The Billionaire Jaguar's Curvy Journalist: BBW Panther Shifter Paranormal Romance (4 page)

Did they have a special meaning to him, or did he just like cats? Something to keep in mind, anyway. She’d have to ask him about the South American influence in the office. Even if he evaded her, that would tell her something.

It’d be easier if he wasn’t so hot.

“You like big cats?” He’d come back in, as quietly as if he was a cat himself.

She didn’t jump. It was a little close for a second, and her heart jumped, but she did not jump. “Ah,” she said. “I...I guess so. Maybe not as much as you do.”

“My mother—the great cats were very special to her,” he said, and she got the impression that he was choosing his words carefully. “They’re special to me too.”

“This art is beautiful,” she said. “Is it all South American?”

“Mostly,” he said. “My mother was mixed race—Spanish and Quechua—and she was very proud of our heritage. But not all this art is Quechua. I’m not...I guess I just pick the things that appeal to me. But I try to keep the pre-Columbian focus. I like having a theme in here, a little personality.”

“It’s nice,” she said. It was. “A lot of offices, the big ones, feel like anyone could be there. This...feels more like you.”

“Thank you,” he said, turning his beautiful smile on her. It made her chest tighten up.

No one should be that handsome or smell that good. There ought to be a law.

He picked up a beautiful beaded jaguar head so she could look at it more closely. “This one’s from Western Mexico. Isn’t it beautiful?”

It was covered with beads, probably thousands of them, in eye-popping color. The beads traced line and patterns around the cat’s features as they shimmered in the light. “It is,” she agreed.

“I confess,” he said meaningfully, “I’ve always been drawn to beauty.”

Well, that was flattering. “You really would like me to go on that date with you.”

“I really would.” He put the jaguar back on the shelf. “I’m good company, I swear. And I’m not a cheap tipper. I may be a rich asshole, but at least I’m a rich asshole who won’t embarrass you.”

“You...you don’t seem like an asshole,” she confessed.

“Try not to be,” he said. “So, dinner?”

“I...I guess so,” she said. “After the article goes to press. And don’t think this means you’ll get a sneak peek.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Do you like to dance?”

“Sometimes,” she said.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He took her hand, and pressed it for a second to his lips. The sensation rocked her from head to toe. “But I’ll warn you, that night I’ll be asking some questions. I’d like to know all about you, Ms. Bailey.”

“I...I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, taking her hand back from him. “I...ought to be going. I’ll email Chris with any questions?”

“You can email me directly,” he said. “The same protocol, firstname dot lastname at the company domain. I’ll be happy to answer.”

“Thank you,” she stammered. She got out before she did something she’d regret.

6

Well, it was a start anyway. She’d seemed to like him. And he and the cat were agreed: she was fantastic, perfect, curvy and gorgeous, and he wanted to cover her in jewels.

All he had to do was wait.

That would be easier if he had any patience.

Chris swept in. “Well?” he said. “She was smiling.”

“It...it was all right. Fine. I think she’ll agree to coffee, at least.” He smiled a little. “She liked my cats.”

“See?” Chris grinned. “I told you.”

“What did you do to Laura Moore?”

“I gave her a personal tour of our state-of-the-art conservation facilities, of course,” Chris grinned. “The recycling, composting, waste sorting—”

“You put her knee-deep in trash and shit,” Paul said wryly.

Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes you have to go with the classics. Like I said, she could get an excellent article out of it if she was willing to put in the work—we’ve wanted to encourage more businesses to follow our model all along. You want some coffee? I’d kill for a latte.”

“Yeah, you can grab me something,” he said. “Um, iced chai? I can give you some cash.”

“You can get me next time,” Chris said. “Besides, I owe you. Did I tell you I took a picture of Laura in her waders at the composter?”

Paul laughed.

Chris had rented him a temporary place halfway between Paul’s office in the city and Salem Beach, a duplex owned by an older woman who seemed not at all impressed by his expensive suit or Kenzo Pour Homme cologne. He liked her. He liked the duplex even more. It was nice to be out of the city, in a place where he could smell the ocean and see the stars at night.

He might even be able to let the cat out on dark nights. He usually went to one of the state parks when they were closed, but it would be nice to not have to drive half an hour just to go for a run.

