Sandra Marton - Taming of Tyler Kincaid

by The Taming of Tyler Kincaid

  The old man's rage was understandable. What man could survive the knowledge that his woman had lain in another man's arms? If Caitlin ever gave herself to someone else, if she ever hungered for another man's kisses...

  "I asked you somethin', Kincaid. You got any more ques­tions, or are we finished?"

  "We're finished," Tyler said, and cleared his throat.

  Jonas nodded. "That we are. And if you got any damned fool ideas about Espada, you better forget them."

  "Espada?" Tyler repeated. "What ideas would I have about Espada?"

  "Come on, boy. I'm old but I ain't senile. There's talk everywhere about this ranch, and how I ain't got a son to leave it to."

  "I hate to disillusion you, Baron, but hard as this may be to grasp, nobody talks about Espada where I come from. And unless I've misunderstood every mention your stepdaughter's made of her brothers, you have three sons to leave it to."

  "Not a one of 'em wants it."

  Tyler nodded. "Yeah, well, that's very interesting, but—"

  "Maybe you figure to have some claim on it." Jonas eyed him narrowly. "Maybe you already knew all that stuff I just told you, about my Juanita. Maybe that's why you really come here, 'cause you thought you could make a case that Espada ought to be yours."

  "What?"

  "You heard me, boy. You lied your way onto my land and now, for all I know, you're gonna lie and say I'm the man who fathered you."

  Tyler grabbed Jonas by the shirt. "You call me `boy' and accuse me of lying again and I'll—I'll—" He looked at his hand, knotted into Jonas's shirt, made a sound of disgust and let go. "Listen to me, Baron, and listen good. I came here for one reason, and it didn't have a damned thing to do with your ranch. Why in hell would I want it? It's nothing to me, just acres of dirt and cows."

  "Them acres of dirt and cows is worth millions."

  "You did some checking of your own, you said. Then you know I don't need your money. "

  "Money ain't everything."

  Tyler smiled thinly. "Is that advice? Or is it wisdom gleaned from your advanced years?"

  "It's fact, Kincaid. Ain't a man alive don't want his birth­right. "

  "His birthright," Tyler said, lifting an eyebrow.

  "There are some might say I denied you that. You would have had my name, if I hadn't caught your mama with the drifter." Jonas tossed aside the unlit cigar. "Bet you hate me for that."

  A muscle flexed in Tyler's jaw. "I don't hate you. You did what you had to do, that's all."

  "Come on, Kincaid, be honest. On account of me, you ended up livin' with people who got paid to take you in. And when they was gone, you went into a state home."

  "There are worse things," Tyler said coldly.

  "There surely are." Jonas smiled slyly. "Things like that there ranch where the court put you, after you got yourself in trouble."

  "If there's a point to all this," Tyler said, even more coldly, "get to it."

  "Oh, there's a point, all right. Seems to me is that it had to be a mighty temptin' idea, you comin' here to claim you was a Baron."

  "You just finished telling me I'm not." Tyler smiled thinly. "And the better I know you, old man, the happier that makes me."

  "My firstborn came along three years after you."

  "The lucky bastard," Tyler said, and grinned mirthlessly. "And I'll tell you right now, I ain't takin' no fancy tests to prove you ain't of my blood."

  "Are you crazy? Did I even suggest you take tests to prove it?"

  "I'm jes' tellin' you, loud and clear, you get yourself some fancy lawyer to talk about genes and chro-mo-somes and such, I'll turn my lawyers on you an' him both, and grind you into dog meat." Jonas jabbed a finger into Tyler's chest. "You got that?"

  Tyler caught Jonas's arm. The muscles were ropy and as hard as steel cables, but Tyler was stronger and more power­ful. He twisted the arm behind Jonas's back until the older man grunted with the pain.

  "You son of a bitch," Tyler said softly. "You're not sure you aren't the man who fathered me."

  "That's bull patties."

  "You threw out a baby like it was garbage and all the time you knew that child might have been yours."

  "No way. You couldn't have been mine. I told you, Juanita locked me out of her room for the better part of a long, cold year...except for—"

  "Except?"

