Phoenix Alight (Alpha Phoenix Book 4)

by Isadora Montrose

  “You’re liable to get shot,” Laura had said flatly. “Folks around here don’t understand about shifters. Be careful. You’re not on Yakima Ridge.”

  Despite the warning, restlessness and loneliness had driven her outdoors to frolic like a child – or a foolish bear shifter. And right on cue, here was Lance with his shotgun.

  “Forgive me for bursting in on you,” Lance continued. Red lay like stripes of paint on his cheekbones. For once he was not wearing his eye patch and the scarred lid of his left eye and the craters on that side of his face were on view. “I should check and make sure the bear has gone.”

  “I’ve got good hearing.” Amber tried not to smile. “If there is still a bear outside, I’m sure I would hear it.” She could hardly tell him that the bear he was worried about was standing right in front of him. She liked Lance, and she didn’t want to see his cheerful friendship vanish when he discovered she was one of the monsters.

  She busied herself filling the kettle and scooping coffee into the silly French press that was her only means of making coffee. This little cabin had never been designed for someone to live in full-time. It had a good wood stove so it was warm enough, and Rosa had told her she could cook on it. Not that she had figured that out yet. But her whole kitchen consisted of one short counter with a small sink and a kettle. She had added a microwave, and a single burner hot plate, and was thinking of getting a toaster oven.

  “What do you take in your coffee?” Amber asked.

  Lance seemed startled to be asked. “Uh, nothing,” he said. “Black.”

  “Coming right up,” she said. She turned around and leaned on the counter. “How did you happen to see a bear getting into my cabin at four o’clock in the morning?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said shortly.

  Amber nodded. She knew better than to ask a veteran why he couldn’t sleep. She didn’t know how long it had been since Lance had been discharged from the military, but the bad dreams could last a lifetime. Battle fatigue, they used to call it. Before that it was shell shock. Now they called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. What it came to was a serious disruption to emotional and mental stability.

  Back on Yakima Ridge, it was expected that men would do their military service before they found themselves a career, married, and had children. She had lots of cousins who had come back injured in heart and body, and a great many who hadn’t come back at all. So while she admired Lance, and pitied anyone with nightmares, she knew better than to go stirring up unpleasant memories with an interrogation.

  Amber pushed down the plunger. And waited. When she thought the coffee grounds had had a chance to settle, she poured two mugs and added a splash of cream to her own. She walked past her unmade bed to get to the small table and chairs beside the window.

  Lance propped his shotgun up against the wall, as if he was surprised it was still in his hand, pulled out a chair and sat down straddling it with his hands resting on the back. He sat like a soldier with an upright and solid bearing that made her feel safe and at home.

  “How come you’re up yourself?” he asked.

  “It’s almost time for morning stables,” she lied.

  “Good coffee,” he said after his first sip. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like some breakfast? I don’t have a lot, but I can warm up some burritos—if you don’t mind burritos for breakfast.”

  He laughed. “I guess you’ve not fed a lot of former soldiers.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Lots and lots. That pretty much describes every man I know back home. I take it that means burritos are fine?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lance~

  It was a good breakfast. The best breakfast he’d had in years. He never felt much like eating in the mornings, especially after a nightmare. He usually made do with coffee. Which was probably not a good thing when you had to work hard all day. He loved his job in the stables, but there was no question that Quarter Horses needed a fair amount of muscle to control, and that wrestling 300-pound bales of hay was not for weaklings. Yet most mornings he could not face food.

  But he enjoyed the burrito Amber set in front of him. It was nearly as good as the ones Rosa Diego made. Rosa was the ranch cook and she would never have put a store-bought tortilla on her table as Amber had done. But he had eaten worse — and often. Sitting at Amber’s tiny table, eating food she had made was a treat. She was easy on the eyes and easy to talk to. Even after being embarrassed by his intrusion, her blue eyes were twinkling and she had a smile for him.

