Lindenbury shut the door to the Escalade as I slid across the cool leather seat. I pulled out my phone as we drove away from the Brightwater, back toward the ferry, toward home.
I tapped on my most recent contact, and Maisie answered straight away.
“That was too quick,” she said. “You blew him off, didn’t you?”
“What?” I asked. “I didn’t blow anyone!”
“Eww, no,” she said. “Unless he’s hot. But I mean, did you decline the job?”
“No,” I said. “And you think I would actually—”
No,” she said. “I know you too well. Which is why I think at some point, someday, you might want to think about dating someone. It might help. At least to blow off some steam. It doesn’t have to be serious.”
“This is serious,” I said. “You know that drawer that I told you to never open?”
“The partnership applications?” I could hear the excitement in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“I have to hire someone,” I said. “It’s time.”
“On it,” she said. “I’ve got a few perfect applicants in mind. I’ll make the calls. This is going to be so fun.”
“Thanks, Maisie.” I hung up the phone and watched through the window as the ferry took us over the water. Lindenbury had parked in the perfect place, as he always did, so I could gaze at the gulls and the sailboats on the slow ride back to the mainland.
A partner. I’d been avoiding it for too long. I missed Marc with a sharpness that bit at my chest. It would be hard to give up some of my control to someone else, but I couldn’t keep doing this on my own. The person I hired—preferably a woman—would have to be awesome in every way. An equal in leadership and strength, who shared my vision for the company. Maybe she’d be like Maisie, who had told me on more than one occasion that although she loved me, she’d never want to be a partner. What were the odds of finding another Maisie in time to tackle the Brightwater job? Better not to guess. Better to hope that’d I’d be lucky and, this would be like hiring a new, good friend.
Chapter Two
Taylor
As the plane landed, I closed my book. The red-haired woman in the seat next to me had been trying to get a look during the flight from JFK Airport in New York to the teeny airport in Emerald Pines, Connecticut, but I’d kept it close. Hafiz’s poems waxed recklessly about love, and this lady would probably draw all sorts of conclusions about me if she saw the title—The Subject Tonight is Love.
Conclusion 1: I was a romantic, through and through.
Conclusion 2: I was a student or teacher who had to read the poems, not necessarily by choice.
Conclusion 3: I was a poet.
Conclusion 4...actually, I was all out of conclusions. If she arrived at the first conclusion, she would’ve been correct, and it could’ve led to all sorts of hazards. Names exchanged. Conversations. Flirting. Sex. And while she was attractive, and I was attractive, and flirting, sex, all of it could be great, she just wasn’t the one. It would only lead to heartache—likely mine—and shit, I was tired of it all.
The problem was, I felt too deeply, and I was doomed to love someone more than they loved me. Better to not get attached unless I knew for sure, deep within my bones.
While several other passengers winced at the change of air pressure, I smiled. As a dragon shifter, I was used to soaring high and coming down just as fast. There was freedom in the movement, even when I sat in a little metal box instead of soaring in my scales.
This was my third flight in twenty-four hours. I’d gone from Berlin to Paris, Paris to New York, and New York to Emerald Pines.
The plane landed, and I tucked Hafiz into my carry-on duffel and marched out of the plane to meet my potential new employer.
The air in Connecticut was balmy in September, although I could feel the chill of winter coming. My nostrils flared, taking in the more subtle scents beneath the stench of the tarmac and fuel and the recycled air billowing out of the plane.
My heart was full, my mind busy. The fact I was even here was a shocker—I’d forgotten I ever applied to Whitesong. Hell, I already had a good job. Being head of security for the Wentuffel, one of Germany’s most famous private museums, paid really well. But when the receptionist had called to schedule an interview for Whitesong, I couldn’t say no. Literally. My mouth wouldn’t form the word. Instead I’d found myself saying yes and agreeing to the flight she scheduled for me.
I expected a driver to pick me up. Sure enough, a giant of a man held an iPad displaying my name. I trotted over to him.
He was about the same height as me, just over six feet tall, and twice as wide. Streaks of gray mixed with the black hair over his ears, and the lines by his eyes suggested decades of scowling. There was a wild air about him—definitely shifter. That, mixed with the gray, suggested this man was much older than he looked. Likely he was exactly as dangerous as he appeared.
“Taylor Stonehall?” he asked, voice gruff.
“That’s me.”
“Luggage?”
I held up my carry-on. I’d been able to fit in a couple changes of clothes, which should be plenty for me to get through my interview. I was already wearing my suit, which was a little rumpled, but whatever. I’d flown across an ocean for this job that I had no intention of taking—a few wrinkles didn’t bother me in the least.
He turned abruptly and I followed him to a sleek Cadillac Escalade. He opened the back and stuck my carry-on in the trunk. I climbed into the car and nearly fell into the seat. Something was wrong. Or maybe it was too right. The scent was the first thing I noticed in the dim interior. Feminine. A tangy fruit, like green apples. I’d never thought green apples erotic before, but suddenly I wished I had Hafiz’s talent and I could go on and on about how they got me hard. Because I hadn’t even laid eyes on the woman in the car—the dim interior contrasted too much with the bright outdoors—but she could be fugly and I’d still be turned on.
