Phoenix Ablaze (BBW / Phoenix Shifter Romance) (Alpha Phoenix Book 1)

by Isadora Montrose

  Phoenix vision was hundreds of times sharper than human. High in the air, he could spot the tiniest movement and detect patterns over several square miles. Especially out on a desert plain. The Happy Trails Trailer Park was just an untidy, unfenced blot on the desert. Only one road led there. Beyond it was cactus and coyotes. Within Happy Trails asphalted paths — they were too narrow to be called roads, although people drove vehicles on them — wove in a grid through sagging homes.

  This was a very low rent neighborhood. If she had been turning tricks, Mrs. Block’s neighbors wouldn’t have batted an eye. The cops had some reason to be looking for a John turned angry or violent, as well as a lover.

  Pierce circled lazily, looking at everything and nothing in particular. Yellow crime scene tape told him at a glance which of the shabby, rusting trailers had been the Blocks’. Even by Happy Trails’ standards, it was small. But curtains hung at the window, and the area beyond the steps was neatly marked with small boulders.

  Someone had laboriously laid the heavy stones out in a narrow rectangle to delineate the space in which a white plastic table and four chairs had been placed. The round table had a folded, faded blue umbrella. The chairs were all neatly stowed under the table, which was weighted by a concrete block to prevent the desert winds from blowing it away. A chain looped through the chair backs and connected them to the concrete. Evidence that Mrs. Block took precautions against thieves and weather, and was house proud within the limits of poverty.

  Pierce caught a thermal and soared a little higher. He spotted a kettle of six vultures circling and went higher to see just what they were hovering over. You never knew. The vultures were bigger than he was in lesser phoenix, but they didn’t care for his presence. He decided that they were inspecting the carcass of a chance killed sheep. They settled down once he drifted back to Happy Trails.

  It was mid-afternoon on a Friday. The residents were making themselves scarce. No doubt the police had made the rounds — frightening those who feared they might be attacked, and worrying those hiding drugs or stolen goods. Today, there were very few cars parked outside the trailers. And living in the park required wheels. Most of the remaining vehicles had been stripped of their tires and were up on blocks. By the smell, one housed a family of chickens.

  Mrs. Block’s trailer was as ordinary a box as any of the others. Hardly big enough for one, let alone two. Except for three exhaust vents, the top was flat. Pierce’s brief had included a schematic of this model of trailer. One vent was for the bathroom. One for the heater. And the third for the stove. Over decades, the plastic rain-and-critter guards had been thoroughly chewed by any number of rodents and were as good as gone.

  An owl had a station on the electrical pole at the end of the lot. Pierce found its pellet pile. Night after night, that owl hunted from this perch. But not last night. There was no fresh scat. Probably it had been frightened away by the shifter.

  But he was making assumptions. He circled the trailer before borrowing the owl’s hunting-perch. In the hard baked soil, beneath the big boot prints of half-a-dozen men, he glimpsed the partially-erased, side-winding trail of a rattler. Hard to be certain, they were so trampled.

  He inspected the roof. The dust was marked by rodent paws. Layers upon layers of them. His phoenix vision could see the ultraviolet glow of the urine trails left by generations of rodents. But that was it. There was no sign up here of a snake.

  He needed to think like a belly-crawling rapist. The trailer was connected to the outside by the propane tanks that fueled the stove. By the conduit through which the electric wires ran. By the plumbing. Both in and out. By the fresh-air intake for the heating system. That actually added up to a lot of potential entry points. None of which the cops would have inspected.

  Getting under the trailer was simple. It was propped up on and tethered to concrete blocks. Pierce had a phoenix’s profound dislike of enclosed spaces. He reminded himself that he had spent a career folding himself into smaller cockpits without complaint. Of course, no Air Force craft smelled as rank as the underside of Mrs. Block’s home. And he couldn’t even hold his breath. He caught his first whiff of rattlesnake shifter. A musky scent that would be stamped unforgettably into his senses.

  The skeevy sonuvabitch had used the hatch intended for servicing the heating system to wriggle into the trailer. The flap was supposed to be secured by screws. Instead it hung down exposing the innards of the motor to both rodents and dust. The screws had only recently been removed.

