Target: BillionBear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (4 page)

It was raining hard by the time he found his way back to the main drag, and to the Primrose Hotel, where the squawking parrot screeched
Incoming!
, then cackled madly.

Jameson’s nerves flared at that ‘incoming,’ but he didn’t stiffen all over like he had the first time he heard it. Somewhere, sometime relatively recently, that word had meant something, judging by the spike of adrenaline and the impulse to take cover.

“What an obnoxious bird,” Marlo said in a low voice as they passed through the lobby to the long balcony outside the rooms. “I’d call today successful, James,” she said in her smooth, professional voice when they were halfway down the long balcony outside their respective rooms. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he replied.

“Fine is good! Okay. Right now I want to make order out of this chaos.” She brandished her clipboard. “Shall we meet at seven and find somewhere to eat? I believe I spotted some sort of restaurant uphill on the other side.”

“Okay,” he said, and they let themselves into their adjoining rooms. The inn—hotel, the locals called it—was old and charming. They still used keys attached to little wooden plaques with the room number burned in.

He set aside the camera, moved to the window, and gazed out between slanted rooftops at the gray sea and sky obscured by slanting rain. Then he turned away and dropped to hands and toes.

As he had begun doing at Tranquil Breezes, he worked slowly through a set of push-ups and other calisthenics that his body seemed to regard as familiar as walking, while he counted up the facts that he had learned.

He knew how to follow people without them knowing.

He had heard that inner voice again, the one that had told him to ditch his pills the day before, and it had said that that woman with the sweet curves, the wide eyes and soft round lips, was ‘the one.’

He had no idea what it meant, but he did know this: he intended to find out before Marlo decided they were done with this town.

Chapter Three

Kesley unloaded her unsold art, then carried the groceries in. She put away hers, and took McKenzi’s down to her cottage, where she found a note on the fridge that the parents had made dinner.

Kesley groaned. She loved her family, but she had been looking forward to huddling in her cabin with chocolate and some romantic movies—because everybody else in the world seemed to be able to do relationships right, except her.

Flash! Her raccoon stirred inside her, and her mind shot back to Main Street and that big, handsome guy with the chiseled cheekbones and hazel eyes, and the wind tousling his dark hair.

“No,” she said out loud. “Wrong one. Try again,” she muttered as she pulled her raincoat back on and began to trudge up the path past her house to the parental ranch house on the hill. “With my luck he’s married to the nosy woman.”

Rain beat at her cold hands and the side of her face as she hopped up the steps. Inside the house, the place smelled like crispy, lemon-sprinkled Wiener Schnitzel, and Spinatknödel—spinach dumplings. And from the oven she caught the heavenly scent of baking topfenstrudel—cream cheese strudel.

She walked into the living room, where McKenzi sat with Uncle Lee, fourteen-year-old Cousin Rolf sprawled on the rug before the fireplace rereading one of his tattered Harry Potters. Kesley’s father Ed sat in his usual spot in the falling-apart easy chair, his nose buried in the newspaper. Great-Aunt Gretel sat in the opposite chair, placidly knitting.

Before Kesley could sit down, her mom and Grandma Enkel came in, carrying hefty trays to the dining table in its nook off the living room. “Perfect timing, Kesley, dear. Let’s eat!” Doris Enkel said.

As they began passing plates and dishes with long-practiced efficiency, Ed said, “So, Bandit, sold anything today?”

“Nada.” Kesley shrugged. “Listen—”

“Overton’s tourist season is over,” Uncle Lee said, shaking his head. He sounded as mournful as his bloodhound looked. He and Kesley were the only non-cats in the room, except for Rolf, who was as yet an unknown.

“I bet the crying clown woman sold something,” McKenzi said, grimacing.

“But that’s not what—” Kesley began.

“Proving that even locals have the same rotten taste as the tourists,” Doris put in, and smacked Rolf’s fingers when he tried to grab four rolls out of the basket.

“I’ll eat ‘em!” Rolf protested, his voice cracking.

“You don’t need four.”

“I used to eat twice that many,” Uncle Lee pointed out lugubriously.

“And I smacked your hands.
Ach
, did I not?” Grandma Enkel said, laughing.

“People, I need to say something,” Kesley tried again, but—as usual—trying to focus the family was a cat-herding fail.

“If Rolf wants extra food, there’s vegetables and fruit!”

