McClintock Bears Box Set

by Charlotte Summers

  She nodded. “See you all soon.” With that, she drove out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Dani and Cole stood in the lot, waving and watching her drive away until the car was out of sight.

  “So,” Dani said, turning to Cole. “Simone raised a good question. Is it babies or cubs?”

  “Cubs of course. Cubs sounds much cuter.” He put his arm around her as they walked to the truck. He shot her a sideways glance. “You’re not getting broody already are you?”

  She shrugged. “Not yet. I think you’re the one who’s getting broody.”

  “I’m a guy, I don’t get broody.”

  Dani climbed into the truck. “I’m not so sure. Maybe shifter males do.”

  “Nope,” he said, starting the engine and pulling out onto the highway.

  “Hmm, I think I’m right. That’s my theory, anyway.”

  “Oh really? And what do you call this theory of yours?”

  Dani looked at him and smiled. “The big bear theory, of course.”

  <<<<<>>>>>>

  Bear, Set, Match

  1

  As Simone Jackson stepped into the opulent, marble-floored lobby of the hotel where Brad McClintock was staying in London, she told herself that she really shouldn’t be here.

  She felt too tired to take on a new client. She had spent the past month in Paris giving motivational training to a French cyclist. The cyclist had been a pain in the ass, ignoring most of the advice he was given, and now Simone just wanted to return to New York and take a break for a while.

  She needed to recharge her mental batteries, and flying to London to meet Brad McClintock was definitely not going to help her do that.

  The trouble was, she needed him as a client because she needed the money. Some time ago, she had started work on a book about psychological motivational techniques in sports, and had managed to interest a few agents and publishers in her work. Riding high on a wave of enthusiasm, she had turned down potential clients so that she would have more time to write the book. That had been fine at first, and she had lived off of her savings, but the money had eventually dwindled, and now she needed to rebuild her client list if she was going to keep her business afloat.

  And the worst thing was, she had been so busy doing other things during her break that she had barely written any of the damn book.

  The Paris job had helped her financial situation a little, but she still needed to land this job with Brad McClintock to get back on her feet.

  So when she got a text while in Paris that read simply, This is Brad McClintock. Need to see you in London immediately. Playing at Wimbledon, she had rearranged her flight to JFK and caught a plane to Heathrow instead.

  After finding an affordable hotel near the River Thames and checking in, she had texted Brad to find out where he wanted to meet, only to receive the address of his hotel. He hadn’t bothered to suggest a time for the meeting, so Simone had come straight away.

  And now, as she stood inside the door of that hotel, she wished she had gone home to New York. The flight and the cab ride through the busy, hot London streets had drained her.

  Of course, Brad would never know how tired she was; Simone could be enthusiastic and energetic no matter the situation. As a motivational coach, she had to appear motivated, and inspire confidence in her clients, even if she just wanted to go home, put on her favorite Snoopy pajamas, and sleep for a week.

  Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she approached the reception desk where a balding man in a dark uniform stood watching her. Like everything else Simone had seen in the hotel so far, the concierge was neat, tidy, and precise. His fingernails were as manicured as the plants in their stone vases by the elevators, his bald head as shiny as the marble floor. His cologne was probably the same lilac scent that hung subtly in the air.

  “Welcome,” he said as she approached. “Would you like to check in? Do you have a reservation?”

  Simone shook her head. “I have a meeting with Brad McClintock, one of your guests.”

  “Ah,” he said, his smile dropping for an instant before reappearing on his face. “Mr. McClintock has left instructions to issue you a key card to his room.”

  “Oh? Can’t I just knock on the door?”

  The concierge shrugged. “Of course, you may do whatever you wish, madam, but I must issue you a key card as instructed.” He typed something into his computer with his manicured hands, and handed Simone a plastic card in a cardboard wallet that bore the hotel’s name.

  “I only have one simple request,” he said. “Would you please remember to return the key card when you have no further use for it? Some of Mr. McClintock’s guests forget, and it causes us some bother having to cancel all the cards on our system.”

  “Okay,” Simone replied. “No problem, I’ll remember.” She had no idea why Brad should get so many visitors, or why they should all be given a key to his room.

  “The room is on the fourth floor. Just follow the signs to The Athena Suite,” the concierge said.

  Simone went to the elevators and rode up to the fourth floor. She found The Athena Suite, and was about to knock when a skinny blonde opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. She wore a black cocktail dress, and her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun. The dress was rumpled, as if it had been dropped in a heap on the floor and left there all night. Simone guessed that it had.

  “Excuse me,” the blonde said in an English accent as she avoided bumping into Simone and continued along the hallway toward the elevators.

  “Is this Brad McClintock’s room?” Simone shouted after her.

  The blonde looked back and nodded. “It certainly is, but he might be too tired to speak to you. We had a wild night.” She grinned and winked conspiratorially at Simone.