  Pierce could see them in the litter his talons were stirring up. There were marks in the debris coming and going. Several sets. Both human and snake, with the snake spoor overlaying the human tracks. Venom had lain in the dust in human form to unscrew the flap before entering in snake.

  In all probability, Venom had surveilled his victim for an extended period. To subdue and kill Mrs. Block, he had to have used found objects, as he could have taken nothing in with him when he entered in snake. It took a particularly twisted sort of mind to inspect someone’s home and plan her rape and murder with her own possessions. Well, that wasn’t going to be news to his controller. Bear One already knew they were dealing with a psychopath.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Curvy Girl was pedaling furiously at the end of the row of bikes when Pierce walked into the gym. Pierce didn’t usually bother with the bikes, he preferred to get his cardio flying. But he was ready to make an exception if he could get close to his mate.

  The machine beside her was occupied. Shit. He selected the nearest one. He could smell her from here. A scent so enticing it both roused his appetite and frustrated him. The guy beside Curvy Girl dismounted, wiped down his machine and spoke to her. Diana murmured something polite but not encouraging.

  Pierce was just about to take the empty bike when she stopped pumping and got off herself. Well, shit. To work off his frustration, he increased his own pace and the incline. Curvy Girl headed to the leg press and began the first of what he knew would be three sets, followed by a set on the bench press. He timed his cool-down and clean-up of the bike so he was free to walk past her when she went to the bench press.

  Some jerk had left the free weights set up to display how much he could lift. Curvy Girl was frowning down at them, undoubtedly wondering how best to reconfigure the weights and set them up for herself. Pierce ambled over as casually as he could. Warm brown eyes looked up at him through a curling fringe of black lashes. Homegrown and none the worse for that.

  “Let me give you a hand,” he offered.

  She was even more luscious close up. All soft curves and sweetness. His Curvy Girl was gorgeous. She was tall and generously built. Her baggy T-shirt and sweats concealed her figure, but Maj. D’Angelo had a spent a lot of time around women wearing uniforms designed for men. Curvy Girl rocked lush breasts and lusher hips. Her dark hair rioted about her pretty face. Her soft contralto made his chest hair curl.

  “I want seventy pounds on each end,” she said dubiously. “I think I’m going to have to take it all apart and start over.”

  Pierce felt as tongue-tied as a boy. He been admiring Curvy Girl’s assets for what felt like a lifetime. Now that he was close enough to touch her, he felt as clumsy as an ox. “You’re supposed to put all the weights back, when you’re done,” he said. “Make it easy for the next person.” Great. Now he was acting as if she was too dumb to read the rules hanging on the walls.

  She shrugged. Round shoulders moved under her large and baggy T-shirt. “There’s always somebody who can’t follow the rules,” she said with resignation. Pink tinged her pretty cheeks.

  Pierce nodded. He began to unfasten the smallest set of weights from one end. She did the other side. Together they stripped the bar. And together they added the correct weights to give her a balanced hundred and forty pounds. “I’ll spot you if you want,” he offered.

  Curvy Girl seem to be making up her mind about him. Her eyes ran over his body and ended up back on his face. His whole body tingled, and he
had to speak sternly to his cock, which was acting as if he had never learned self-control. But Curvy Girl had already worked up a bit of a glow on the bike and leg press, and he had never smelled anything so sexy in his life.

  “Thank you,” she said softly and lay down on the bench.

  She looked even better from this position. Pierce stood behind her head. He made sure that the weights did not tip and overbalance. Curvy Girl’s arms flexed and lifted. Her pecs worked hard, and even though she was wearing some kind of heavy duty harness, her breasts swelled. She lifted ten times.

  “Do you want me to add weight for a couple more reps?” he asked.

  “Five pounds each end?” she suggested.

  “Done.” It didn’t take long for him to get the extra weights secured.

  Her arms were tired enough that they trembled slightly as she hoisted a hundred and fifty, but she managed full extension. And lowered the bar to its rest. “One more?” He suggested.

  “Okay.” Her voice sounded good. Husky but not strained.