  Jonas jerked his arm free. "Except for the one time I broke down that door and took what was mine to take, despite the fact that you was probably already in the oven."

  "You don't know that."

  "You ain't mine, Kincaid. I know that, and nothing my wife said then or you say now will change it." He strode to the door and yanked it open. "You came for the truth and I gave it to you. It isn't my fault you can't deal with it."

  Tyler put his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  "My oh my," he said softly. "Wouldn't that make for the start of one hell of an obituary? 'Jonas Baron, patriarch of the Baron clan. He carved out a kingdom and gave away his first­born son."' He smiled slyly. "Damn, but it's almost biblical."

  "Get out!"

  "Did she know? My mother. Did she know you gave me away?"

  "I told you, she died." He shot Tyler a hate-filled look. "But she damned well knew I wasn't gonna be fool enough to raise a child that wasn't my own. I told her that when I first saw you was growin' in her belly."

  Tyler nodded. He imagined a woman with features like his, carrying him beneath her heart, imagined the pain she must have felt, hearing her husband say he wanted no part of her child...

  Imagined her breathing her last, even as she struggled to give him life.

  He pictured his mother as he'd never been able to see her before. She had a Spanish name. That might explain the mid­night-blackness of his hair, the high cheekbones. She was tak­ing on shape and substance for him now; she was a human being, a desperate woman trapped in a marriage to a man she must have hated, forced to endure the agony of wondering what would happen to her child, when it was born.

  Tyler saw all this, and it broke his heart.

  His breathing quickened. His muscles tightened. He wanted to beat Jonas Baron to the ground, stand over him as he strug­gled to get up and hit him and hit him until he went down and couldn't get up.

  The boy he'd once been would have done it. But he was a man now. He lived by a moral code. Despite his start in life, he'd grown up to be someone the woman who'd borne him would have been proud to acknowledge as her son.

  Knowing that, believing it, was all that kept his hands knot­ted but at his sides.

  "Are you deaf, Kincaid? I want you out of here."

  It was hard, gathering himself together, but Tyler did.

  "I know what you want, Baron." He walked to the door, pausing when he reached it, his eyes locked to Jonas's. "You want life in your little kingdom to go on, the same as it always has. You want to crack the whip and watch your subjects jump." Tyler's smile glittered, glittered even more brightly when he saw the flash of apprehension in Jonas's eyes. "Well, those days are coming to an end," he said, almost gently. "You know those blood tests you mentioned? The ones to do with genes and chromosomes?" Tyler reached out, smoothed down Jonas's shirtfront. "You're going to take them. A whole battery of them." His smile tilted. "And when they're done, and I've proved that you and I are father and son—"

  "You'll never prove that!"

  "I will," Tyler said, and meant it. He knew his mother now; knew, deep inside his soul, that she wouldn't have violated her marriage vows, even if she'd made them with a man like Jonas Baron. "And after I have, the next thing I'm going to do is claim my birthright—isn't that what you called it? Claim it, as your eldest son, and do it while you're still alive, so that I can tell you, every day of your life right up to the minute you breathe your last, that once Espada is mine I'm going to cut it into little pieces and sell every last one of them, until nothing remains of you or this place, not even a memory."

  Jonas's face went white. "I
'll fight you."

  "Fight me." Tyler smiled. "That'll make the victory all the sweeter."

  "Bastard," Jonas said.

  Tyler laughed, walked out of the library and out of the house, with Jonas's curses ringing after him.

  Day gave way to dusk, and dusk to night.

  Tyler stood on the deck of his house in the rolling hills outside Austin. It was dark; the moon had yet to rise and the clouds were playing hide-and-seek with the stars.

  He stood with one hip leaning against the wooden railing and a chilled bottle of ale in his hand. He'd been drinking everything from scotch to rye all day and he was still stone­-cold sober. The liquor hadn't even washed the bitter taste from his mouth.

  He doubted anything could.

  He sighed, rolled the cold bottle across his aching forehead and told himself that he was a stupid SOB.

  "It's the truth, Kincaid," he said aloud. "You are one really stupid son of a bitch."