“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my car?” she asked.
Her voice was raspy, like she’d been breathing too much fire. I’d done my research on Whitesong Security before leaving Germany. The owner, Ariana West, was one badass motherfucker. A tenacious businesswoman who took on only the security jobs for “good guys” and threw money at charities left and right. She worked her own jobs, too, leading her teams to successful outcomes for her clients. Most CEOs hid behind a desk, but Ariana West wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.
Another part of me was fucking thrilled because although the articles online wouldn’t say so, I knew from other circles that this woman was a dragon shifter. Germany was full of wolves and bears. I hadn’t met another dragon in five years, since I’d left the US for friendlier shores. Shores that I’d hoped would be full of women who cared for me as much as I cared for them. Ha. My sorry ass seemed doomed to a life of loneliness.
The car’s engine started up, and the giant dude driving pulled us out into traffic.
My eyes adjusted to the car’s darkness, and I got my first, in-person glimpse of Ariana West.
The articles online had shown photos of her, of course. Polished, with her dark hair in strict updos, wearing one of the season’s finest dresses and most lavish jewelry. In the photos, Ariana’s lips were usually done up in this purplish pink color that reminded me of blueberry jam. She’d looked utterly in control, utterly untouchable. Yet there was something about her, a quality that elicited within me the same response as looking upon Franz Stuldorf’s famous painting, Zwei Herzen, Eins (Two Hearts, One), which dangled in prominent display in the Wentuffel. Frosted flowers caught in a blustery gale, petals tipped in crimson. Their stems entwined, and each time I viewed them I was left with hope. It was the hopeless romantic in me. I saw connections that weren’t there. I knew this, but I felt it all the same.
This afternoon, however, her hair was down in dark waves, and her lips were a less dramatic pale pink tha
t reminded me of other feminine lips found in a completely different place on a woman’s body.
I shut down that thought quick. She was a potential boss, and if I turned down the job offer as I expected to, she was at the very least a useful contact in the world of high-end security and protection. I couldn’t afford to wreck things with her before they even began.
And suffering through an interview with half my mind on my hard-on was a surefire way to wreck things. Even if she was wearing a dark blue dress that revealed a lot of curvy yet muscular legs. I bet those legs tapered down from a perfectly plump ass. Ariana West was fit and curvy—best of both worlds.
“I’m fucking waiting, asshole. For some reason, my driver thinks you’re Taylor Stonehall.”
“Yeah, I’m Taylor,” I said.
“I was expecting a woman,” she muttered as she picked up her phone, swiped it on, and started scrolling through messages. She must have found what she was looking for, because she set her phone down and looked back at me again. “Okay,” she said, “so you’re a guy. Taylor. Sorry for getting off on the wrong foot.”
She didn’t look sorry at all, and for some reason, that delighted me, and my dick threatened to get all the way hard.
“The plan was to get you settled at the Arrow before going out to lunch for an informal interview,” she said.
I waited, because from the flashing of her dark brown eyes, she had more to say. I wasn’t wrong.
“But because you’re late, we have to adjust the plan.”
“Late through no fault of my own,” I amended. “The connection at Charles de Gaulle was delayed and I had to get a different flight.”
She waved her hand as if my excuse didn’t matter. Like I could have had some control over the air traffic in Paris. So she would be one of those bosses—the kind who accepted no excuses and took no shit. Even better that I was planning on turning the job down.
“At any rate,” she said, “we can do your interview on the ride to the Arrow. We’ve got twenty minutes.”
She shifted in her seat, and I noticed the shortness of her dress all over again, the way the hemline inched up her lean, tanned thigh. Her skin looked so smooth…
I blinked slowly, trying to focus again. “Interview now?” I asked. “In the car?”
“Right. Unless you feel you’ll be at a disadvantage to the other applicants?”
Shit, why did I even care? “It won’t put me at a disadvantage,” I said. “At least, no disadvantage that my winning resume and skill sets won’t overcome.”
“Cocky,” she said, and picked up an electronic tablet tucked into the outside pocket of a leather messenger bag.
“Confident,” I said. Suddenly, even though I didn’t want this job at all, I wanted the interview to go well. I wanted her to offer me a job I had no intention of taking.
I wanted her to want me—it was that simple.
Hafiz probably had a thing or two to say on the subject of desire, but he was far away in the trunk, packed into my carry-on, and right now, I felt like everything I needed to know about desire was sitting across from me in the backseat of a luxury SUV, her lips pursed in irritation, her dark eyes flashing in a challenge.
With a wicked smile on her lips, she said, “Let’s begin, shall we?”
“Excellent.”
“Tell me why you want to work for Whitesong.”
Well, fuck, she was stumping me on Question Number One. Without thinking at all about my response, I opened my mouth. “It’s a great opportunity,” I said. “I’ve heard excellent things about you as a business person, and I admire the work you take on. Your clients are upstanding people. It would benefit anyone’s resume to work with you. Not only that, it would benefit anyone, period. Working with a company like Whitesong will bolster my experience in the field of protection and security.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You sound like you really believe that.”
