Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance)

by Sophie Chevalier

  It had taken her long, stressful hours—a flight to Victoria, a taxi to Swartz Bay, a ferry to Salt Spring Island—but, finally, she had arrived in the Southern Gulf Islands, the rugged archipelago between Vancouver Island and the mainland. There were hundreds of little islets—and Storm Isle was one of them.

  The only problem was that there was no formal way to get there. Storm Isle wasn’t a vacation destination; there was no ferry. She’d have to hire a boat—if she could. January wasn’t exactly the height of the tourist season.

  And it showed. She’d been reduced to wandering around Salt Spring Marina—half-empty, at this time of year, without the pleasure craft belonging to Vancouver- and Seattleites—and calling out to boatsmen.

  “Hello! Would you take me to Storm Isle?”

  “Sorry, miss, I don’t know that one. There’s a lotta isles ’round here.”

  “Excuse me, could I hire you to take me to Storm Isle?”

  “Can’t say I know that one. Are you lookin’ to get away? Salt Spring’s fine for that.”

  It was late afternoon, and she was beyond frustrated. Dane had mentioned having his own boat, so she knew he was able to avoid just this problem. If only she had her own boat, too—not that she could pilot a boat.

  She had to get to him. Somehow, someway. Someone had to know Storm Isle. And they had to be willing to take her.

  “Pardon me,” she asked a grizzled old man in a fishing smock, easily the twentieth person she’d approached, “are you familiar with Storm Isle?”

  “Storm Isle?” he asked, straightening up from a rope he’d been coiling. “Sure, but just by name.” Her heart sped up. A lead! “I’ve never gone out that way. Ask Hunter”—he pointed down the pier—“he’s been there of a time. Mentions it now and again. Looking for hiking, are you?”

  He peered at her outfit, which, indeed, was very incorrect for the place and the weather. She didn’t look like a hiker.

  “Hunter? I’ll ask him, thank you.” She hurried off down the dock.

  The man—Hunter—had his back to her, tying a line, and the hood of his Kodiak pullover was up. He was on the deck of what had to be his own boat, a modest gillnetter. Miss Grizzly, its side read.

  “Excuse me. I was told you might know Storm Isle.”

  “Sure, sister, I can take you there.”

  He turned around—and she almost gasped.

  He was gorgeous. Thirty, maybe. Tall and strapping, powerful. A handsome, masculine face, with a strong jaw and strong cheekbones under a short growth of beard. Dark, chocolate-brown hair, tanned, weather-beaten skin, and bright caramel eyes—although, curiously, they had an inner gold ring, just like Dane’s. Under his pullover, he was wearing a one-piece skiff suit and hip boots—typical fishermen’s wear.

  Lightly, he leapt from the boat to the pier, coming down right next to her.

  “You must be trying to get to the—” He cut off in midsentence, brow furrowing. Wait, was he—sniffing her? She was wearing the Coco Mademoiselle perfume Dane had given her, but certainly not enough to be offensive. What was he doing? “Hold on. Hold on, here. You’re not one of… no. Who are you?”

  His earlier friendliness had evaporated. The suspicion was coming off him in waves. Why? She hadn’t done anything.

  “Ginger Graham.”

  “Yeah, cute name. But who are you?”

  “What?” She didn’t understand. “That’s my name. I have ID…”

  “No. Alright, it’s your name. Fine.” He was impatient with her, now—but why? “Let’s try this. Why do you want to get to Storm Isle?”

  “I’m trying to reach someone who’s there.”

  “Who?” His look cut right through her. She didn’t care for it at all.

  “My employer.”

  “Your employer?” His eyes narrowed even more. “It’s not…”

  “Dane MacAlister.”

  It was as if she’d insulted his mother.

  “Dane MacAlister? Dane MacAlister?” he scoffed, outright hostile, hard-eyed. “That”—she could see him restraining himself—“clown? What are you, his secretary?”

  The way he said it offended her. She bristled.

  “Yes, I am. His secretary.” Just his secretary. “And I need to get to him.”

  “Why?” He was watching her, closely.

  “Because he left some important work behind. And I’ve brought it to him.”