  What was he doing in Texas? He had a home, he had a life, back in Georgia. The home was handsome and the life was one he'd enjoyed, until he'd let a meddling mistress and a surprise birthday party turn his existence upside down.

  No. No, that wasn't true. Adrianna wasn't to blame, and only a fool would try to lay this off on a party. He'd done it all to himself. He was the one who'd left everything behind and set off on this insane search for his roots.

  For his birthright.

  Tyler's mouth twisted. He could still hear Jonas's voice in­side his head, saying the word with contempt.

  He sighed, tilted the bottle to his mouth and drank.

  The old man was nuts. Why would he need a birthright? He lived in a world of his own making. Tyler Kincaid's private kingdom, every bit as large and valuable as Espada. Besides, this wasn't about Espada. It was about the mother he'd never known. The hurt she must have felt, each time Jonas made a point of reminding her that he had no intention of acknowl­edging her child, or of raising it.

  And yes, it was about that child, as well. About the boy who'd grown up without a kind touch or a soft word. Without a name. A boy who'd had to fight for the respect he'd been able to force from other boys just like him.

  Tyler put down the empty bottle, clasped the railing with both hands and closed his eyes.

  The intelligent thing would be to clear out. He couldn't change what had happened, to his mother or to himself. What he ought to do was pack his things, get into his car and drive straight out of Texas. Drive until he reached Atlanta and the life he'd created there. Until he reached his home, the cor­poration that carried his name...

  And Adrianna.

  She'd left another message on his machine, her tone perky and upbeat, as if they'd never quarreled. There was a new gallery opening, she'd said, and had he received his invitation to the Forsythe's dinner party next week? Perhaps they could go together, if he was free, if he could possibly make it.

  The real message had rung through as clear as a bell, despite all the chatter. Adrianna wanted him back, and on his terms. No ties. No strings. No explanations of why he'd broken off their relationship or where he'd gone.

  Tyler opened his eyes and looked blindly into the night.

  It was tempting. She was beautiful. She came from his world—from the world he'd made his, anyway. She fit into his life perfectly, without making a ripple.

  But she wasn't Caitlin.

  Adrianna smelled of expensive perfume, not flowers. Tyler smiled. Not of horse, either, and certainly never of honest sweat as Caitlin sometimes did. Adrianna's hair was always perfect, as if she'd just come from the salon. Caitlin's gener­ally looked as if she'd brushed the silky mass free of tangles and then given up.

  Adrianna was elegant. Caitlin was ...she was exciting. Everything about her stirred him. Her scent. Her mouth, with its slightly full lower lip. Her body, so boyish-looking within her rough and ready jeans and T-shirts and yet so feminine and rich, when he'd sought her flesh beneath the clothes.

  When she'd gone into his arms, last night.

  He knew the taste of her mouth, but what would the rest of her taste like? Honey, he thought. Or sweet cream. Her breasts would fill his mouth, assuage the endless hunger that had been in his belly since the first time he'd seen her.

  Tyler laughed softly and drank the rest of the ale.

  He was turning himself on, just standing here and thinking about Caitlin McCord. Turning himself on? Hell, why lie about it? He was turned on already, hard as a rock and aching with need for a woman he hardly knew...

  For a woman he couldn't have. She was a Baron, or the next best thing to it. She was Jonas's stepdaughter and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to make the old man choke on his lies.

  He was going to destroy him, and you didn't bed a man's stepdaughter before you slipped a knife between his ribs, even if you were doing it figuratively.

  "Tyler?"

  The voice was soft and familiar. Tyler told himself it was an hallucination, that the alcohol had worked. But when he turned she was really there, standing in the doorway, the soft glow from the living room just behind her defining her face in a play of light and shadow.

  "Tyler," she said again, but he didn't answer. He just stood drinking in the sight of her. She was wearing high-heeled san­dals and a dress like the one she'd worn last night. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders. She looked fragile and femi­nine and incredibly beautiful, and even though he knew it was wrong, he hated her for coming here and for reminding him of how badly he wanted her.

  And for reminding him that he could never have her.