  She raised her arms again. Held the weights up for the count of five. And lowered them. Pierce kept his hands underneath the bar. This was where the danger was. Curvy Girl raised her arms once more. The bar tipped to the left. He braced it and encouraged her. “Push up on the left. Hold. One, two, three. Let’s get this down.” He guided it to the rack and let it settle safely into the bar saddle. Curvy Girl’s face was red. She sat up. Pierce held out his hand, “Pierce D’Angelo,” he said.

  She put a large, capable, ringless hand into his and shook firmly. “Thank you, Pierce,” she said. “I’m Diana Lowery.”

  “You’re welcome.” He resisted temptation and let go of her hand. Did no rings mean she was free? Of course, she was a nurse. A nurse who probably had to wash her hands a million times each shift might well choose not to wear rings on duty.

  Pierce turned away to get the disinfectant wipes from the station on the wall. He handed her one and together they wiped down the bench and the bar and put the weights back in their stand. Now that he had talked to her, he was still tongue-tied. He wanted to push his luck. But Curvy Girl’s brown eyes were wary and a little anxious.

  “I’ll let you get back to your own training,” she said softly.

  He took his dismissal. Hopefully, there would be other opportunities. He didn’t want to come off as some kind of creep. “See you around.” He went back to the barbells and the endless set of exercises the physical therapist had prescribed. He didn’t even notice when he began to whistle.

  * * *

  Diana drew in her first deep breath since Pierce D’Angelo had walked over to help her. She admired Hunky Dude’s rear view as he moved back to his own station. He looked just as good from behind as he did from in front. Just as good in gym clothes as he did in crisp khakis and pressed shirts. Broad shoulders stretched his military issue T-shirt and tapered to a narrow waist and buns of steel. His lightly furred legs were long and strong.

  His face was still just as flinty and aggressive as ever. His olive-green T-shirt confirmed that her original surmise that he was military was correct. His dark hair was cut so short, that even when it was sweaty it didn’t curl. But she guessed that it would if he let it grow long enough.

  Of course she had noticed Hunky Guy in the Bluebonnet, and every time she came to the gym. She tried to work out three mornings a week, but she didn’t always make it. It looked like Hunky Dude came every day at the same hour. Some days he did cardio, some days he did weights. But he always spent some time on repetitive exercises. She had long ago recognized him as an outpatient doing his physical therapy. Pierce D’Angelo was rehabilitating his injured left arm.

  He was just the sort of man who drew female eyes. She didn’t know what had made him come over and offer to assist her today. She certainly didn’t dress in the kind of skin-tight spandex that some men thought was a walking invitation. She came to the gym to keep strong. To get stronger. Not to meet a hunk. If Cody Jones was stupid enough to try and come back into her life when he got out of jail, he was going to find that his ex-wife was no longer a doormat but a force to be reckoned with.

  Only there had been something in Pierce D’Angelo’s baritone that had made every cell in her body vibrate. And his blue eyes had made her feel exquisitely feminine, even though there hadn’t been anything overtly lascivious in his gaze. Probably he had this effect on all women. The last thing she needed was to act on a foolish crush. She had had quite enough of domineering men, thank you very much. Her hormones had had enough of men after Cody. But Pierce seemed to have stirred them up again.

  Involuntarily, her eyes went to where D’Angelo had just completed his first set of wrist curls, and had picked up a heavier weight to do his next. He was obviously experienced, because he didn’t do what neophytes did. He didn’t train just his left arm. He did both sides equally. She chuckled to herself. He had not been hitting on her. He was just a nice guy helping out his fellow gym rat. Once he had finished his good deed, he had gone back to focusing on his own training. Diana shook her head internally at her own folly. Well-built, handsome guys never, but never, wasted a second on fat girls.

  All the time she was doing her lat pulls, she could hear him whistling softly. Not some kind of construction worker it’s-my-right-to-comment-on-your-body wolf whistle. This was a heartrending melody that made her feel intensely female and attractive. Her whole body vibrated with incipient arousal. It felt as if those trills and warbles were wooing her. Proof if she needed it of her stupidity.

  Even if she were in the market for a man, it couldn’t be that one.