  “All the way from Seattle?” For a moment, he seemed impressed; but then he cooled again. “Well, trust me. He won’t have time to do it.”

  “Why? Are there a lot of parties on Storm Isle? A lot of mixers?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I need to get to him.” She was going to keep things simple. “I need to get to the island. You know where it is. Will you take me?”

  “Why should I?”

  This was not how she had imagined this conversation going. Why couldn’t he be like the other fishermen? Polite… relaxed… “Why?”

  “Why should I take you there? To see Dane MacAlister?” he added coldly.

  What did he have against Dane?

  Well, frankly, it didn’t matter. He was the only man here who seemed to know the island. Him knowing Dane just proved he was familiar with the place.

  And she still had an ace in the hole: one of Dane’s credit cards, which he had given her to cover all miscellaneous expenses.

  “Because I can pay any price.”

  Hunter laughed dryly. “Alright. So you have all the money in the world—and yet, tragically, you still can’t dress yourself. Do you really think you’re seaworthy, Graham? Wilderness-ready? I’m not taking a girl like you anywhere. Least of all Storm Isle.”

  She looked down at herself. A pleated, silk-blend Versace skirt. A Valentino coat, wine red, with oversized lapels. Taupe Prada booties. A Fendi purse. And La Perla tights—suspender tights, actually, deliciously sexy, not that anyone could see that. She just enjoyed pulling them on every morning, fantasizing about how Dane would react to them if he ever made a move. If he kissed her… squeezed her ass… raised her skirt, set her on his desk… saw them, saw the naughty black strap…

  But back to the present. Hunter was right. She wasn’t dressed for this.

  “You know what?” she said, looking him dead in the face. I won’t let this man-bitch stonewall me. I won’t be intimidated. “You have a point.” She turned on her heel. “I’ll be back.”

  “Yeah?” he called after her. “You’ve got thirty minutes. I cast off at three—not that I’ll change my mind. I’m not taking you out!”

  Oh, yes, you are.

  She stomped back down the pier, to the harbor town. She was going to fix this, come back, buy him out, and get to Dane.

  Chapter 7

  Four minutes to three, by her Ballon Bleu. Enough time that she could afford to walk—not run—back up the pier. She didn’t want him to see her rushing.

  Because of the season, the sky was already flushing peach; soon enough it would be dusk. The wind coming off the water was chilly, bracing, briny. Glaucous-winged gulls spun overhead, complaining.

  “Hey.”

  Hunter looked up at her shout, halfway through the process of loosing his boat from the pier. The shock on his face was delicious.

  “How about now?” she asked, stopping in front of him.

  She looked totally different. Now she was in a Patagonia tie-down parka, men’s jeans—a small size—with worn-soft knees, North Face gloves, Bean boots, and a thermal top. On her shoulder was a shabby duffel bag; inside it was her old outfit, some snacks, and a flashlight. She’d whirlwinded through the local Salvation Army in record time to get everything.

  “Uh,” he said, dumbfounded. It was hard to hide her satisfaction.

  “I’ll pay you. Five thousand. Sound fair?”

  A look of pain shot across his face. “I don’t want MacAlister’s money.”

  “Okay. Then tak
e me for free.”

  “I don’t want to do that either.”

  “Listen, if you take me, I’ll pay you with my money. How about that? I’ll wire it when I’m back in Seattle. I can write an—”

  “I don’t want your money, either.” He sighed. “You’re really determined, aren’t you?”

  She gazed at him silently.

  “Yeah. Alright. Just—get on. I’ve got an awful feeling that if I don’t let you onto the deck, you’ll try to hang onto the net.” He gestured her into the boat. “Let’s go, Graham.”

  Flashing him a smile, she climbed aboard.

  It was twilight, the sky a grey lavender overhead. Miss Grizzly was passing through a strait between islands, one churning uneasily with what Ginger recognized from long-ago Earth Sciences as tidal mixing. Brandt’s cormorants shot through the water, chasing rockfish; Bonaparte’s gulls skimmed above wavelets, grey-winged and black-headed.

  “Hey! Graham!” Hunter shouted from the wheelhouse. He had to shout to be heard over the choppy, upwelling water, the evening winds, the growl of the boat, and the screaming of seabirds.

