Happy Howlidays: Shifters in Love Romance Collection (Shifter in Love Book 1)

by V. Vaughn

  She lifted her face from the depths of his white handkerchief to glare at him. “The widow of José Arutta has no excuse for screwing around with a fucking black bear!”

  His face stiffened. He visibly clamped his jaw. The bristles showed black against the redness of his flush. The scrapes from her nails were long red gouges. He folded his arms across his chest. His biceps and forearms bulged against the checked cloth of his shirt. And then his mouth fell open.

  “You were married to Gen. Arutta?” His question was laced with perfectly appropriate awe. “Gen. José Aguilar Arutta?”

  “I had that honor.” Her José had been a much-decorated hero.

  “His death was a great loss to every American,” he said quietly. “He was a great soldier.” He stared at her for several beats. “But, truth to tell, I thought the general passed five or six years back.”

  “Five,” she said stiffly.

  He nodded. “And all this time, you’ve not had sex?” The bastard sounded pleased.

  She glowered at him. “Not with a partner,” she informed him through her teeth.

  He whistled. “I never would have guessed that General Arutta was a grizzly. He was a grizzly?”

  “Of course. Naturally he kept his shifting under wraps.” Which was standard in the military.

  “Possessive, was he?” Calvin asked quietly.

  Certainly José had been possessive. He was a fricking grizzly, not some sort of metrosexual excuse for a black bear. Just as she was possessive. She did not share. Of course, a philanderer like Bascom wouldn’t understand fidelity.

  “We were faithful to each other,” she said with as much poise as her consciousness of her red, tear-stained face would allow.

  “Children?” he asked. His chin pointed to her Christmas tree. “Your kids make those Christmas things?”

  “No. No kids. My nieces and nephews – José’s nieces and nephews made them.” Her voice broke. She and José had tried for nine years to make a child. Unfortunately, she was barren and their efforts had been unproductive.

  “Hmm.” He thought about that for another few seconds. “You’re still marrying me if you come up pregnant. We’ve had too damned much of that sort of crap in my family. I’ll be damned if I’ll add another bastard to the world.”

  “Very forward thinking of you, Bascom,” she snapped. “Not. But you needn’t worry. I’m not likely to conceive.”

  “What are you using?” he asked sternly. As if he had every right to interrogate her about her birth control.

  Yet she answered him. “Nothing. I’m infertile.”

  He sniffed the air like a connoisseur. “You don’t smell infertile,” he observed.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Bascom?” She didn’t fucking smell infertile! As if infertility could be diagnosed by nose.

  “You’re the vet,” he shot back. “You know that swapping studs is the best way to cure barrenness in cattle and horses.”

  It was true, but she was neither a mare nor a heifer.

  “José had a son when he married me,” she informed him flatly. “Our problem lay with me. Not that it’s any of your business.” A thought occurred to her. “What did you mean another Bascom bush colt? Just how many bastards do you have?”

  “Not me. I’ve got no kids. But the lawyers are still hunting down my great-grandfather’s love children. There have been too many Bascoms growing up without knowing their roots. And I don’t plan to add to the number.”

  “Fine sentiments,” she sneered. “But here’s a little tip going forward. Referring to your illegitimate offspring as bush colts isn’t going to endear you to their mothers. Even in Arkansas, men know better.”

  “What has Arkansas got to do with anything?” he demanded. His good humor was returning. He exuded unmistakable masculine satisfaction.

  Nothing. It was just where her clan hailed from. “I have kinfolk there.” She touched her belly lightly. Hopefully. Idiotically. “If I’m pregnant – which I’m not – don’t you ever call my child names.”

  He joined her on the couch, actually put his arm around her shoulders. “I apologize. I used a nasty term because I’m still mad at Clive. I shouldn’t have used it to you.”

  “Your great-grandfather cheated on his wife? Wasn’t he a bear?” What the heck kind of sketchy, scummy shifters was she dealing with anyway? She tried to shrug off the comfort of his arm.