Kesley picked up her plate and thumped it down onto the table, making the dishes rattle. The family turned identical sets of startled eyes her way, because Kesley was never rude, temperamental, or loud. “There is a
spy in town
,” she said.

Forks and knives clattered to plates.

“What?” Ed, her dad, said. “A
spy?
”

“Yes. Saw her in front of Rosens. Says she’s from NPR, to do a story on the naked,
animal worshipping
cult. Who think animals turn into humans. Or something.”

Ed put his hands over his eyes. “I
told
Dwayne that stupid flyer he and Chick cooked up was an idiot idea. But as usual, he was too in love with his own cleverness to listen.”

McKenzi and Kesley exchanged looks. Ed and Chick’s dad had been rivals clear back to something or other involving sports during their high school days.

“Anyway,” Kesley said loudly, before Ed could start in about Dwayne Senior’s many faults.

Quickly Kesley described the conversation with Marlo Evans. Instinctively she left out the guy, except to say that Marlo had brought a cameraman. “And we don’t want our pictures to end up on the internet, right? So I think we should spread the word,” she finished. “I got the feeling Marlo was going to hang around. She had a
lot
of blank papers to fill out.”

Ed grinned. “Soon’s dinner is over I’ll take a lope over to the Poulsens’ and let Dwayne know what he started.”

McKenzi shook her head. “Dad, I gotta say. Elliot with the flyers is hilarious. You’ve never seen him in action.”

“You young people need to be more careful.” Doris scowled down the table. “We always posted lookouts if we knew we’d be shifting a lot. And joking around about cults can’t lead to anything good.”

“It’s a
fake
cult! The world’s most boring fake cult!” McKenzi rolled her eyes. “And we
do
watch out! Abe Rosen always goes with us—we always wait until he’s off-duty. And anyway, the peepers come to see T and A, not shifters.”

“Especially T.” Rolf snickered, and the elders all scowled at him. He sank his head into his shoulders like a turtle.

Kesley said, “Elliot is great at scaring peepers off. I’m sure nobody has shifted any time I’ve helped at the Lopez fish farm, or the Pendergasts’ orchard, or any other time we’ve had to put together a work party.”

“Somebody must have.” Ed opened his hands. “And somebody else saw and put it on the internet. Rolf, do a search and see if there’s anything about people turning into a chicken or a hamster. I bet ten bucks it was a Paulsen. Dwayne always used to screw around shifting in order to ditch school.”

Doris patted Ed’s hand. “Darling, this is the whole town we’re talking about here. Not you and Dwayne and your feud in tenth grade. If you go to the Paulsens’, it better be to talk over an idea to chase off that Nosy Parker from NPR.”

Kesley bit her lip. Her mom was usually easy-going, but when she spoke up, her dad listened. Because they were mates.

She sighed.

Those who wanted to eat dessert while watching TV moved to the den, while McKenzi and Kesley went to the kitchen to tackle the cleanup.

Kesley said, “Sometimes I wish we had an alpha.”

“Who wants a big boss?” McKenzi shrugged. “I think the ‘rents and their feuds are funny. Anyway, stop worrying. Nobody will talk to Ms. Nosy. Though I think I might go seek her out and have some fun with head games.”

“No,” Kesley said quickly.

McKenzi set a dish down and gave her the hairy eyeball. “You really think I’d blab?”

Kesley had not been thinking about that at all. She’d been seeing the camera guy’s broad shoulders, that ruffled hair, those long legs, and how McKenzi’d charm him effortlessly like she always did.
Jealous? Really?
Kesley grumped at herself.
You’re really going there when you Do. Not. Want?

“I just think there’s something off about that Marlo,” Kesley said—and the moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized they were true. Though she couldn’t say what might have given her that idea. “I also think the more we avoid her, the sooner she goes away.”

McKenzi shook her head. “And that’s where you’re wrong. If everyone avoids her, then she thinks we’re the next best thing to an M. Night Shyamalan horror town. You know, seething with secrets.
I
think we need to smother her with boringness. Hey, maybe we could round up some volunteers to be the actual cult, and invite her to a celebration, where we read a thousand verses of weird poetry or long testimonials that all end in hard sells to get her to donate, on a really cold night, and insist that she has to be in the buff . . .”

Kesley was hit by a sudden image of that guy without a shirt.

Or pants.

The pan she’d been scrubbing fell out of her hands and hit the dishwater with a splash. Naturally a tidal wave of suds slopped over the edge of the sink, but at least cleaning it up gave her a chance to hide her neon red face. “And everybody gets sick? Not funny,” Kesley muttered.