  As the blonde stepped into the elevator, Simone wondered if she would remember to return her key card. Now she knew the score; Brad was holding parties in his suite, and bedding all the tennis groupies he could find. He probably gave them his hotel address and left an instruction with the concierge to issue the women keys. That saved him from having to answer his door every time someone showed up to his party.

  That meant the guy downstairs thought Simone was one of Brad’s groupies. Since the girl who had just left was blonde, pale-skinned, and looked like a strong wind could knock her down, Simone wasn’t sure how she, a curvy black woman, could be mistaken for a groupie for the same man. Unless Brad had a wide-ranging taste in women.

  She entered the room, calling Brad’s name as she stepped over the threshold. The room certainly looked like it had been the scene of a wild party. Empty champagne bottles lay on the floor in front of the plush leather sofa. There were dishes of various snacks and bowls of chips on a table against one of the walls. A lot of the food had found its way onto the floor. It looked like a carbohydrate snowstorm had landed on the dark blue carpet. The room smelled of alcohol, stale snacks, and a heady mix of various women’s perfumes.

  The maids sure had their work cut out for them when they found this mess. Simone didn’t even want to guess what state the bedroom was in. She went to the glass doors that led out onto the balcony, and slid them open. London’s hot, hazy summer air wasn’t exactly clean, but it was fresh compared to the air in the room.

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” a voice called from beyond an archway that led to the bedroom area. Simone realized she could hear the hiss of a shower through there. Brad was probably washing off the previous night’s debauchery. Simone hoped he had some strong soap.

  “Okay,” she called back, stepping out onto the balcony to escape the stuffy room. The city reached all the way to the horizon beneath the morning sun. Simone loved London with its rich history and quaint old buildings jutting up against modern office blocks. It was as if time had become jumbled, and the past lived alongside the present day.

  “You must be Simone.”

  His voice, so close behind her, startled her. She hadn’t heard the shower shut off, or his stealthy
approach. Turning to face him, she was ready to bawl him out about sneaking up on her, but when she saw him, her brain refused to formulate words and she just stared.

  He stood on the balcony wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist. He was still wet from the shower, the water and sunlight creating a sheen over his toned, athletic body. He was devastatingly handsome, with a strong jawline, lips that Simone was sure could plant a mind-blowing kiss, and light gray eyes that had a confident, powerful gaze.

  Simone had met and worked with many athletes—most of them perfect specimens of fitness—but there was something about Brad that took her breath away.

  She regained her composure, put her hands on her hips, and gave him the meanest stare she could summon under the circumstances. “Don’t you go sneaking up on me.”

  He held up his hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me. I don’t scare easily. Just don’t go sneaking up on me, okay?”

  “Okay, got it. You want a drink?”

  Simone shook her head. She didn’t want to drink or eat anything that had come from that war zone of a room.

  “Would you rather meet me in the lobby?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”

  She indicated the towel around his waist. “Maybe you’d like me to leave while you get dressed.”

  He looked down at the towel and grinned. “You’re not intimidated by this are you?”

  “It takes much more than that to intimidate me, honey, but we’re supposed to be having a business meeting. There’s a time and a place for not wearing pants and this isn’t it.”

  A wicked glint appeared in his eyes. “Are you worried that if my towel falls open, you won’t be able to handle it?”

  Simone raised an eyebrow and returned his look. Even though his words placed an image in her head of his towel dropping to the floor and her handling what had been hidden beneath it, she kept her composure. “You haven’t got anything I can’t handle, Mr. McClintock.”

  He seemed to realize he wasn’t going to ruffle her feathers. The wickedness in his eyes faded. “Please, call me Brad. If we’re going to be working together, we should be at least on first-name terms, Simone. I’ll go and put on some pants.” He disappeared back into the room.

  Simone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Playing word games with Brad wasn’t going to get her anywhere, and it certainly wasn’t going to get her the job. Damn it, why did he have to be so hot? Maybe coming here was a mistake; she wasn’t sure she would be able to keep her mind on her job if she had to work in close proximity to Brad.

  He returned to the balcony wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a tight, white T-shirt that had the logo of a sportswear company on the left sleeve. The T-shirt molded itself to Brad’s perfect torso.

  Get a hold of yourself, girl. You’ve seen plenty of fit men.

  But there was something about Brad that made Simone feel a longing heat between her legs. Images flashed through her head of her body entwined with Brad’s, naked and fucking. There was something primal about her response to him, and Simone didn’t know how to control it. She had never experienced anything like it before, and she wasn’t used to losing control.

  Fighting to keep her voice steady, she said, “Okay, now we can talk business.”

  He grinned at her. Did he know the effect he was having on her mind and body? No, he couldn’t; Simone was practiced at keeping her cool. She was sure Brad couldn’t know she wanted to rip off his clothes, and then her own, and ride him until the lust she felt exploded through her body in wave after wave of pure pleasure.

  Stop thinking like that!

  Maybe Brad could sense her agitation; he was a bear shifter, after all, and as such he had heightened awareness. Great, that was all she needed. As if he wasn’t already too cocky.

