Smolder: A Werebear + BBW Paranormal Romance (Bearpaw Ridge Firefighters Book 2)

by Sexton, Ophelia

  "It's bad enough that you screwed up and let Rich Montoya see you shift," Pete Langlais continued, completely ignoring Philippe's rebuke. "But guess what? I just found out that you really fucked up."

  Philippe growled into the phone at Langlais' continued insolence, but the other shifter's words were ominous.

  Pete Langlais was Sylvie's son and Pride Third.

  When Philippe had joined the Sandia Mountain Pride several years ago, he had challenged and defeated Langlais for Pride Third. The younger shifter had put up a good fight, but Philippe had been bigger, stronger, and more experienced.

  Langlais had regained his position as Third once Philippe defeated the then-Second.

  Since then, Philippe had occasionally regretted not killing Langlais during their battle. Even after his defeat, Langlais rarely showed Philippe the respect he was due as a higher-ranking pride member.

  But the usefulness of having one of their kind in the Albuquerque Police Department outweighed the annoyance…and besides, if Philippe killed Langlais outside of a formal challenge, then he'd have to answer to Sylvie for it.

  So Philippe gritted his teeth and told Langlais, "I assure you—your police officer friend is safely dead, and his death cannot be traced back to me. The matter has been dealt with."

  "Oh yeah?" Langlais' tone was sneering.

  The next time they saw each other, Philippe would have to remind the other shifter of proper courtesy to his superior.

  His momentary fantasy of raking his claws down Langlais' hide and watching him bleed dissipated with Langlais' next words.

  "Because I just got a call from a reporter from some stupid paranormal investigation website. She was asking about Montoya," Langlais continued.

  "And that worries you…why?" Philippe tapped his nails impatiently against the back of his smartphone. "I told you—I took care of Montoya before he talked to anyone."

  "Then why was the reporter chick asking me whether Montoya was carrying a video camera on Wednesday morning?"

  Philippe's blood suddenly ran cold in his veins.

  "Please tell me he wasn't wearing his GoPro when he saw you? He fucking wore that thing everywhere after he bought it," Langlais continued.

  Oh, shit. The thin thread of worry suddenly coalesced into a giant, indigestible ball of string in Philippe's gut.

  "I—I don't know. He ran into me right after I finished shifting," Philippe said defensively. "You know what it's like—eyes are blurry, everything hurts, and you can't do jack shit for a while. Believe me, it was all I could do to get him not to call an ambulance. To convince him that I'd had too much to drink at a party and someone stole my clothes and dumped me in the middle of the Paseo del Bosque trail as a practical joke."

  "And did he believe you?"

  "No. That's why I had to track him down later and get rid of him." Philippe didn't mention what they both knew—that killing a police officer, even an off-duty police officer, had instigated an investigation that might expose the Sandia Mountain Pride's secret existence in Albuquerque.

  "Shit," Langlais said, with feeling. "Shit, Bertrand, that reporter was from Mythtrust News. You know what kind of stories those people run…and how many people read their site."

  "But they're just a bunch of whackaloons on the Web," Philippe protested, though he knew Langlais was right. "No one in their right minds will believe it even if they do post a video. Assuming there's even a video to begin with."

  "Oh, I'm sure there's a video," Langlais said grimly. "And don't you think that these whackaloons, as you call them, will show up here in full force once that video gets leaked, armed to the teeth trying to bag a sabertooth for themselves?"

  Philippe was silent.

  "None of us will be able to shift safely for weeks, months, even years, maybe." Langlais' voice was dripping with contempt now. "We'll be hunted, Philippe, by hordes of Ordinaries, each of them armed with a high-powered rifle and those stupid little cameras."

  "I'll take care of it," Philippe growled.

  His next question took an effort of will—asking Langlais for the information made Philippe lose face, and both shifters knew it. "Who'd you talk to?"

  At least Langlais didn't make him beg.

  "Reporter by the name of Caitlyn Morgan," said the shifter police officer. "She's somewhere in Idaho right now—didn’t mention exactly where, but she'll be easy to track down since she mentioned having a car accident yesterday. I'll pull her license and registration from the MVD database and see if I can match them to any accident reports in Idaho."