McKenzi gave it up, but Kesley knew from her sister’s grin that she was probably going to go for a cat prowl that night (if the rain stopped—McKenzi hated water when she was a cat just as much as regular cats did) to try and find volunteers.

All in all, Kesley was glad to get home and fall into bed . . .

Where she dreamed all night about a tall, dark-haired guy with shimmering hazel-brown eyes.

Naked . . .

* * *

Jameson dreamed about
her
.

He woke before dawn with the world’s most painful hard-on, tatters of an intensely vivid dream lingering. He reached mentally to pull them back and to wrap himself again in the dream, but they melted like mist. The last to go was her face—straight brows under an untroubled forehead, and an honest gaze—with that wind-blown chestnut hair playing about her shoulders above magnificent breasts, and below those, more delectable curves.

In his dream, they’d both been naked.

Painfully, he got himself to the bathroom, where he cranked the water to the max and stepped under stinging spray. Okay, new fact for the gleaning: he had no problem getting it up. He couldn’t remember any stirrings down south since waking in the hospital—not that he’d cared. The few women he’d seen at Tranquil Breezes had all turned away from the scar down his face.

When he got out, he toweled off and frowned at the pill bottles sitting on the dresser. Maybe the dream was the result of cutting off his meds. He’d been glad of them early on in his hospital stay because they had not only masked pain, but they had killed the nightmares of fire and explosions that had tormented his sleep.

Maybe this stuff got toxic over time? He’d felt more cotton-headed at Tranquil Breezes, not less, though physically he’d recovered rapidly.

Without the meds, even after a long day’s drive, he’d slept well. His body didn’t hurt much anymore. And his mind was slowly clearing. So maybe that meant he could tough his recovery out on his own. Whatever his habits of recent years, he knew he didn’t like feeling fuzzy-minded.

It felt right to figure things out on his own. He was no longer an invalid, except for those holes in his memory.

He glanced at the window. Not quite dawn, but he felt like this was his usual rising time. Sleep was gone for the day. As he dressed, his mind mentally drove back up the hill toward where
she
lived. The urge to stealth his way up there and follow that dirt road to see where it led was so strong.

And wrong.

Only a complete tool would do that, though instinctively he knew he could. He finally compromised: he’d walk to that breakfast place up beyond the grocery store. From there he could see the turn off from Main Street. If she came down, he’d glimpse her, and without any stalker assholery. If she didn’t come down the hill, she didn’t come down the hill. His take-away here was that his body was waking up again.

The morning was crisp and cold, with a faint hint of brine carried in from off the Pacific Ocean. He breathed it in, smiling as he walked up Main Street. Though it was strange to see the sun rise over the land instead of over the Atlantic Ocean, he felt better than he had since . . .

Since?

He tried poking at his memory, but his head panged. So he abandoned the effort and got a table near the window, ordered coffee and a hot breakfast, and considered that vivid dream.

He glanced out the window, and nearly dropped the spoon he was using to stir honey into his coffee. There she was! Walking the last few steps of the hill, and stopping at the corner for the red light.

He started up, then sat down again. Rushing out there to confront her would be just as bad as lying in ambush to watch her. Did he even know how to talk to women? What would he say—

Idiot! Why not lead off with Marlo’s project, even if it was total bull, and then let things go from there? He could report whatever she said to Marlo, which was sure to please her.

He set down his coffee spoon and rose just as his breakfast arrived.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he told the lantern-jawed guy carrying the plates. “Just saw someone I wanted to talk to.”

“Kesley Enkel?” the man said cheerfully as he set the plates down. “The artist? Nice girl—friend of my daughter’s. Ham, eggs over easy, rye toast.”

“It looks great. I’ll be right back, after I have a word with . . . Kesley.” Her name tasted right on his lips, like honey.

And he stepped outside at the same time the signal—one of two in Upson Downs—changed. He stood outside the eatery, enjoying the way she walked across the street. Why did she hide that lovely body in those cargo pants and the vast pea coat with the bulky blue top underneath?

“Kesley,” he said when she reached the sidewalk.

Honey and spice.

* * *

Lightning flashed through Kesley—it was
him!
He looked even better in the peachy-golden light of early morning, his dark hair lying over his forehead in soft waves, wearing a silvery gray shirt with the top button undone, so she could see the shape of his collarbones, with a couple of dark hairs visible.