Hollywood Bear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (10 page)

“And that’s exactly why I don’t want her to see him,” Shelley said.

“Because of the ice cream?”

“Because he’s Mick Volkov. I mean, famous.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Jan asked.

“It will be if this doesn’t work out. If I was bringing over an ordinary guy, and he disappears a week later, we’re back to square one. But whatever happens with Mick, all ten billion of her Facebook friends will hear about it. And if it goes sour, I will be poor-babied to death in that smirking fake pity she is so good at. Especially when I bring home a pint of consolation ice cream.”

“You’re
r-r-r-right
.” Jan trilled the ‘r’. “I’ve had too many of Rob’s power Margaritas. I can’t think strategically. However, I
can
think tactically.”

“What does that mean?” Shelley asked, halfway between laughter and exasperation.

“It means, isn’t it Taylor’s turn to deal with the plumbing?”

“Technically,” Shelley said. “Except she somehow always has an emergency when it’s her turn to wield the Plunger of Doom. What has that to do with anything?”

“Your psychic brother’s powers have rubbed off on me. Woo-ooo,” Jan crooned, making Twilight Zone noises into the phone. “I predict that the sink is about to get really nasty. Where are you?” And after Shelley told her, she said, “Good, half an hour if the traffic is the usual mess. By the time you get here, the coast will be clear.”

Shelley breathed a sigh of relief as they ended the call. Maybe Jan was one margarita away from being plastered, but she’d never let Shelley down yet.

She walked out and found Mick waiting. “Ready,” she said.

***

Shelley had agreed with Mick that the simplest thing was for him to follow her to her place so she could park her car and pack, and they could leave from there.

At first he was dismayed at the mixed signals he got from her. She seemed as enthusiastic about the new idea as he, but she’d closed up like a book when he’d suggested stopping by her place.

He half expected her to tell him to wait in his car when they drove up a narrow street in mid-LA lined by seedy apartment buildings. He managed to find parking when someone pulled out, and watched Shelley carefully fit her banged-up old Toyota into a tight, awkward space by a flimsy-looking sixties apartment building.

She came around front, and when he got out to meet her, she said, “I’ll only be five minutes.” Then, trying to hide her reluctance, “If you’d like to come in . . .” She didn’t look at him.

He almost said he’d stay, except for intense curiosity. Already his instinct to sweep her away was revving into overdrive. He knew exactly what kind of digs these were—he’d lived in similar ones during his student days.

She opened the door to a cramped room that was part living room, part kitchen divided by a narrow breakfast bar too badly designed to actually sit at. It was piled with mail and other stuff.

A small, round, fair-haired woman stood up, smiling.

“This is Jan,” Shelley said. “One of my roommates.”

One? This place would be crowded for two, Mick thought as he shook hands with Jan.

Shelley said, “It’ll only take me a minute.” She vanished into the narrow hall, leaving him with Jan, who whiffed strongly of tequila.

He started to follow Shelley, but Jan stuck out her arm. “Trust me. There isn’t room for two in that closet. Can I just say that I love all your pictures?” Jan smiled up at him, rosy-faced. Yep, she was pretty toasted.

“Thank you,” Mick responded, still standing there, feeling as awkward as a kid again.

“Oh.” Jan blinked owlishly around the room as if she’d just discovered it. Then she hastily smoothed an Indian print cloth over a rump-sprung couch of an ugly color that had been popular with cheapo landlords in the eighties. “Please. Have a seat.”

She plopped into a shapeless chair also covered with a cotton print.

He cleared his throat, and to make conversation, said, “How long have you known Shelley?”

“Since college.” Jan leaned forward and fixed Mick with an unwinking gaze. “Shell is the most successful of us all. As she should be, she’s so talented!”

Mick couldn’t help a glance around the seedy apartment.

Jan said with an air of imparting an ominous hint, “She
used
to have a nice place.”

There was so much meaning in her voice that Mick wondered how he could get out of an excruciating situation. It felt like he’d fallen into a bad movie.

Jan huffed, sat back, crossed her arms, and added darkly, “Well, let’s just leave it at this: Shelley really,
really
hates lies. And surprises. She has
good reason
.”

Shelley reappeared, looking a little wild-eyed. “I’m ready. I hope I didn’t take too long.”

“I just sat down,” Mick said, getting up. He resisted the urge to brush off the back of his trousers, and bade Jan a polite good-bye.

“Have fun.” Jan waved vigorously as the door closed.

Shelley pushed a battered-looking small suitcase, walking away rapidly with an air of someone escaping a gulag. They loaded her case into the trunk of his car and got in.

“Your friend seems like a nice person,” he began, thinking,
but I hope she doesn’t drink alone.

Shelley cast him a look, and he knew that she’d heard the invisible
but
anyway
.
“Jan was at a party.”

And she didn’t stay because . . . ?
He knew he was missing something here, but it was equally clear that Shelley didn’t want to say what it was, so he asked, even more tentatively, “You really live in a closet?”

“Yes. I think it was meant to be a utility room of some sort, but the landlord calls it a bedroom to get more rent. And I was lucky that Jan had it when I needed it,” Shelley added. “That’s why I get a parking spot. The other two roommates share the second one. So how far is Idyllwild? I’ve never been there before.”

End of subject. Mick accepted that. But he was hyperaware of her sitting next to him.

She began to relax as they left Los Angeles behind. Soon they sped up the freeway, mountains looming to the right, city lights like a mirror to the sky spreading to the left.

They talked easily as he exerted himself to find subjects that wouldn’t tread into territory too personal: they were in his car, going to his place. He would let her set the boundaries on intimacy, though mentally he kept coming back to Jan’s dire warning about lies and surprises. True, Jan was pretty wasted, but he wouldn’t discount her words.