  “He did and he was,” Calvin said. His arm tightened. “Clive married four or five times and had kids with all his wives and a bunch of other women too. We still haven’t traced them all.”

  “That’s appalling.”

  “I agree.” He kissed her nose. “That’s why if you’re pregnant, we’re getting married.”

  “I am not marrying you,” she corrected fiercely. “Like some sixteen-year-old who needs a man to make her whole.”

  He snorted. “Kids need two parents. And face it, I didn’t forget to use a condom for the first time in my life because I find you moderately attractive. This is the real deal, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t you sweetheart me! Not six months ago you were sniffing around Amber Dupré like a hound dog with one idea. How many women have you been involved with since?”

  “Not one.” He sounded so sincere that if she had not seen him all over the internet with a different damsel every time there was some red-carpet event in Denver, she would have swallowed his lie whole.

  “I have the internet. I read People magazine.”

  He laughed. “I’ll just bet you do. Honey, if I slept with every woman I take out, I’d be paying palimony out the wazoo. Besides, when a fellow is looking to settle down, he stops sleeping around.”

  Her elbow got him in the stomach when she swiveled to look directly into his lying eyes. “Since when did you decide to settle down?”

  “Around about the time that Pat and Heather had their babies. I admit that for a while I figured that Amber might be the answer to this bear’s prayers. But she chose Prescott. And you can stop laughing.”

  “She’s just a kid.”

  “Same age as her twin. And Pat’s as happy as a cow in clover.”

  “Isn’t that a ‘pig in clover’?”

  “Nah. Pat’s no hog. Stop trying to distract me, woman. Ever since you turned up at the Double B, we’ve been striking sparks off one another. Maybe we should see where this takes us?”

  13

  Calvin~

  She elbowed him in the gut. Again. He sucked air but he didn’t let go. Being next to her like this was shorting out his brain. She smelled so danged good. And her presence made him so danged happy. He didn’t want to let her go, and he was damned if he would.

  “We have nothing in common, Bascom,” she declared. But she did not move away from him. Instead she nestled more deeply against him.

  Fine by him. The tetchier she got, the more the rising bubble of happiness in his chest threatened to explode. He had to remember to be considerate. Compassionate. Civilized. A modern male did not shout with laughter when a woman – his woman – told him she was still grieving for her husband. Or acted conflicted.

  “Sure we do.” He waved his free arm at the O’Keeffe over the fireplace. “We both have pretty pussies hanging in our living rooms.”

  “That’s a flower, you cretin,” but her voice was full of laughter.

  He took another look. Squinted. “You sure? Because it sure looks like a plump and juicy vulva to me.”

  Her elbow found his solar plexus. While he was gasping, she said. “Do you really have an O’Keeffe in your home?”

  “Hanging over the fireplace.” He looked critically at hers. “Mine’s quite a bit smaller though.”

  She shrugged. “I bought one to fill the space.”

  “I gave my decorator a budget. She gave me a few options.” As he recalled she had intended to have him bid on a van Gogh. But he only spent that kind of money on cars.

  “I’ll bet yours is real,” she said.

  “Is
n’t yours?” He took another look. “It sure looks real. I’d have sworn that was canvas.”

  “It’s a print on canvas, Bascom. The real one is in a museum.”

  “Really?” He squinted at it again. “Heck of a good idea. I can’t believe my decorator made me spend all that money when I could have just bought a print.”

  “If you have a real O’Keeffe on your wall, Bascom, it’s better than money in the bank.”

  “Nothing is better than money in the bank. Art is nice. But it isn’t fungible.”

  She snorted. “I sure hope that doesn’t mean what it sounds like.”

  He patted her backside. All right. He copped a feel of her ass. “It means that you can’t use art to buy something else without converting it back into cash first. And trying to arrange the sale of luxury goods during a credit crunch is a piss-poor way to raise money. Liquid assets are fungible. Paintings are not.”

