by Lily Cahill
"Yeah, yeah," A.J. grumbled. "Did you get the pictures?"
She handed the tablet over so A.J. could flip though the gallery. She hadn't taken much time to look at the pictures, just created an album of the best shots. "I'll admit, it's a gorgeous spot. A little far from the hustle and bustle for me, but not bad."
She was careful to keep her tone flippant, but the truth was Skye had been moved by the silent majesty of the forest. Walking through those trees, some of which were nearly as old as Chicago itself, had made her feel humbled and exultant at once.
Impatient, she finally asked him the question she'd been puzzling over. "The part I don't get is, why did you send me out there? Where's the story here? It's just a piece of land."
A.J. shook his head and tossed her tablet on his desk. "That's your problem, Sylvester. You're looking at it from the wrong angle. The question isn't, what makes this land interesting? The question is, why are there rumors about a Chicago-based corporation that wants to frack for oil in the national park?"
Skye felt her reporter's instincts begin to stir. "Fracking? But wouldn't that damage the ecosystem?
"And destroy a pretty little piece of the earth in the bargain, I expect.
"I didn't know you were a treehugger."
A.J.'s mouth twitched, which was as close as he ever got to a laugh. "I'm interested in controversies, Sylvester. The sort of exposés that sell papers."
"There is a burgeoning oil industry up there," Skye said, tapping a finger to her lips. "Where did you get the tip?"
A.J. lifted one heavy eyebrow. "It may shock you to learn that I have sources you don't. An old contact reached out to me with the information and said it might be worth looking into. It seemed like the perfect story for an intrepid cub reporter like yourself."
"What's the name of this corporation?" Skye said, already tapping away at her tablet.
"It's known only as B3," A.J. said.
"I'm on it." She looked up at A.J. and chewed her lip. "Just curious. Do your sources ever say anything about ... bears?"
A.J.'s brow furrowed. "What, like, at the zoo?"
"No. I thought I saw something odd the other night, that's all. Probably just the whack on the head. How did you know I got mugged, by the way?"
A.J. tilted his head at her. "I listen to the police scanner, don't I? Old habits die hard."
"Well, don't make a big deal about it, okay? I don't want anyone fussing."
A.J. waved a hand in dismissal. "Bring me a story, and I'll be too distracted to fuss.
#
Three hours later, Skye sat back from her computer and blew out a breath. Her Internet search had kicked up a mountain of incomprehensible data and a few strange rumors, but she had yet to find anything solid about B3. The board of directors, the organization's purpose, the membership ... nothing.
The office had emptied around her as the sun set and the lights of the city winked on below her. Her stomach was rumbling, and her back ached from sitting so long. In the morning, she could pursue some of her contacts in business and finance and see if they knew anything about the organization. But for now, she was stalled.
Sighing, she lifted the stranger's leather jacket off the back of her chair and slipped it over her shoulders. It was too big for her, and obviously built for a man, but she couldn't stop wearing it.
It was hard to admit, even to herself, but she had been shaken up by the mugging. The warm, buttery leather, and the memory of the man who had worn it, were the only things she could find that made her feel safe and secure.
She was a strong, independent woman, she reminded herself as she waited for the wheezy elevator to climb its way up to her floor. She could take care of herself, and she could keep frightening situations in perspective. So she had been mugged. She vowed to herself that she wasn't going to be a victim.
Still, it was scary to think that her self-defense classes hadn't helped in the midst of a crisis. Her head injury wasn't serious, but it could have been if that mugger had been just a bit more aggressive. And then there was the hallucination. It was probably just her addled mind, but she could have sworn that an honest-to-goodness bear had come out of nowhere to save her.
So what did it hurt if she let herself take comfort in the coat? She indulged herself by pulling it tight around her and wallowing in the reassuring scent of leather, soap, and man. Especially this man.
When she wasn't replaying the mugging in her mind, her thoughts inevitably turned to the moment when he had stopped her from stumbling. Their bodies had been pressed together, their mouths so close ... she could swear that he had been about to kiss her. In mere moments, he had awakened a fire inside her that was smoldering even now. The way he looked at her--sensual, possessive, fierce--still made her shiver.
But then, of course, he pulled away. And she'd been so flustered that she had totally neglected to get his name.
Which meant she couldn't give him back the coat, or the money he'd paid for the cab. Not only that ... she would never get the chance to see him again.
"A.J.'s right. I am an idiot," she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.
She felt a sudden sharp prick in the vicinity of her breast. Unwrapping the coat, she discovered a small inner pocket that contained only one thing. A silver pin with a broken clasp. The fluorescent light of the hallway bounced off its polished surface.
It was fine work, elegant and stylish in an abstract design. Or ... not exactly abstract.
The elevator door dinged open. Skye stood still, staring at the pin. If she tilted it just right, she thought the stylized silver might just read "B3."
The elevator wheezed closed behind her as she whirled and ran back for her desk. She would order take-out, sleep on the shitty couch in the lounge if she had to. She needed to find B3, and, unless she was mistaken, the path to the mysterious organization ran right through the man who had given her his jacket.