  He had known that he was attracted to the stable’s newest hire, but not how much. Amber didn’t have any trouble with the physical aspects of the job. She was a big girl, round with muscle, and had the sweetest disposition of any girl he had ever met. Plainly they made them plenty sweet in Washington State. However, he had done nothing about his attraction. First off, she sort of worked for him — he didn’t have a title, but he was in effect the stud foreman’s second in command — and he gave her orders. Secondly, there was no reason in the world for a pretty girl to want anything to do with an ugly bastard like him.

  “Is that going to hold you until lunch?” she asked when he had polished off his burrito. “There are more in the fridge.” She pointed to the miniature bar fridge under her counter.

  “I could eat another one,” he admitted.

  She looked pleased and jumped up. “Two minutes.” She stuck one in the microwave. “Should I make more coffee?”

  He laughed. “That pot is pretty small.”

  “Came with the cabin. I have to save up to buy a proper coffee maker.”

  He didn’t comment. Amber’s sister was married to a billionaire. It made no sense that she was working in the stables. Just as it made no sense that she lived in a one-room cabin and had to save up for ordinary appliances. He reminded himself that it was none of his business and he had his own issues about other people’s money. He ate his second burrito and had another mug of coffee. They chatted about the mares who were ready to foal.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be much use at a birth — but I sure am looking forward to helping out at one.” She grinned at him and finished her coffee.

  He ate the last bite of his burrito regretfully. “That was good,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome.” She cleared their plates and put them in her tiny sink.

  “There’s a dance on Saturday night at the bar in Success. Would you like to go?” He was almost as surprised as Amber at the words that came out of his mouth.

  She blushed, but nodded. “I would.”

  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Folks usually dress up a bit when there’s an excuse.”

  “Good jeans dressing up, or something fancy?” She looked a little worried.

  “Good jeans,” he assured her. “It’s still Hank’s with beer in pitchers, not fancy at all.”

  The rosy glow was still in her cheeks. Her smile returned. “I haven’t been anywhere since I came out here. I’d like that fine.”

  He stood up and pushed his chair back in. “It’s a date.” And by God it was. Ugly, scarred, one-eyed Lance Prescott had a date with the prettiest girl in Colorado.

  Read the rest of Bear Fate on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  Christmas Flame

  Alpha Phoenix Book 5

  All he wants for Christmas is his Fated Mate!

  All she wants is for him to see her as a woman.

  Phoenix shifter and operatic tenor Grant D’Angelo is tired of his fake reputation as an international Romeo. He wants the Texas girl next door. How can he persuade his luscious Genevieve that she is his one true love?

  BBW Capt. Genevieve Carson of the USAF has had a crush on Grant D’Angelo ever since she can remember. Now they are both in Germany, far from home over Christmas, and he has sent her tickets to his sold-out show. She doesn’t want his pity invitation, but how can she show him that plain old Gen is a desirable woman of the world?

 
Read this in the boxset Home for the Howlidays, along with 12 other shifter romances!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sky was a midnight blue bowl of stars. The moon a slender curve on the furthest horizon. Spread beneath him was the familiar beauty of his family’s land, greenish-gray in the starlight. Grant D’Angelo angled his wings and let the wind carry him sideways until he hovered over the burbling, silver creek. Its liquid melody echoed the song in his heart.

  He opened his beak and let his love song pour forth into the night, summoning his mate. He strained to hear her response, but although the hills threw his serenade back at him in crystalline waves, no other phoenix song gladdened the night air. He altered his melody, weaving greater passion and persuasiveness into his enchantment. Silence mocked his efforts.

  Again, and again, Grant circled over the drowsing land, his paranormal vision picking out the sleeping cattle and the small nocturnal mammals scuttling through the undergrowth. To them his song and his radiant plumage were equally imperceptible. The barn owl circling below him, in pursuit of mice for his babies, faintly heard Grant’s plaintive song but ignored it to focus on his hunt. Grant felt a pang for the hapless mouse, but it was not his place to starve the owlets.