  "Good," said Philippe. "Do that."

  "You're going to owe me big-time for this," warned Langlais. "I'm having to put my job on the line because of your fuck-up." He paused, then added, "And Rich Montoya was my partner and my friend—at least as much of a friend as any Ordinary could ever be."

  "So noted," Philippe said, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. Someday. Someday I'll gut him and enjoy the sight of his entrails spilling out onto the ground. "I'll take care of the reporter."

  Langlais sighed, a sound that perfectly conveyed his frustration and doubt.

  Philippe snarled in response and cut the connection.

  All thoughts of his city council meeting temporarily forgotten, he sat back, his gut churning, and tried to decide what to do next.

  Felice. He would definitely have to contact Felice and ask her to search the reporter's apartment for evidence that Montoya had somehow managed to send a copy of the video.

  But though Felice was one of the low-ranking pride members, she never worked for free. Asking her for help would likely be expensive in addition to further damaging Philippe's status in the pride.

  A Pride Second was not supposed to rely on his subordinates to resolve messes. Doing so would probably open Philippe up to challenges from other subordinate members.

  That fucking cop, Philippe thought in disgust, neatly ignoring his own carelessness in the matter. Who the fuck goes jogging that early in the morning?

  Chapter Seven – Lost and Found

  Still seething after his encounter with Dane and his mother, Mark left his office.

  As he inhaled the crisp air of late morning, he wondered what was happening to him, that he'd let them get to him like that.

  Of all the Swanson brothers, he had always been the calm and logical one. The peacemaker. The mediator in the fights between his brothers.

  But ever since meeting Caitlyn, Mark and his bear had been at odds. Whether wearing skin or fur, they had always coexisted peacefully. This new—and constant—internal conflict was unsettling. He felt as if he had slipped off-balance somehow, and he couldn't seem to re-center himself.

  That was dangerous for any shifter. And doubly dangerous when he had Caitlyn Morgan of Mythtrust News living under his roof.

  He shook his head to clear it and headed towards his truck, which was parked a little further down the street. His law office was located on the ground floor of one of the 1890s-vintage brick buildings that lined Main Street, within easy walking distance of Bearpaw Ridge's other businesses.

  As Mark passed his pickup truck, he stopped to put Caitlyn's suitcase in the back. No need to worry about anyone stealing it—one nice thing about living in a town this small was that hardly anyone bothered to lock their doors…cars, houses, or otherwise.

  And besides, even if someone did try to take the suitcase, Mark's keen shifter sense of smell would be able to track down the culprit pretty quickly and convince them to return the item.

  He flexed his hands. Because of his weekend shift with the BPRFD, he hadn't shifted for a while now, and his bear was growing restless. It had certainly been acting oddly these past couple of days. Maybe if Mark was able to find some time to shift this evening, he could let his bear out for an amble through the stands of lodgepole pine growing in the ranch's hills…

  But did he dare, with Caitlyn staying under his roof?

  Thinking of her reminded him that it was nearly lunchtime. He
decided to get some take-out Italian and followed a savory scent trail of roasted garlic, cheese, herbs, and tomatoes to The Bear's Lair Pizza & Pasta.

  There, he ordered his favorite dish, Italian sausage and mushrooms in a light tomato cream sauce over penne pasta, and a couple of salads to go.

  With a faint twinge of guilt, he looked over to the other side of the street, where Annabeth's bakery, Cinnamon + Sugar, was located. Maybe he should buy some pastries for dessert…and make peace with his sister-in-law?

  He pulled open the heavy glass door, painted with letters in a pink, curlicue font that read Cinnamon + Sugar Bakery & Café. Open 5:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m., Tuesday – Sunday, and stepped inside.

  And realized that it was Monday, the day the bakery was officially closed. The lights were off in the café area, but he heard voices coming from the back. Good.

  Annabeth was probably holed up in her office at the back of the bakery, going over her accounts and placing orders with suppliers for the week's deliveries of flour, sugar, yeast, and other necessities.