  “You know, I would accept Ginger!” she shouted back from the rolling deck.

  “I wouldn’t! Look, straight ahead—that’s Storm Isle!”

  There it was, looming up out of the dusk. It was beautiful.

  From this approach, there was no beach, just craggy sandstone cliffs that here and there chained out into offshore ribs of rock; she saw one dramatic arch, a two-story spar of sandstone wave-eroded through the middle. Common murres and tiny, fast-flying Cassin’s auklets crowded the sky—they must have nesting colonies in the crannies—while mew’s gulls and pelagic cormorants preened on exposed crags.

  On top of the cliffs, Ginger could see trees bending in the wind: scraggly-topped Sitka spruce, mostly. A goshawk lifted off from one of them, flying north.

  “We have to go around the side,” Hunter called. “No safe anchorage on this side!”

  Miss Grizzly circled the island from far out, closer to another, smaller islet than to Storm Isle. Ginger could hear waves breaking on the stony, driftwood-choked beach to the side of the boat.

  “What’s this one called?” she shouted forward.

  “Dunno! Maybe nothing! You wanna name it?”

  Finally, the ship hove towards an inlet on Storm Isle’s west side. There were other boats moored there, along a pier of rain-washed, unfinished wood; that gave her a jolt. If people came here often—if people stayed here often—why had none of the boatsmen at Salt Spring Island known the place?

  Hunter brought Miss Grizzly alongside the dock, killing her engines; then he jumped onto the pier and tied up his ship, quickly and easily.

  “Come on, Ginger. Give me your hand.”

  “It’s Ginger, now?” But she put her hand in his. It was warm and calloused; manful. A little shudder of pleasure went through her. Ginger, you need a boyfriend.

  He ignored her, squinting up the dock. “Ah, shit.”

  She followed his gaze. Slowly, someone emerged from the gloom of twilight: a tall girl in a denim jacket.

  “Did you bring someone else over, eh, Hunter? A straggler?” the girl asked, with a sharp, delightful accent Ginger couldn’t quite place. She had apple-red hair—that was obvious even in the desaturated dusk.

  “Why don’t you fuck off back to Cape Breton, Catríona?” Hunter shot back.

  “Charming man, isn’t he, sister? Handsome, of course, but unbearable—don’t you agree?” The girl—Catríona—asked Ginger. “Ah, there, but you look like one of the Gael! Red hai—” She stopped dead.

  Was she sniffing Ginger, too? How many people were going to smell her today? Was she rank or something without realizing it?

  “Oh, Hunter,” the girl whispered. “You didn’t.”

  “She’s MacAlister’s,” he said, half-guiltily and half-gloatingly.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Catríona said, thinly. “Take her back to—wherever you got her. She can’t be here!”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that. With Gunnar—”

  “What, a scrawny black bear from Saskatchewan? I’m terrified. Yes, in fact, we should all be terrified. Anyway, bring it up with MacAlister. He gave her the idea that she could fol—”

  “It’s forbidden, either way, you can’t—”

  A black bear? “Is there a bear loose?” Ginger interrupted.

  They stared at her.

  “Listen, Ginger,” Hunter said finally. “Follow me and stay close. I’ll take you to MacAlister.”

  “Hunter!” Catríona snapped.

  “Stop it, Cat. If MacAlister can’t protect her, I will. Come on, Ginj.”

  “Oh, we’ve graduated to Ginj?” Ginger wheedled; but she followed him. All that mattered was getting to Dane. That was her job.

  “You’re both lawbreakers, Hunter,” Catríona snapped as they passed.

  Me? What law?

  “No, just him. I’m not the dallier, here.”

  Oh. Not me. She meant Hunter and—who, Dane? What law, though?

  “Well, I hope this girl doesn’t pay the price for both of you!”

  “Ignore her, Ginj. Come on. We follow that footpath, there.”

  The path they took went deep into the coastal wood, and it got very dark very fast. She could smell the rush of the sea, the freshness of hemlock; hear the water’s crash, the shivering of the forest, and—most bizarrely—the distant play of fiddles, mixed with human laughter.

