came to a convulsive stop.

  Tyler frowned, did a quick appraisal of the dashboard gauges. Gas was okay and so was the oil. The engine tem­perature read normal. He waited a couple of seconds, then turned the key.

  "Dammit," he said, and flung the door open.

  It was hotter than blazes with the sun beating down. A cho­rus of insects filled the silence with a melody of their own devising.

  Tyler walked to the front of the pickup and lifted the hood, springing back as steam spewed into the already humid air. He mouthed an oath, waited until the cloud dissipated, then leaned forward and peered at the engine. It was a mess. Rust and dirt, frayed wires and worn hoses... It was years since he'd done much more than pump gas into his Porsche but he reached right in. There were some things a man just didn't forget. Things like how you really couldn't expect to get very far with a radiator that leaked like a sieve, and a temperature gauge that had evidently packed it in a long time ago.

  Tyler slammed the hood shut, wiped his hands on his jeans and tried not to think about the old codger back at the airstrip, who had to be looking at his four hundred bucks and laughing his head off.

  "Hell," he said, and then he sighed. It was his fault, nobody else's. Any man who'd lost touch with reality enough to think he could breeze into a town that was little more than a wide spot on the road, flash some hundred dollar bills and expect not to be taken, was a jerk.

  Now what?

  He stepped away from the truck, looked back toward where he'd been and then ahead, toward where he was going. The view both ways was the same, nothing but a rolling, dusty road that stretched from horizon to horizon with tall grass waving on either side and trees backing up the grass. He was halfway between nowhere an
d no place. It was a great title for a country ballad but not a very useful location otherwise.

  Tyler stomped back to the truck. He snatched his hat from the front seat and put it on, yanked the map from his bag and checked it. The road went on straight for a couple of miles before taking a sharp right. According to the P.I., he'd see the wrought-iron gates and longhorn logo that marked the entrance to Baron land just before it did.

  Going ahead was the only logical choice. If life had taught him anything, it was that taking a step back was never an option.

  Tyler folded the map, tucked it into the bag and looped the straps over one shoulder. He tipped the wide brim of the

  Stetson down over his eyes and started walking toward Espada.

  Three weeks of digging, and all the P. I. had come up with was the name of the ranch where John Smith had been born. Well, it was something. At least he knew now that John Smith had begun life not in Georgia but in Texas.

  That was how he thought of the boy he'd been, as if he and Smith were two separate people. The skinny kid with the ropy muscles who'd had to fight for his place in the world was a stranger to the successful man who had everything he could possibly want.

  A jackrabbit zipped across the road ahead, moving so quickly it was almost a blur. Maybe the rabbit had places to be, Tyler thought with a tight smile. If the rabbit didn't, he surely did yet here he was, walking a dirt road in Texas when he had a life to live, a corporation to run...and, if he chose, a relationship to mend. Adrianna had phoned and left a mes­sage. It hadn't taken much reading between the lines to realize she'd be willing to take him back, on his terms.

  The thing of it was, he wasn't sure that was what he wanted.

  She was lovely, and charming, and he'd enjoyed the time he'd been with her, but the affair had run its course. He was willing to admit that was his fault but what Adrianna had said about him wasn't true. There was nothing the matter with him. He did feel things. If he never spoke of love, it was simply because he couldn't bring himself to lie.