  The bakery's interior had been completely redone in the wake of last summer's disastrous fire. Gone was the unadorned, slightly dingy décor that had dated from Frank Hermann's ownership of the business.

  It now looked like a classic European café with retro black-and-white floor tiles, Art Deco posters, and new bakery cases, marble-topped tables, and chairs. Annabeth had even found a pair of matching comfortably worn leather armchairs somewhere and put them in one corner of the café.

  "Hey, Mark," called his cousin Hannah as she hurried to the front to see who had come in.

  She worked as Cinnamon + Sugar's barista and bakery assistant. Like all of the Swansons, Hannah was tall and athletic, with dark-hair and hazel eyes.

  "Hey, Hannah," Mark returned the greeting. Before he could say anything more, Hannah half-turned and shouted to the back of the bakery, where tall pieces of equipment loomed. "Annabeth! Mark's here!"

  A moment later, Annabeth hurried to the front of the bakery. She was smiling warmly as she rounded the counter and approached Mark for a hug.

  Her curling mass of red-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and instead of her usual chef's coat, she wore a loose tunic top over jeans.

  "Mark," she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "You've saved me from wrestling with my accounting software. How's your new friend Caitlyn doing? Dane told me that he and Evan had to cut her out of her car! Neither of you mentioned that the other morning!"

  "She's a bit banged up and sore, but okay," Mark told her. "And, uh, staying at my place for a few days."

  He braced himself for his sister-in-law's reaction.

  Rather than looking angry, though, her smile widened, and two dimples appeared in her cheeks. She glanced down at the large paper takeout bag dangling from his left hand.

  "And you're bringing her lunch? How sweet!" She tilted her head slightly and glanced at him with a mischievous expression. "Am I allowed to ask, or are you sick of answering questions about her?"

  Mark breathed a small sigh of relief and chuckled. "I see you've met my relatives. Would you believe that Mom actually sent Evan over to my place last night to do reconnaissance?"

  "Yep." Annabeth nodded. "Sunday dinner. I was there. You weren't. I could see Elle was desperate to find out why you'd blown us all off."

  "After pulling an all-nighter at the hospital, I completely forgot what day it was when I woke up from my nap," Mark confessed. "But did you know that Mom and Dane paid me a visit a little while ago?"

  Annabeth's eyes widened. "I was wondering why my husband decided to go out to lunch in town with his mother…in the middle of calving season." She shook her head ruefully. "I wonder if you all did the same thing to Dane when he started dating me?"

  "Well, we'd all met you by then, remember? And we were already loyal customers," Mark replied dryly. He hesitated. "Look, I owe you an apology. I knew that Caitlyn was a reporter and that she was following up on that story that Roger Pemberton has been spreading around…I wasn't thinking when I asked you for a ride. I'm sorry if her questions upset you—Dane told me you'd been having nightmares."

  Annabeth let out an exasperated huff. "Dane has become, um, just slightly overprotective of me since we found out I'm pregnant. The first time I had morning sickness, he was trying to convince me to take the day off and rest!" She laid her hand on Mark's arm. "Look, my nightmares aren't your fault…or Caitlyn's. When she asked me that question about Dane turning into a bear, I was just worried I'd say the wrong thing and blow Dane's cover."

  Relieved, Mark gave his sister-in-law a hug.

  When he released her, she said, "For what it's worth, I liked Caitlyn, even though neither of us were at our best when we met."

  Mark blinked at her. Annabeth was the first person in his family to agree with his bear's assessment of Caitlyn. Under the circumstances, her approval mean a lot to him.

  He tried to hide his reaction with a casual shrug. "In any case, she's probably only going to stick around for a few days."

  His bear stirred unhappily at his words. And Annabeth's smile abruptly disappeared.

  "Oh, that's too bad," she said softly. "If only she weren't a reporter, I think she'd be perfect for you, Mark."

  "Thanks," he said, torn between embarrassment and relief. "Say, do you still have anything I could bring home for dessert? I forgot it was Monday and came by to pick up some lemon bars."