  Cocky.

  She let her mind go there.

  She bit her lower lip.

  “Are you all right?” Brad asked.

  “Uh huh, just a little warm, that’s all.”

  His smile was enigmatic. Simone had no idea if he was genuinely concerned for her, or if he knew what was going on and was playing with her like a cat toying with a mouse.

  Or a bear hooking a salmon with its claws.

  “Let’s talk business,” he said. “What can you do for me, Simone? How can you make my game better?”

  Simone switched into work mode, banishing the dirty thoughts from her mind. “I’ll work with you on a number of motivational and mindset techniques that will give you a mental edge when you step onto the tennis court.”

  “You can motivate me to win?”

  She shook her head. “You’ll motivate yourself. I’ll be showing you how to reach inside of your mind and connect with your desire to win. Only you can do that. I can teach you how, but I can’t personally motivate you to do anything.”

  He gazed at her steadily with his wicked blue eyes. “I wouldn’t say that; I’m sure you could motivate me to do a lot of things.”

  She tried to ignore the comment, but it sent a shiver of anticipation through every nerve in her body. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to remain cool. There was no need to let Brad know the effect he had on her. “The desire to win comes from within yourself,” she said, delivering the speech she gave to all of her potential clients. “With the correct mental attitude…”

  “I already have a desire to win,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to win.”

  “Yes, you want to win,” Simone said. “All of my clients want to win, but there’s usually something holding them back from reaching their full potential.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s usually when the other guy is better than you, and he beats you. A few sessions of meditation can’t change that.”

  “I didn’t say I can make you unbeatable. I said I can help you realize your potential. These techniques will improve your game.”

  “What if I’m already playing my best game?”

  Simone paused and took a breath before saying, “You aren’t.”

  Brad raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You’re a tennis expert now?”

  “No, I’m not a tennis expert, but I’ve worked with enough athletes to know when someone isn’t playing to the best of their ability. I did my research before coming here. I watched a few of your matches online, and took a look at your stats. You’re a good player, much better than you allow yourself to be. There’s something inside your head holding you back, and that’s what I can help you with.”

  He stroked his chin and grimaced. “Something in my head? And you figured that out from watching a few matches?”

  This was the part of the job that Simone hated, pointing out the faults of her clients. It wasn’t nice, but it had to be done. The trouble was, Brad’s ego was so inflated that he probably wouldn’t listen to any criticism, no matter how Simone dressed it up. She decided to tell it to him straight. “You’re a good player, Brad, but your mind and body don’t work in sync.”

  He laughed, but Simone detected something defensive in his manner. “That’s why you get angry when you play,” she said. “That’s why you threw your racket into the crowd two years ago in Melbourne. And that’s why you served a ball at your opponent’s head when you were losing a match in the Brazil Open. Your record is full of misdemeanors and warnings.”

  “I’m passionate when I play,” he said, shrugging. Then he added, “I’m passionate in all areas of my life.”

  It was Simone’s turn to shrug. A string of one-night stands, which seemed to be what he was referring to, didn’t indicate passion to her. It told her that Brad was searching for something that he hadn’t found yet.

  “Brad, you said you want to win, and that’s why you’re here. But you asked for my help, and that’s why I’m here. You must know there’s something lacking in your game, or you wouldn’t have contacted me. If we’re going to work together, we need to be honest wi
th each other, and even more importantly, you need to be honest with yourself.”

  He held up his hands as if trying to calm her down, even though Simone thought she was doing a great job of keeping her cool under the circumstances. “Okay, I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “I’m not really sure why I contacted you. I heard you were in Paris, which is only a short flight from here, and you know my brother, so I thought we could meet and maybe have dinner. Sure, I wondered if you could help me win Wimbledon, but I didn’t know your methods involved soul-searching and getting in touch with my inner self. I want to be a better tennis player, not a Shaolin monk.”

  “We haven’t discussed the methods yet. I…”

  “I think I need something more practical,” Brad said. “I’m sorry, Simone, but I won’t be needing your services.”

  Simone had to remind herself to remain professional. Brad had wasted her time and money by asking her to fly to London, only to tell her he wasn’t going to hire her. Now she had to get on the next flight to New York and find a new client.

  “All right,” she said, trying to keep her anger under control. “If you change your mind in the future, give me a call.” She strode off the balcony and back into the room, and headed for the door as fast as she could while still appearing professional. She wasn’t going to give Brad McClintock the satisfaction of knowing how much she needed this job.

  He followed her to the door. “We can still go for dinner, right? I don’t want your trip to London to be wasted.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hey, just because we won’t be working together, that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, right?”

  She turned on her heels and brought her hand up, slapping him across the face so hard that his head spun with the force of the blow.

  He gazed at her with a surprised look in his eyes and a red mark growing on his cheek.

  Simone put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “I think you’re mistaking me for one of your wide-eyed groupies. Don’t ever make that mistake again.” She stalked out into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.