I was as surprised as she was. “Of course. It’s why I applied to begin with.”
Nodding, she continued, “And what would make you an asset to Whitesong?”
“My experience working with valuable art, for starters,” I said without missing a beat. What the hell was going on? I didn’t care in the slightest about this job, but I was interviewing like a fucking winner. “My time spent at the Wentuffel heading security has given me ample knowledge of the ideal ways to protect artifacts and discourage attempts at thievery before they even begin.”
“With a big enough system, you discourage would-be thieves,” she added, nodding. “It makes perfect sense.”
“And it’s not all for show,” I said. My heart thumped wildly in my chest—not with fear or nerves, but with excitement. We were connecting. Ariana West and I were having a real, meaningful conversation, and my heart liked it. “In fact, we take measures to make sure everything is operational, even before we’re counting on it. Safety measures behind safety measures.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t seem like overkill? A waste of the museum’s money?”
“Hell no,” I said, then cleared my throat. “I mean, no, of course not. We’re protecting priceless artifacts so that the public can enjoy them for years to come. The Wentuffel is the heart of the city, and the citizens happily pay for security.”
She gave me a smile, then seemed to immediately regret it because she followed it with a fierce scowl. “Unfortunately, Whitesong Security doesn’t merely protect artwork or run security in museums,” she said. “Our clients require so much more of us.”
“Do you have examples you can share?” I asked. “Without breaking client confidences, of course.”
She scowled again. “Sometimes we help transport precious cargo. We’ve escorted people—shifters, primarily—who need bodyguards while traversing territories. We recover lost or stolen items of value. We’ve run security for private events for high-profile clients, as well.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Yes. So I’m afraid your particular expertise won’t align with Whitesong’s requirements.”
I gave her a smile that I hoped wasn’t too patronizing. “You mean, for instance, my experience with Peregrine Security, which runs events and escorts high-profile shifters across the globe? Or my two years interning with the Quick Dagger Agency, which specializes in recovering stolen items? Tell me, Ms. West—have you even read my resume?”
“I—” she stopped and wrung her hands together, an obvious nervous habit. “My assistant read them thoroughly,” she finally said. “I seem to have misplaced her notes. Partly in my rush to get to the airport to pick you up, I admit. Although the rush was completely unnecessary, as you were late.”
Still complaining about my delayed flight. I shrugged my shoulders. If she wanted to be mad about it, there was nothing else I could say.
With obvious relief, she pointed to a tall building towering over its surroundings on the right. In front of it was a row of shops. I could see a ritzy menswear store on the corner and a pub with outdoor seating.
“Here we are,” she said. “The Arrow. See Maisie when you get inside, and she’ll give you a keycard and instructions.”
The Cadillac pulled up to the curb, and Ariana West bolted out her door without waiting for the driver to open it for her. I watched her through the car’s windows as she hustled into the Arrow and through the large revolving door.
She wasn’t going to be easy to get along with. But I realized, as I climbed out of the car after her, that I still felt it as she walked away—a fleeting connection. Something there, yet unexplored. Hope.
If she offered me the job, I didn’t think I would be able to turn it down.
Chapter Three
Ariana
As soon as the car stopped in front of the Arrow, I sprung out the door and didn’t look back. Fresh air filled my lungs. Sure, there were hints of exhaust and chemicals, as there were in any city, but on top of that was everything that I loved about Emerald Pines. The cool, earthy dampness of the forest s
urrounding the city energized me. Warm cinnamon and hot coffee scents, along with yeasty bread and the sweetness of freshly-poured icing, filled my nostrils. The scents came from the Halo, the rows of shops surrounding the Arrow.
I hustled through the archway, across the courtyard filled with red maples and bustling foot traffic.
Thoughts raced through my head—none were welcome. They all centered around Taylor Stonehall.
We’d hardly spoken two words to each other before I’d started fantasizing. I’d wanted to straddle him there in the back seat, feel his hands slide up my thighs and reach under my skirt. I’d wanted to taste those full lips, feel the rough stubble of his jaw.
It was his voice, a smooth caress. Or maybe it was his eyes, the deep green of the pine-filled forest just beyond the city’s borders. No, it was his scent. It had been so long since I’d met another dragon, and the scent—that of clouds and smoke, crisp air and roaring flames—it was driving me mad.
Did Maisie know what kind of hell I’d just been through? Of course she knew. She had to have known Taylor was a man, and she hadn’t warned me. Had she known he was a dragon? She didn’t tell me that, either. We were going to have words, she and I.
I kept my feet moving—fast. No way was I waiting for him to catch up. No way was I going to let him share an elevator with me. Feeling like this, who knew what stupid thing I might do. I needed space.
I hadn’t felt desire for any man since Marc. Not once. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen attractive men, or that I was jaded—I wasn’t. I simply had no desire for casual sex. I had no desire for being physical with anyone—until now.
The revolving glass door turned painfully slowly, until I finally reached the lobby of the tower.
My heels clicked across stone as I made my way through the crowd of men in business suits and women in pencil skirts. At the front desk sat two of the usual receptionists, and my assistant.
Dragon Shattered_A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy Romance Page 2