And he could bring Abby here. A lot easier than driving out to the city. They could both commute. There was a nice fireplace, and in the fall—

He was getting ahead of himself. But he wanted to have a place for her. A place where they could stay together, where they could sleep in on the weekend. Watch movies in bed. Where he could cover Abby in jewels.

He had a text from Chris.
How’s the place?

Perfect, you’re right.

Told you. We can double date.

No sign of the article?

Too soon. Haven’t seen the big feature on our recycling program either.

Paul grinned.
Want to grab a drink?

No can do, hot date.

At least one of us has a hot date,
he thought. Maybe he’d hear from Abby tonight. He really wanted to see her. Touch her. Kiss her.

The cat didn’t like waiting. Neither did he.

Maybe he’d just drive out to Salem Beach, hang out for a while. Maybe he’d run into her. It was supposed to rain later, but he didn’t really mind the rain.

Pathetic, sure. But worth a try.

Salem Beach was a nice little town. Unlike a lot of the suburbs, it had grown up naturally, and it had a lovely town square with a big green park at the center. The Salem Beach Times had an office just off the square, a converted brick building. He drove past it, but coming in would’ve been too weird. As it was, if anyone saw him, he had no idea what his excuse would be. Maybe looking for that branch office? Getting a feel for the area? That would work.

There was a tiny little cafe just around the corner from the office. He parked the car; he could grab some coffee and watch people go by. Maybe Abby would pass the window. He could wave at her, maybe she’d come in....

Eh, at least he could have some coffee.

The woman behind the counter was around his age, a tall, curvy woman. She had pale skin and dark, dark hair, like a raven’s wing, and a face that looked like it was always on the verge of a smile. “What’s your poison?” she asked.

“Um, just a black coffee, I guess.”

“Ethiopian or Jamaican? They’re both good. The Jamaican’s more of a dark roast.”

“Jamaican, please.”

“You got it.”

It was a nice little shop, with beautiful black-and-white photography on the white-painted walls. The photos used light perfectly; many of them seemed to glow, especially the ones of the ocean. They looked like they’d been taken locally. There was one picture he liked most of all, of a cat napping in the sunlight.

When the woman brought his coffee, in a big white ceramic mug, he asked her about the photos. “Oh,” she said, “friend of mine does them. She’s really good, isn’t she?”

He took a sip of the coffee. It was excellent. “Are they for sale?”

She grinned. “I’m sure they could be. I’d have to ask her, but I bet she’d make you a print. You want her number?”

“That’d be wonderful. I’ve just rented a place not far from here, and the walls are pretty empty. Well, there’s a framed picture of an ocean scene that...well, I think maybe I saw it in an episode of Miami Vice once. Not really my thing.” Chris had more stuff coming in, but it would be nice to have something up he’d picked himself.

She laughed. “I get you there. You moving this way?”

“Second home,” he said. “Sounds kind of pretentious when you put it that way, but I wanted a place outside the city.”

“Sounds nice. You got your phone?”

“Sure,” he said, and pulled it out.

“All right, her name’s Abby Bailey, and her number’s—”

He laughed. “I’ve got her number. I just had an interview with her earlier this week.”

“Wait—” She squinted at him. “Are you...you’re not Paul Larson?”

He couldn’t lie to a friend of Abby’s. Not and hope to get away with it. “Afraid so.”

“Well oh well,” she said, like a shark that had just scented blood. “So you’re going to take her out?”

“That’s...what I offered, yes.” They were friends, or Abby had done a lot of talking. Paul hoped for the latter.

The woman slid into the chair across from him. “You know where you’re going?”

“Well, that’ll be up to her,” he said. “I figured I’d ask her if she wanted to go into the city or tay here in Salem Beach.”

“There’s a nice tavern just outside town,” she said. “The Ram’s Head, my cousin owns it. Good food, not cheap but not snooty or anything.”

“Sounds nice,” he said. And it wouldn’t make Abby uncomfortable if it wasn’t too expensive. He didn’t want to be the kind of guy who dazzled his date with his wealth. Abby was too important for that crap.