Chapter Six
Marcus
Marcus was in his office, looking over the paperwork for purchasing the land in Michigan where he would build the newest B3 retreat. It was a great piece of property, and he couldn't wait to enhance its natural beauty. Like all B3 retreats, it would be luxurious, with spring water spa facilities and world-class food. But what Marcus really wanted to showcase was the gorgeous woods, the sparkling streams, the vast silence of the wilderness.
Still, it needed to be the sort of place that would appeal to both shifters and their human mates. Not that he believed in fated mates, the way so many in B3 seemed to. There was even a dating service that was dedicated to helping shifters find their mates. But Marcus knew better.
His parents had been a fated match. While his mother had been alive, they'd gone on and on about how their connection to each other was unbreakable, their love secure. But after his mother died, his father had started drinking heavily and made it his personal mission to sleep with every woman he met. So much for one fated mate for all eternity.
Still, the members of B3 would want to accommodate their mates. So the units Marcus was designing would include opulent bathrooms, private gyms, and fully-stocked offices. Everything a bear shifter and his mate could want in a retreat.
He was certain he had chosen the perfect property. It was beautiful, wild, and, most importantly, remote. There would be no road access to the land--the only way in was by helicopter. The national forest that bordered the property was heavily wooded and wasn't easily accessible to hikers and campers. He and the other members of the Brotherhood would be able to shift without fear of exposure.
The door to his office opened. Marcus assumed it was his assistant and said, "I thought you left. Can you get Everett Bowen on the line? I want to see when his new solar tiles will be ready."
"Is he a member of B3 too?"
Marcus stiffened. His assistant was a capable man in his forties, and unless something drastic had changed, his voice had never been so sultry and musical. He turned, already knowing where he had heard those tones be
fore.
It was the woman from the other night. The woman from the restaurant and the alleyway. The woman he had been struggling to forget since the last moment he saw her. Skye.
She was posed in his doorway, wearing a snug black blazer and pencil skirt that outlined every luscious curve of her body. Her hair was springing out at all angles in sleek curls that his fingers itched to touch. The bright pink wrap top beneath her jacket was tasteful while still showing off her ample breasts. On her feet, she wore peep-toe pumps in a darker shade of pink that made her shapely calves look positively sculptural.
Saliva pooled in his mouth. He'd been attracted to her when she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt; in this outfit, she had him instantly aroused.
His brain seemed to have short-circuited. Finally he managed to ask, "How did you find me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I think the question is, why were you hiding?"
"I wasn't. I'm not." He shook his head, trying to jump-start his thoughts. "How are you feeling? How is your head?"
Her aggressive posture softened slightly. "Better. Thank you for asking."
"Good."
"I brought back your coat."
"Thank you." He had forgotten all about the coat. Although he certainly hadn't forgotten how she'd looked wearing it. One of his more vivid fantasies had involved her being naked beneath it.
"And your hundred dollars."
"That's not necessary. I told you not to worry about it."
"I pay my debts," Skye said, laying the coat over the arm of a chair and placing the bill on top.
"Did you put in the effort to find me just so you could return my coat?"
"You weren't that hard to find," she said, avoiding the question. Instead of sauntering toward him, she circled to the window where the dying light of the sun was filling the sky. In silhouette, she was a fantasy of soft curves.
Though it was a struggle, he pulled himself together enough to say, "You needn't have gone to the trouble to thank me."
She turned to him with a secretive smile. "Actually, what brings me here is the silver pin in your coat pocket."
It took a moment for Marcus to remember. When he did, he cursed himself for forgetting. His B3 membership pin had a broken clasp, and he needed to take it to a jeweler to get it repaired. He'd tucked it into his coat's breast pocket and promptly forgotten all about it.
The woman must have found it. But why did that matter? No one outside of the exclusive group would have recognized the pin. He decided to play dumb. "That old thing?"
She chuckled. "Allow me to introduce myself. Skye Sylvester, Daily Gazette. I'm investigating a piece of property in Michigan that is currently being purchased by an entity called B3."
Marcus wasn't a high-powered property developer for nothing. She might have knocked him flat, but he knew how to fight back when someone tried to strong-arm him. "I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about."
Her brow wrinkled. "Are you not Marcus Sinclair? The billionaire who renovated the Near South Side waterfront?"
"That's me."
"I should have recognized you the other night. Your picture has been in the paper. But you aren't a publicity hound. Some might even call you reclusive."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Seriously, how did you identify me?"
She shrugged elegantly. "It's my job, Mr. Sinclair. Just like it's my job to find out that you are also the M. Sinclair who signed in to the Oceana County records room last month and requested the records on forty-acre piece of property?"
He stared at her for a long moment. She stared right back. God, what a woman. She was bold, determined, and sexy as hell. Too bad he was going to have to make sure whatever story she was digging up never came to light. "Would you like a drink?"
"I'd like you to confirm that you requested the records on the property in Rothbury, and that you are purchasing it for B3."