  “Don’t mind that,” Hunter had said indifferently. “Nova Scotians. Scotch-Irish. You know.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Off in the darkness between the trees, she sometimes saw lights: bright, fire-yellow lights.

  “Bonfires. And that one’s a cottage,” Hunter explained. “Anyway. We’re almost there.”

  This was a weird fucking place. But if it was where Dane chose to holiday, she didn’t care—all that mattered was delivering him his work.

  Abruptly, Hunter stopped.

  “It’s right up there. MacAlister’s cabin.” He snorted dismissively. “I won’t go any further. That’s his turf. You go. Just go up.”

  “You know something I don’t, Hunter. Don’t you?”

  “I know a lot you don’t know.” He turned to go back the way they’d come, along the footpath, but then hesitated. His eyes flashed in the dark; coloring, she realized she could smell him—a salt-and-sweat-and-pinewood smell. She had to admit it was a good smell. “If he’s—or if anyone… look, if you do end up in some kind of trouble… you can come to me. I stay by the Fishhook.” He grunted—embarrassed, she sensed. “But you won’t need to. I—G’night.”

  She watched him go. What was his deal, anyway?

  Harrumphing, she continued up the path.

  Chapter 8

  She couldn’t see it very well in the chilly, spruce-whispering dim, but it was certainly a cabin: it had a pitched roof, it was made of logs, and it was slap bang in the middle of the wilderness. Flickering honey-colored light paned through the windows. It had to be Dane’s.

  She crossed the clearing in front of it and tromped up the few steps to the door. It had been a long day. He had better let her stay the night. If he didn’t—

  Before she could knock, the door was flung open. She froze, fist still raised.

  “Ginger.”

  It was Dane. Seeing him flooded her with hot, gooey relief—and a lightning shot of giddiness. He was beautiful—when was he not beautiful?—and he was here. She’d gotten to him, at last. All she wanted to do was fall into his arms and explain how hard it had been.

  But his expression. She’d never seen that look on his face. Never.

  He looked stricken. Horrified. Half-afraid, and half—well, half-angry. It scared her.

  Grabbing her wrist—far too tightly—he yanked her into the cabin and slammed the door. She barely registered the details o
f the cabin’s main room—a grated, stone-bordered fireplace; a couch covered in a quilt; pine-boarded walls—before he gripped her arms and shook her.

  “What are you doing here? My God! How did you get here?”

  “Dane!”

  “You can’t be here, Ginger! Not you!”

  “You left behind—I was just bringing you—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I left! How did you get here?”

  “I—I flew to Victoria—and then—I took ferries—”

  “No! To this island?”

  He frightened her, and he’d never frightened her before. His eyes were too gold, his grip too strong, his strength too much. “I—a man named Hunter—”

  His hands tightened on her even more—his gaze darkened even more—and she cried out. “Dane—you’re hurting me!”

  Instantly, his hold softened—and so did his face. But he still wasn’t making sense. “I—I didn’t realize—but Ginger, you have to get out of here, you—you’re in danger here—”

  Tears beaded in her eyes. Abruptly, she started to cry.

  “Oh, Ginger. Ginger.” His voice lowered. She’d never seen this look on his face, either: Shame. Regret. Tenderness. Finally, he realized what he was doing—scaring her—and he gentled completely. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… oh, Ginger.”

  He gathered her into his arms. She’d always wanted to be held by him, although not exactly under these circumstances; it confused her, the pleasure of it, the hard, muscular wall of his chest, the warmth of his strong arms, the heat of his neck. She gripped his sweater, trembling.

  “I know, Ginger. You were trying to do the right thing. I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not knowing why she should be.

  “Don’t be sorry. You don’t even understand what’s happening… I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.” He squeezed her tighter. “But Beaumont. I’ll kill him.”

  “Beaumont?” She liked the way his chest burred when he spoke; slowly, helplessly, her eyes closed. She was exhausted. Mystified. Spent.

  “Hunter. Hunter Beaumont. He did this to get to me. To undermine me. He doesn’t realize…” His hand found its way into her hair; her scalp tingled, with pleasure. “Come on. We have to get you back to the mainland.”