“I’d take her there.” She glanced across the coffee shop, checking to see if anyone needed attention. There was only one other person in the shop, an older woman in a pastel green suit reading a book. The sun had disappeared. Were the clouds rolling in? “You won’t regret it.”

“Well, thanks for the advice,” he said. “While I’ve got your attention, any idea how I can get one of these pictures home without her thinking I’m kissing ass?”

She tapped her fingers on the table for a second. “I guess I could sell it to you,” she said. “Tell Abby that a guy came in, offered me good money to take it right off the wall.” She smirked. “Of course, you’ll have some explaining to do if you get lucky.”

“I’ll cross that bridge if I get there,” he said, lifting his cup again. He liked this woman.

“Customer’s always right,” she said, getting out of the chair and getting up. “You realize I have to charge extra if I’m going to sell the art right off the wall—which one did you want?”

“The cat,” he said, “and that’s fine. How much? I might have enough cash.”

“Cash sounds fantastic. The cat? That’s one of the bigger ones—four hundred sound all right? It’s professionally framed, right here in town, custom mat they did a great job.”

“I’m sold,” he said. “Four hundred’s fine, and I’ve got it.” He pulled out his wallet and started counting out the cash.

“She said you liked cats,” she said, taking the picture off the wall. “Cash works better anyway for the story. ‘This guy came in with a fat roll of—’wow, fifty-dollar bills. Nice.”

“You’re right,” he said. “That is a good story. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” she said, taking the money from the table and handing him the photo. “You have a great day, Mr. Larson.”

“Paul,” he said. “Please. I’m not much on formality.”

“Well, I hope I’ll see more of you, Paul.” She smiled. “I’m Tina.”

“I’ll stop by again,” he said. “Good coffee. Do I take my cup up, or leave it here?”

“I’ll get it,” she said. “You’re good to go whenever.”

He drained his cup, got up, and walked the photo to the door—right as Abby walked through it. “Oh,” he said. “Um...nice to see you.”

He heard Tina mutter “busted” under her breath.

7

Paul Larson, billionaire corporate entrepreneur, looked like a little kid who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He had something—he had one of Tina’s photos under his arm. The cat?

“He made me do it,” Tina called out.

“Do...do what?” What the hell had they been up to?

Paul held up ‘Sunday Morning Catnap’ sheepishly. “I liked your picture.”

“He didn’t realize it was yours,” Tina said. “I’m a witness.” She picked Dora’s empty plate off her table. Dora was ignoring all of them, lost in whatever she was reading this week. “He figured if he bought it from me it wouldn’t look like kissing ass.”

“You two are a regular pair of secret agents,” Abby said. She looked at Paul. He looked...well, he looked great. He was wearing a collared dark green shirt, no jacket or tie, with dark tailored pants. Slacks, her grandmother would’ve said.

“I don’t think I’ll quit my day job for a career in international espionage,” he said. “Have you filed that article yet?”

“You’re in luck,” she said. “Just did. But are you sure you don’t want to see it before you get this whole ‘date’ thing set up?”

“Hey, I asked even before I knew you were a great photographer,” he said. “And there’s this nice woman I met, real friendly, good cook—”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, and she says there’s a nice place right down the road. The Ram’s Head.”

“Yeah, you can’t trust her,” she teased. “Got family there. You know these small towns. Nepotism.” Tina pretended to ignore her.

“You dropped in for coffee?”

“It’s kind of my treat for a job well done,” she said. She got to hang out with Tina and drink something delicious.

“How ‘bout I get yours? I wouldn’t mind a second cup.”

“I’ll fill you up,” Tina said. “You want your usual, Abby?”

“Please,” she said. She deserved something sweet. Other than Paul. “You have raspberry?”

“I do! You want one, Paul? They’re really good. On the house, since you’ve already been so generous.”

“Sure,” he said. “Raspberry what?”

“Turnovers,” she said. “With icing on top.”

“That does sound good,” he said, sitting back down by what must have been his cup. “Sure.”

“So what brings you out here?” Abby asked, sitting across from him. “You can’t just be wondering if I filed that article.”

“Remember I told you I was thinking about getting some property out here?”

“You did,” she said.

“I just took a nice rental, about ten minutes out of town in Washburn Bay.” He nodded at the photo, which he’d propped up against the table. “That’s what your picture’s for.”