  “You’re missing my point here, Bascom. I went online and found a painting I liked on Amazon. For under a hundred bucks. You paid an overpriced expert to buy you a painting you didn’t even choose. We’re not even living on the same planet.”

  “Believe me, if I hadn’t liked O’Keeffe’s pussy-flower, I’d have made my decorator find something I did like.”

  He took another gander at Amanda’s print. Admired the flushed pink and white petals. His were rosier. More like labia. Which made him wonder what Amanda’s looked like. Focus, Bascom. Act civilized. No drooling. Drooling isn’t cool.

  “You know,” he continued. “I sure wish you hadn’t told me that thing was a print. I liked it better when I thought it was real. Now that I know, it kind of looks flat.”

  “You are a philistine, Bascom.”

  He thought about that. “Probably.” He stroked her back. “You feeling better now, Amanda?”

  “What did you call me?”

  “By your name.” He cleared his throat. “Fellow can’t call his wife by her last name. Her late husband’s last name. Doesn’t sound respectful.”

  She squashed his balls when she pulled out of his arms. He squealed. Couldn’t help it.

  She ignored his agony. “I am not marrying you,” she cried.

  He shook his head at her. Massaged his crotch. “I’m pretty much used to getting my way,” he informed her sadly. “You may as well get used to the idea, because I mean to marry you.”

  “Is this your idea of a joke, Bascom?” Her eyes narrowed. Her cheeks were tinted a delicate peach. “Or is this your concept of a proposal?”

  “I’m afraid I’m serious, Amanda.” He kept his voice level. “And you would only say No, so you don’t get a proposal. Yet.”

  As he expected, she erupted. She leapt off the couch and lit into him. He listened attentively while she tore his character to shreds and stomped on the pieces. Clearly her time in the military had been instructive. She had a wide-ranging vocabulary, and although some of that stuff was clearly impossible, she was certainly inventive.

  “You’re a delusional asshole,” she concluded.

  He leaned back. Set his hands behind his head and smiled up at his wrathful Amazon. “There were two of us out there in the kitchen. Two of us on this couch.”

  “That was a mistake,” she spat.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’s been coming a long time. And now that it’s here it’s not going away. We have to deal with it, Amanda.”

  “You’re just getting off on having screwed General Arutta’s wife,” she accused.

  He thought about that. “Nah. I didn’t know that until afterward.” He kept his voice mild. Just like he was going into negotiations with another firm. Saving his clincher for the right moment. “But you might want to think how it’s going to look when Mrs. General Arutta turns up pregnant. You going to claim our baby is his?”

  She actually lost color. For a moment he worried he had gone too far. That she was going to faint. But his mate rallied. “Since there isn’t going to be a baby, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “You really believe that?” he asked. “Because I figure the way we’re going, you’ll be pregnant by Christmas.”

  “José was worth ten of you.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Twenty.”

  “Undoubtedly.” He nodded. “But I’ve got one thing going for me that he doesn’t. I’m alive.”

  “You bastard.”

  14

  Amanda~

  He sprawled over her couch, spreading his arms over the back and stacking his feet on the coffee table. Fucking flaunting his erection at her. His expression of smug masculinity infuriated her. And made her insides melt. That hefty pudding, Amanda Arutta, had this stud muffin hot and hungry.

  Her pussy was still pulsing gently from the ferocious sex, yet her pulse was accelerating again from the sight and smell of him, as if she had not already found satisfaction enough for ten women. This lust for Bascom was wrong by any measure.

  She was too old to be enticed into an affair with some boy toy who made a mockery of everything her relationship with her husband had been. The only thing for her to do was to ignore her overheated hormones and maintain her composure.

  She couldn’t betray José a second time. Her husband might be dead, but that didn’t mean she got to replace him in either her bed or her heart. Especially not with this tom-catting billionaire. “This stops right here,” she warned him. “I can’t change what we did, but I can avoid repeating my mistake.”