  Annabeth laughed. "You know I always put aside a couple of extras for you, Mark. They're leftovers from yesterday, but they should still taste good. I'll go box them up."

  * * *

  After little more than a day, Mark noticed that his home already smelled of Caitlyn when he walked through his front door. His bear liked that…and so did he, truth be told. It made his home feel, well, a bit homier.

  He wondered what it would feel like after she left and her scent began to fade.

  "Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called out jokingly as he shut the door behind him.

  When he had moved into the house, he had quickly gotten rid of the hideous cabbage rose-patterned wallpaper in most of the rooms and had stripped out the old wall-to-wall carpet to reveal the beautiful old hardwood floors beneath.

  His home had been furnished with items handed down through four generations of Swansons, and he had spent quite a bit of money on reupholstering and restoring antique sofas, armchairs, side-tables, and armoires.

  "In here!"

  He found Caitlyn at his breakfast table, foot propped up on a chair and a sandwich bag filled with crushed ice resting on her injured ankle. Her computer and digital recorder were set up, and it looked as if she had been working.

  "I was wondering if you might be interested in some lunch," he said, putting his bags on the counter. "I hope you like Italian."

  "I love Italian," she assured him, reaching to remove the bag of ice from her ankle and rising to help him.

  "No, don't," he protested. "Your ankle—"

  "You found my suitcase! Great!" she interrupted as she caught sight of the other item he was carrying.

  He turned automatically to catch her as she limped forward, and she all but fell into his arms.

  A moment later, he felt her warm breath against his throat and then the sweet pressure of her lips as she gave him an all-too-brief kiss.

  "Thank you. You are the sweetest guy I've ever met," she told him.

  Mark heard himself make a low sound of protest as she drew back.

  He dropped the suitcase and yielded to his desire for a replay of last night's kiss.

  Caitlyn's arms came around his neck as his mouth descended on hers. She pressed herself against him eagerly, and he felt the firm roundness of her breasts against his chest.

  Oh, God, he wanted her so badly! She felt so perfectly soft and voluptuous and just plain right in his arms. And she wanted him too—just like last night, the delicious, irresistible scent of her arousal quickly rose like perfume to his nose.

/>   He deepened his kiss and felt her lips part beneath his. As he slid his tongue into the welcoming depths of her mouth, he heard her moan softly.

  Then she pressed her hips and belly against the aching length of his cock, and his control over his bear began to fray.

  Mark began a slow, sensual exploration of her mouth.

  Caitlyn's tongue caressed his in return, and soon she was prettily flushed and rubbing herself against him in the most distracting way.

  When Mark ended the kiss at last, both of them were breathing hard. Caitlyn's blue eyes were dilated with need, and Mark's face felt heated with the desire raging through him.

  He knew he should step away now. Dish up lunch, bring her suitcase up to her room…something.

  Anything to keep him from taking the next step.

  It would the sensible thing to do. The logical thing. The smart thing.

  Instead, he lowered his hands to Caitlyn's waist and lifted her. She gave a small squeak of surprise. Two steps, and he seated her on the edge of the sturdy oak breakfast table and stood between her thighs.

  With a swift gesture, he closed her computer and placed it carefully on the chair she had just vacated.

  "God, I love how strong you are," she murmured, reaching eagerly for his shirt buttons.

  He stood, enjoying the hunger in her eyes and gentle brush of her fingers against the skin of his chest as button by button, she bared him to her view. Her touch turned lingering, caressing, as she petted the furring of dark hair on his chest and let him know that she liked what she saw.

  She leaned forward to kiss the hollow of his throat, her breath tickling his skin.

  Intense desire jolted through him, urgent and overwhelming.

  He wanted to rip her panties off and plunge between her thighs on the spot, claiming her hard and deep and fast.

  He wanted to feel her fingers clawing his back as he pounded into her.

  He wanted to hear her moan and scream as he made her come again and again…

  Instead, all too aware of the blackish-blue bruises marring her soft, pale skin, he forced himself to go slowly, to tease rather than take.