At least they had no problem finding plenty to talk about. Not surprisingly, considering her tastes had been shaped by older brothers, they both were lifelong fans of Zatoichi, the Blind Swordsman. She talked proudly of their hoard of much-used VHS tapes, and he decided to surprise her with his collection of mint DVDs.

Surprise.
He knew it was going to bug him all weekend.

But he’d wait. They had plenty of time.

The thought of being alone with her for four days made him smile.

The Mercedes ate up the miles, and they drove through quiet Idyllwild a little past midnight. Half an hour later they pulled into the private road to his house, ghost-lit evergreens brushing over the windshield of his car.

They got out, the cold air a shock after the spring balm of L.A.

He led the way in and flipped on the lights, then stood back to watch Shelley covertly as she swept her gaze over the clean lines of the living room, with its beam ceiling, massive rock fireplace, and split level architecture—kitchen up to the right, den lower down, bedrooms overhead.

“Choose any bedroom you like,” he offered. “Each has its own bathroom. The master suite is above us here.” He glanced upward. “View over the valley. I’ve some decent bottles of wine on hand. I happen to prefer reds, especially to unwind after that drive. Want some? Red or white?”

“Red, please. I’ll be right back.”

The wheels of her suitcase rumbled over the flagstones of the hall leading to the stairwell, and shortly after he heard her quiet footsteps in the hall overhead. From the creaks in the hardwood floor, it sounded like she’d picked the middle bedroom, not the one farthest from his, but not next to it.

He hoped that when she got comfortable enough, she would choose not to sleep there at all.

When she came downstairs, he had a fire leaping in the fireplace, and two waiting wineglasses. They clinked them together and he sampled it. The wine rolled like liquid gold over his tongue. He wasn’t going to tell her what he paid for Chateau Ausone St. Emilion wine; he had lived too many years stretching every penny, and remembered what it had felt like when he first began dealing with the rich and successful.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “This is really good.”

“It’s my favorite,” he said.

She glanced at the fire, then moved to one of the hassocks near the hearth.

He moved to the other one. “Sorry about the chill,” he said. “The house is empty most of the time.”

“This will warm me up.” She lifted the wine glass to the fire, which lit the rich burgundy liquid to a ruby glow.

They were alone together at last. He had schooled himself to wait, to give her time, not to push . . . but there she was, gazing at him over the rim of her glass, her cheeks a little flushed as the fire leaped.

The glow of the wine warmed him more than the fire, or maybe it was that look in her eyes. He didn’t know who moved first; her crystal goblet rang as she set it on the table and next thing he knew they sat before the fire, tangled in a deep, wine-flavored kiss.

Her fingers slid to the buttons on his shirt; his hands roamed her body, then tugged at her blouse, and they commenced undressing each other, one piece of clothing at a time as the fire leaped brighter, matching the warmth they generated between them.

He stretched out on the rug and she climbed on top of him, eyes bright with passion.

She rode him like she rode her bike, hard and magnificent; he came in long waves, then reached down to finish her off, and she toppled onto the rug next to him as they caught their breath.

Then, blissed out with afterglow and exhaustion, they scooped up their clothes and he led the way upstairs. He hoped she would follow him to his bedroom and the king size bed there. At first he thought she might, as she hesitated, then she whispered good night to the floor and shut herself in the guest room.

It was a long while before he fell asleep.

***

When Shelley woke up, she felt like Cinderella. On the one hand, the bed was like sleeping on a cloud, and the guest bathroom had its own Jacuzzi, but on the other hand she didn’t like feeling like Cinderella.

But she wasn’t. She was going to be paid—he’d said in the ride up the mountain that he would be having their respective agents talk. This was going to be a great item on her resume whatever happened. Yeah. If she thought of it as work, she felt okay.

The work’s OK, but the benefits
are amazing!

She laughed, then got up, her body still faintly throbbing with afterglow. She indulged in the Jacuzzi, and when she went downstairs, dressed in her riding clothes, she walked into the heavenly aroma of seasoned sausage, baked wheat, and melted cheese.

“Good morning,” Mick greeted her, and indicated a breakfast nook off the kitchen, with a panoramic view of evergreen forest and distant mountains. “Do you like blinchiki stuffed with sausage and cheese?”

“I’ve never had it, but it sounds tasty.”

“My grandmother helped me survive my film school years by making enormous batches of Russian peasant food and freezing it. She still insists on doing it, though she turned ninety last year and I’ve been able to afford to eat out for the past ten years. I think she’s convinced that people in L.A. don’t eat real food.”

Shelley had to laugh. “Has she ever been to L.A.?”

He shook his head. “They would never admit it, but they’re getting pretty frail. Grandfather is nearly 95. I go up there to visit them. Anyway, if you don’t like it, don’t feel obliged. There are great breakfast places in town.”

One crispy bite of perfectly baked pancake stuffed with sharp, melted cheese and sausage, and she knew that he had not microwaved the food. He’d risen early enough to put it in the oven.

“It’s delicious,” she said sincerely.

“And filling. Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Take anything in it?”

“No.”

“Good. I can’t stand seeing people ruin the taste of fresh ground Kona.”

The coffee was as delicious as the blinchiki. “What other things does she make?”

He got up from the breakfast nook, pulled out a freezer drawer that looked big enough to supply an army platoon, and began naming off dishes she’d never heard of before, pronounced in rolling Russian names.

“They all sound tasty,” she said.

“Well, some of them might be odd if you aren’t used to them. The smell of Shchi, which is a kind of sour cabbage soup, used to drive my roommates right out. Unfortunately it had the same effect on dates, which I didn’t understand until I climbed into the back of a cab one day, and the guy, who’d left Russia years before and still missed the motherland, addressed me in Russian and began getting weepy. Considering there were four feet of open-windowed car between us, I got a clue.”