  "What are you doing here?" he said gruffly.

  "I—I..." He saw the long column of her throat move as she swallowed. "I came to say goodbye."

  He smiled, and he knew from the way her eyes widened that his smile had not been pleasant.

  "Goodbye?" he said lazily. "Are you going away?"

  "No. I mean, of course not."

  She wore a narrow gold chain around her throat. She touched her fingers to it. It was a nervous gesture and seeing it made him feel good. She was apprehensive and she damned well should be. She had no right, coming here, making him remember how it felt to kiss her, to touch her.

  "Jonas said ...he said you were leaving."

  He walked toward her slowly, his eyes on hers. He could see the race of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Don't touch her, his mind shouted, dammit, man, don't touch her... and he didn't. He only bent his head and put his mouth against her throat.

  "I didn't..." He heard her catch her breath, felt the tremor race through her. "Tyler, please. I didn't come here for—I didn't come here for that."

  "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, you did."

  He took her face in his hands and lifted it to his. Eyes open, still locked on hers, he kissed her.

  It was like touching a match to dry kindling. She moaned, grasped his wrists with her hands, fought for control and found it.

  "I told you why I came. Jonas said—­"

  "To hell with Jonas," he said, and as he did, he knew it was true. His hatred for Jonas had nothing to do with this. With Caitlin.

  With what they needed from each other.

  He kissed her more hungrily, his mouth moving against hers, the tip of his tongue touching the seam of her lips. She moaned again, touched her hands to his chest, and he forgot everything but her.

  "Cait," he said urgently, "my Cait."

  Tyler gathered her into his arms, brought her against his body, heard her little whisper of surprise when she felt his hardness. She flattened her palms against his chest and pulled back.

  "Don't. Tyler, don't."

  "Say it as if you mean it, and I'll stop."

  He nuzzled the hair back from her face, bit gently on her

  earlobe. He felt her heartbeat leap against his.

  "I—I can't stay. I'm having dinner with Leighton."

  "You had lunch with Leighton," he said, and kissed her neck.

  "I didn't. I couldn't. I—I did
n't want to. I was—I was just using him because I was angry at you."

  Tyler smiled against her throat. "I know."

  "And—and I felt awful about it. So I figured I'd stop by and ask him if he'd like to have dinner..."

  Tyler slipped one strap off her shoulder and pressed his mouth to her skin. She caught her breath. Her hands knotted into his shirt.

  "You're trying to seduce me," she whispered.

  His laughter was low and rough. "And am I succeeding?"

  "No," she said, clutching him harder while she rose on her toes and met his questing mouth with her own.

  "Open to me," he whispered, and with a groan, she did, parting her lips to his tongue, lifting her hands, tangling them in his hair and pulling his head down to hers.

  Tyler shuddered. He bunched her skirt in his hands, lifted it, stroked the softness of her thighs, then cupped her heat, glorying in the sweet dampness that would soon welcome him home.

  "Tell me why you came here," he said hoarsely. "Dammit, tell me."

  Caitlin drew back and looked into his eyes. "For this." Her voice broke. "For this. For—"

  Tyler crushed her mouth beneath his as he swung her into his arms.

  She clung to him as he carried her through the dark house, to his bedroom, to his bed. He lowered her the length of his body, doing it slowly, feeling her softness against his hardness, feeding on her little sighs and whispers as he undressed her.

  "Tyler. You should know... I have to tell you..."

  "Hush," he said softly, and stopped her words with a kiss. Whatever she wanted to tell him could wait. He needed her, now. Wanted her, now. He had to possess her, before he ex­ploded.

  He'd thought about this first time with her, knew it would be fast, but now that she was in his arms he warned himself not to let it happen that way.

  Be tender, he told himself. Go slowly. Instinct warned him she hadn't been with many men, and he had to make this right. He wanted to pleasure her until she came apart in his arms, wanted to watch her face as it happened, wanted to do all that before he entered her.

  But he was shaking, burning with the need to possess her. Another minute, he'd be incapable of anything but ripping off her panties, unzipping his fly and burying himself deep inside her.