  The moon was directly overhead, and his throat was aching when at last he caught a distant singing. The delicate, chiming notes spread through the air like hope. Their sweetness pierced his soul. He flew toward the sound and the radiant glow that was his mate.

  In the gray light of dawn, she was as bright as the sun. Her wings spread wide and beautiful. Even in the faint starlight she reflected a rainbow of paranormal colors. Her long, forked tail-feathers fluttered golden in her wake. Her plumed crown enticed him. And from her brazen beak issued music that challenged and complemented his own.

  The instant she spotted him, she turned and raced toward the horizon. Grant gave chase. He was larger, stronger, swifter. Soon he was sailing above her, echoing her song. Still singing, his mate spun in the air, executed a dizzying barrel roll and darted away in a burst of speed. Her wings blurred as she headed for the hills.

  This was no playful coyness, but a desperate dash for freedom. Ahead of him, her wings beat ever faster and her song grew ever fainter. Only the fact that she sang counterpoint to his tune persuaded Grant to follow. The sun popped up and turned the sky pink. His mate vanished. Bereft, Grant sang a lament that filled the dawn with sorrow. The clear sky darkened and drizzle fell.

  The sound of his alarm woke him. Grant stared blankly at his hotel room. A chink in the draperies admitted the late morning sunshine. The bedside clock informed him it was nearly noon. After last night’s performance of Tristan und Isolde and the supper party that followed, he had gotten to bed at three in the morning.

  Why had he set his alarm for 11:45?

  He had a meeting with his manager and the artistic director of the Teatro Colón, the Buenos Aires opera house. He had better shower and make himself presentable before Linda knocked on the connecting door. Linda might be old enough to be his mother, but she had an embarrassing way of entering on her knock.

  He returned to the bedroom swathed in the thick hotel robe to find her scrolling through her messages in the armchair by the window.

  “I ordered you coffee,” she said without looking up from the screen.

  “Good morning,” he responded. “It looks to be a pleasant day.”

  “What?” Linda raised her silver bob from her phone. “Oh. Good morning, Grant. We meet with Señor SeñorMattemamo in half an hour.”

  “I know.” Grant fished his underwear out of the dresser drawer. He always unpacked completely no matter how short his stay was to be. Otherwise he would be forever making do. Bad enough he spent two-thirds of his life traveling. “Can’t you do that in your own room?” he asked the shining head.

  “What?”

  “Can’t you go look at your email and leave me to get dressed?” He spoke from the depths of the closet. “My dinner jacket needs to go to the cleaners.”

  “Sure,” Linda shot back. “But how the hell will your tux get cleaned if I do?” She grabbed the hotel phone and spoke briskly into the receiver. Her Spanish was bad, but whoever answered obviously spoke English, because she continued in English.

  She hung up and marched over to the closet and began to methodically search the pockets of the black jacket. She laid his passport, a handful of coins and an unused handkerchief on the dresser, before subjecting his pants to a similar inspection. She laid his billfold, a taxi receipt and a second handkerchief on the polished dresser.

  “Thank you,” Grant managed through set teeth.

  He took his clothing into the bathroom and looked at himself in the steamy mirror. The Angel of the Opera looked much the worse for wear this morning. He needed to settle down. Fragments of his recurrent dream taunted him. He had been ignoring his phoenix intuition for years and the results showed in his face. A phoenix without a mate was only half a man. He left the bathroom with fresh resolve. It was time and past time.

  Linda was handing over his tux to a uniformed employee. “We’ll need this back in two hours.” She held up two fingers.

  The man nodded. “Certainly, Señora Hoskins,” he said in perfect American English.

  “Shall we go down?” Grant asked.

  “We need to discuss what to say to Señor Mattemamo,” Linda objected. “Before we meet with him.”

  “You know what we decided, Linda. If he’s doing Wagner, yes. If not, no.”

  “He wants you for Verdi,” she admitted.