  His smile broadened. “No mistake, sweetheart. You and I have been dancing the two-step for months. Now you have to decide if you’re going to leave your partner high and dry under the glitter ball, or go home with him.” One corner of his mouth quirked.

  “What the fuck does that even mean?” she snarled, despite her vow to remain collected.

  “It means that you are just as attracted to me as I am to you.” He patted his face, red marks, stubble, swollen lips, and all. “I didn’t get this scratched up all on my lonesome. Normally I don’t rely on my bear instincts, but this time they are right on the money.” As he moved, his misaligned shirt front taunted her with glimpses of his chest.

  “You took advantage of me,” she accused.

  His complacent amusement vanished. His eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head and his lips pursed in a silent whistle. “Nicely played,” he approved. “But everything we did was mutual. Maybe you should search your heart and figure out why your body is saying one thing and your mouth another.”

  “My head is in charge,” she responded fiercely. Whatever her damn fool body thought, Bascom was not the man for her. Nor the bear she craved.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You ever find it a little dull or cold sleeping with a ghost?”

  “You ever find it a little dull or cold sleeping with a supermodel?” she shot back.

  He mimed being hit in the heart. “You got me there, darlin’. Yes, and yes. But you are neither dull nor cold.” He smiled knowingly. “In fact, I’d say that now that I’ve had me a taste of red-hot she-grizzly there’s no going back.”

  The electric spark inside her jumped. Her nipples puckered. She wanted to jump his bones and forget everything in brain-melting passion. And afterward? her common-sense taunted. What then?

  “Suddenly you’re one hundred percent bear?” she scoffed. “You’re going to give up waxing, and dousing yourself in cologne, and treating women like fast food, and act like a real honest-to-god bear?”

  Bascom looked taken aback – as well he might. He rubbed his bristly jaw and then put a hand under his shirt to touch his hairless chest. “I have just two words to say about that, sweetheart.”

  “Huh?”

  “Back hair.” Yet his deep flush told her more than his attempt at witticism. Bascom really believed he was too hairy.

  She felt a surge of anger at the women who had made this sexy beast feel uncouth in his natural glory. “Bears are supposed to be furry,” she blurted out. “Men are supposed to be furry.”

/>   “There’s fur, sweetheart, and then there’s climbing into bed with a fur coat.” He gave her another cocky grin and opened his arms. “Why don’t you come over here, and tell me why you’re fighting your feelings?”

  Why indeed? Because if he touched her again, she would go up like kindling. The worst thing was she wanted to give in. Abandon her principles and fall into his damned arms like some weak-minded wuss.

  “Some of us keep our promises.” She meant to say it firmly, but her voice was a breathy whisper.

  “You promised your husband you would keep your legs crossed for the rest of your life?” he contrived to sound both eager and humble.

  Had she? Not exactly. But José had been her fated mate. Her one true love. How could she spit on his memory by taking up with this black bear? “Bears love only once,” she told him. “You’re not going to persuade me that we’re fated mates.”

  “Fated mates,” he rolled the syllables around on his tongue like they were melting chocolate. Rose to his feet. Stepped around the coffee table and crowded her until the brick wall was at her back.

  He stood so they nearly touched. She could feel his warm breath on her face, like a furnace blast of pure testosterone. “So that’s why this feels so damned right. Boy howdy. You are my destiny, Amanda.”

  “Back off, Bascom,” she snapped. But her hands were against his chest savoring his masculine heat. Digging into the firm muscles under the cloth.

  He kissed her. Not a fierce prelude to unbridled lust, like their kiss in the kitchen. This was a tender salute that left it up to her whether or not to respond. Somehow that was even more seductive than his lusty grappling had been. Their lusty grappling. Because she had been just as driven as Calvin.

  “Come on,” he tugged her back to the couch and sat beside her. He kissed her ear. “Tell me about your husband.”

  “We were married for over ten years. I loved him with all my heart. I can’t just hop into bed with the first boy toy who asks me.”

  “Boy toy?” he sounded outraged. “You think I’m some sort of boy toy?”