He laughed and turned to the bar. "There's a lot of M. Sinclairs in the world."
"Not a lot who also contacted the owners of the property, and asked them to return his call at the number of this office. Not a lot who are affiliated with B3, a shadowy organization that seems to want this particular parcel of land enough to pay a fortune for it."
He poured them each two fingers of aged Scotch whiskey and turned back to her. She had propped herself against his desk as if she were utterly casual, but he noticed the anxious way she kept jiggling a bracelet on her wrist. Not so calm, then. It was time for him to knock her off balance.
He handed her the glass of Scotch, deliberately letting his fingers graze hers. Her pupils widened slightly. "Skye Sylvester. That's a beautiful name. It suits you."
She shifted slightly away from him. "Thank you."
"Is this your idea of a set up?"
She shrugged, swirled the Scotch, and took a delicate sip.
He sipped his own drink, thinking of how the rich Scotch would taste on her lips. "The other night, in the alley way, and earlier, at the restaurant--were you spying on me?"
"I didn't think you noticed me."
He could tell from the way she bit back the words that she hadn't meant to say them. Good, he was making her nervous already. He leaned closer to her and, pitching his voice low, said, "A man would have to be dead not to notice you."
She trembled slightly and took another sip of her scotch. "That was a coincidence. I appreciate you helping me out after I was mugged. My editor asked me to investigate B3. I wasn't getting very far, until I found the pin in your pocket and decided to investigate you instead."
He leaned against the desk next to her, close enough that his hip brushed hers. He had spent days trying to banish her from his mind. Now that she was next to him, he wanted her to stay there.
He placed one hand behind her on the desk, which had the effect of boxing her into his body. "And how did you find me?"
She met his eyes. "A reporter never gives up her sources."
He leaned in, intrigued. The scent of strawberries wafted up from her hair. He had the distinct feeling that she would taste just as ripe and sweet as she smelled.
He was playing a dangerous game. He needed to make sure that she didn't dig too deep on the Brotherhood, which meant he needed to move her investigation in another direction. But he also wanted her more than he had ever wanted another woman.
And she had come to him. Sought him out. As if something in her yearned for him just as he yearned for her.
According to shifter lore, a bear would know his mate the first time they made love. But Marcus didn't believe in fate. He'd made love to plenty of women, and enjoyed the pleasure and satisfaction of that connection. There was no need to pretty it up with some sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo about two hearts that were meant to make each other whole.
This was attraction, plain and simple. And he was going to act on it.
"Tell you what," Marcus said. "I'll try to answer your questions, even though I'm still not sure why you care about this particular property deal."
"Excellent," she said, tossing back her hair.
"But ...," Marcus said, looking down at her with a wicked grin, "You have to agree to spend the evening with me."
Chapter Seven
Skye
Skye swallowed her Scotch hard. That was a shame, because even her inexperienced palate could tell it was excellent. Had he just asked her out? Like ... on a date?
No. This was an interview. She had put some effort into sexifying her appearance, but that was only to amp up her own confidence. There was no way this rich, handsome guy was actually interested in her.
He was probably accustomed to using his potent masculinity as a weapon. And who could blame him? Just being close to him had her breath backing up in her lungs.
Professional, she reminded herself. Be professional! "Are you willing to go on the record?"
"We can talk about that over dinner."
"I won't violate my journalistic ethics."
"Aren't you allowed to share a meal with a s
ource?"
Skye's mouth thinned. It was just dinner. She would get coffee with a source, how was this any different? "You'll give me an exclusive interview?"
His eyebrow quirked at her word choice. "Just you and me. I'm not interested in anyone else."
Whoa. Even if she had no intention of sleeping with him, Skye was definitely adding those words to her spank bank. She had been wet since the moment he'd turned to fix those gorgeous eyes on her. Now, with him sitting so close and smelling so good, she was actually worried she might orgasm from his voice alone. How was she going to hold it together for an entire evening?
"This is an interview. It's not appropriate for you to hit on me."
His eyebrow went up. The amused control she saw there turned her knees to water. "I don't give a damn about journalistic ethics. Do you want the story or not?"
Her job depended on it. "Where? When?"
"Saturday. Six o'clock."
Skye shuddered, then tossed back the last of her Scotch. She had to get out of there. "Fine. Where?"
"I can pick you up," he said.
"I'll meet you there," she said.
He shook his head. "I thought you didn't have a car."
She flushed. She could barely afford her apartment, let alone a car. "Taking the El is more economical."
"And more dangerous. Don't you care more about your safety than money?"
"We're not all billionaires," she snapped.
His brow furrowed. "Yes, but I am. If you insist on meeting me there, take a cab. I'll pay for it."
She felt her shoulders stiffen. He may be a billionaire, but that didn't give him any right to criticize her finances. "It would be inappropriate for me to take your money."
"Then let me pick you up." The sky had darkened around them, and in the dim light he seemed so close.
"I shouldn't," she said, aware that her voice was alarmingly weak.
He leaned in to whisper in her ear, "I won't tell on you."