  * * *

  Now that he had made contact with his mate, his courting could begin. Pierce was feeling revved up and energized when he came out of the gym. He didn’t expect to see Diana’s little red hatchback in the parking lot, and he didn’t. By now his Curvy Girl was hard at work. But perhaps if he dragged out his breakfast long enough, she would be taking her break before he finished his last cup of coffee. But no such luck. She didn’t come in to the Bluebonnet. He had another long day to fill.

  He considered his options. He could go home and, now that she had given him her name, he could do a little research. Just google her name. But it felt underhanded. He would have to be patient. Ask her out for coffee some Saturday morning, and work up from there. But at least she hadn’t run screaming when he spoke to her. Life was pretty good.

  He had an appointment with the shrink at noon. He would be talking to Dr. Oliver via Skype. He was in no rush for that session. Dr. Oliver didn’t imbue him with confidence in his ability to help patients regain their nerve. Oliver seemed to think appearing normal most of the time was the best anyone with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder could hope for.

  Pierce D’Angelo was not the man — or the phoenix — he had been. The fine tremor in his left arm and hand was virtually unnoticeable unless you tested for it. And of course Command had ordered such testing. He still had better reflexes than the average Joe. But average Joes need not apply to Special Forces. To be on a Delta Force team you needed to be not just good but great. The best of the best. His preternaturally fast reflexes were gone — probably for good. The next time they needed someone to run the kind of high risk mission you sent Delta Force on, no one could or would justify sending Ace D’Angelo. He was no longer the best of the best. Pretty good wasn’t good enough.

  Even if he managed to regain his former lightning reflexes, there was still the problem of his overreaction to loud noises. Ducking for cover might save your life if someone was flinging grenades, but it would get your team killed if you couldn’t control the impulse. Dr. Oliver had explained that moderating his reaction was the best possible outcome. In other words, D’Angelo would remain unable to control his own fucking behavior.

  And life flying a desk, was hardly any kind of fucking life at all. And yet, the Air Force wasn’t something you just walked away from. He had been highly trained in many specialties. It was no part of honor to walk aw
ay from his duty to the service or his country. So it looked as though he would have to become a glorified clerk and like it. Suck it the fuck up, Buttercup.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The old broad in New Mexico hadn’t even been a challenge. Normally Arnold didn’t bother with females that old, but Block had fucking lied to him about his old lady. He had sent photos of a moon-faced, round-assed, big-hair blonde. Nothing fancy, but female crotch-fruit all right. The reality was a scrawny, dried up hag. Block had only paid for her to be punished. But before Arnold Hermann was willing to stick his dick in that crone, he had had to make damned sure he couldn’t see her ugly face. For sure as-is she was too fucking ugly to screw.

  Wasn’t his fault the bitch had died. He hadn’t even wrapped the duct tape that tight. Next time he would just tell the customer that lying forfeited the payment. Hell, he had to turn customers down. He didn’t have to put up with that crap. And the way the Feds moved the hard cases around, he was getting bids from all over the country.

  * * *

  Admittedly, this was Pierce’s first case with the FAs and he didn’t know that much about rapists. But over the years his team had been briefed by profilers from the FBI several times before they were sent after a cell of terrorists. It wasn’t as if that made him some kind of expert on psychopaths. But he knew from snakes.

  This sonuvabitch was used to creeping into openings. Well, Pierce was a Texas boy. He had ferret-proofed and rattler-proofed a hen house or two in his time. Steel wool and razor wire weren’t things a snake could handle with venomous fangs and supple rib muscles.

  He didn’t even have to change his clothes. Although he added a hat. No one at the hardware store was surprised at his purchases. You needed heavy gauntlets to string barbed wire. You needed wire cutters. He bought a plastic bin to store them in and stuck it in the back of his SUV.

  He kept an eye on Mrs. Block’s trailer. When the crime scene tape disappeared, Pierce figured that would be the likeliest time for the perp to revisit the scene. Always supposing he was the sort of sicko who liked to relive his crimes. Pierce made sure that if the snake went in a vent, he couldn’t emerge as easily. Of course, this was more or less in the nature of closing the barn door after the horse had galloped off to greener pastures. But at least it was something.