  Grant sat down. “Which opera?” He was tired of Rigoletto. Ditto Traviata. Perhaps he could make the trip to South America for Aida. He always enjoyed the elephants.

  “Don Carlos,” she said triumphantly.

  “I’m singing it in Milan next year,” he reminded her. “And we take it to Munich and London.”

  “And Señor Mattemamo hopes to bring that production to Buenos Aires. It would be a master stroke if he could advertise not only the La Scala production but La Scala’s tenor.”

  “Hmm.” It was a tempting role. “What are the dates?”

  Linda got out her laptop and began to look at his calendar. “April of 2021. You have time between Parsifal in Milan and Trovatori in Sydney.”

  “How much time? I’m going to be a married man. I won’t be able to just hurl myself across the world without a break.”

  Linda narrowed her hazel eyes. “What the hell?” she yelped. “Married?”

  “Hmm. It’s time I grew up.”

  “Your fans don’t want the Angel of the Opera to be a married man.”

  “They adored Pavarotti. And Domingo. Happily married and yet heartthrobs. My public will have to deal with a Grant D’Angelo who doesn’t have a mistress in every city.”

  “Not mistress,” she corrected soberly. “Mistress doesn’t strike the correct note of devil-may-care, international glamor. Girlfriend.”

  Grant groaned.

  Linda laughed. “If your public only knew. But, admit it, there is no PR value in D’Angelo the Musical Monk.”

  “You would know. But I have plans,” he said. “I intend to be married by spring. My public will have to settle for Grant D’Angelo paterfamilias Americanus.”

  “What plans? Who is she? Carmen Buscelli?”

  “Kindly remember that my affair with the adorable Carmen exists only in your publicist’s fertile imagination. You have never met my future wife.” And he was not about to share Genevieve’s name with a woman dedicated to creating news out of his private life. Genevieve was not going to discover she was the chosen bride of the Angel of the Opera from some tabloid.

  Linda snorted. “So will you do Don Carlos or not?”

  “How many performances?”

  “Six.”

  Grant thought. “If I have a week or ten days to recover before Sydney. And the same after Milan.”

  “You have eight days between Milan and BA. But I was hoping to squeeze in an oratorio in Syd
ney before Don Carlos. Susanna,” she coaxed.

  As always, Handel tempted him, but Linda had to stop overworking him. “Your job is to think of my vocal cords.” Although phoenixes usually enjoyed extremely long lives as singers. Look at his great-grandfather’s example. Benito D’Angelo had sung into his eighties, although the books assumed he had retired at sixty-five. And his recordings sounded as great as Caruso’s.

  “Either Susanna or Trovatori, but not both.” He folded his arms.

  “We have a contract for Trovatori,” Linda sulked.

  “Then no Susanna,” Grant said firmly. “Or no Don Carlos.”

  “There’s more prestige in singing Don Carlos,” she allowed.

  “Then I don’t see the problem. Shall we go to lunch?”

  * * *

  “The Frankfurt Consulate is the largest US consulate in the world,” Capt. Genevieve Carson told her phone. “There are about a gazillion military attachés. I’m one of them.”

  Her friend Eleanor D’Angelo’s chuckle warmed Genevieve. “Is it true you report to Gen. Stonewall himself?” D’Angelo asked.

  “Nope. My superior officer reports to an officer who reports to Stonewall.”

  “Oh. I thought you were going to Frankfurt to be his helicopter pilot?”

  “So did I,” Genevieve returned dryly. “The Air Force had other ideas. I’m assigned to a desk.”

  “Typical,” Capt. D’Angelo commiserated, one career officer to another. “And what’s Frankfurt like?”

  “Very, very German. Spotlessly clean. Very cultural. Very correct.”

  “What exactly do you do?” demanded Eleanor.

  “You know I can’t answer that, Captain,” Genevieve retorted. Not that what she did was any big deal. Decoding excerpted sections of low-security text didn’t exactly put her at the forefront of international espionage. But a rule was a rule. She had sworn secrecy, so secrecy her country would get.