Crookshollow foxes box set: The complete fox shapeshifter romance series

by Steffanie Holmes

  "There's no spare bed," I said. "And that raven tore up the couch cushions even worse than Miss Havisham had, so that's no good, either."

  "If you have a few blankets," he suggested, "I could sleep at the foot of your bed. That way, if they try to come in your window, I'll be right there. I'll be in my fox form, of course, so Alex can sleep soundly knowing her maidenhood is safe."

  Kylie chortled, and Ryan cracked a smile at his own joke. I frowned at both of them. That little crack hit too close to home for me. It had been so long since the black metal boyfriend … so long since someone had loved me … Maybe that's why you keep looking at Ryan like he has potential? Maybe that's why you don't feel as skeeved out by his "fated mates" story as you normally would?

  "What about me?" asked Kylie, staring at Ryan with round, puppy-dog eyes, as she tugged down the neck of her revealing slip.

  "It's Alex they're after," he said sternly, not even meeting her gaze. "Don't worry. I'll stay awake the whole night, and I have excellent hearing. If anyone steps a foot – or a paw – on this property, I will hear them."

  "Have it your way. Goodnight, Ryan. It was a real pleasure to meet you. Don't let Alex tire you out," Kylie winked at me as she passed me on the stairs, sashaying her hips for Ryan's benefit.

  Great. Now I was alone with Ryan Raynard, who was staring at me intently with his beautiful dark-brown eyes, a curl of red hair falling over the edge of his face. I could feel my cheeks burning as images of his naked body flashed before my eyes.

  "Um … well … follow me," I mumbled, heading for the stairs. Miss Havisham bounded up ahead of me. Ryan followed behind, and I resisted the urge to sashay my own hips. I wasn't going to play that game, not when he had this crazy notion about us being fated to be together. No matter how much I might want it.

  I went to the linen cupboard and pulled out all the spare blankets, then dumped them on the floor at the foot of the bed, on top of the pile of clothes I had pulled from the wardrobe. "Go to town with those," I mumbled, trying to avoid looking at him as he tugged off his shirt. I still didn't know how I felt about Ryan being in my room, even if it would be in his fox form.

  I went to the bathroom, pulled out my toothbrush, and frantically brushed my teeth, wondering as I did why I was brushing my teeth when I had already done it before I'd gone to bed earlier in the evening. I stared in the mirror, noticing for the first time my hair matted against my face, my face flushed and sweaty, and a big pillow crease across my forehead. I was ripe for seduction.

  I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my hair, and returned to my bedroom. My heart stopped when I saw Ryan standing in the centre of the room, flipping through one of my art journals, his brow creased in amusement as his eyes flicked across the pages.

  I crossed the room and snatched it away, my face burning with shame. "Don't touch those," I snapped.

  He looked up at me then, and his face looked different, softer. The arrogance had fled it. "They're quite good," he murmured. "You're quite good."

  "These aren't mine," I shoved the journal back into the box under my bed. "I just keep them here for a friend. Don't touch them, Ryan, I'm serious."

  He shrugged. "I'm sorry. I was admiring the art on your walls, and I saw a palette and easel in the corner, so I assume you paint. I was arranging my bed and I happened to see the box there. Who is your friend? Does she exhibit locally? I'd love to meet her."

  "You're a recluse. You don't want to meet anybody. Besides, what makes you so sure it's a her?" I breathed.

  He took a step closer, his bare chest gleaming under the harsh light. He stared down at me, his eyes so dark they appeared almost black. When he spoke, his voice was low, soft. "There's a sensuality about the lines that only a woman can create. Even though some of the images are quite jarring – almost painful – to view, all have a sense of striking beauty and fierce, quiet resilience. The woman who drew them is a survivor, and someone I would dearly …" he stepped closer, placing his hand on my arm, his fingers sending an electric charge through my body. "...love to meet."

  I opened my mouth to say something. Part of me wanted to force him away, to tell him to leave my house and never come back. But the part of me that had loved his artwork since my university days, that felt the pull of the forest as much as he did, that craved his touch and his wild eyes … that part of me wanted him to touch more than just my arm.

  "Alex …" he whispered my name and bent his head closer, his lips opening as they moved toward mine. His fingers gripped my arm tighter, his body tensing, moving in for the kill.

  My whole body went rigid. Is he doing this because he wants me? Or is he doing this because he believes we're meant to be together, that I'm meant to be the mother of his cubs?

  I wrenched my arm away, turning my head so his cheek glanced off my shoulder. "She doesn't talk to strangers," I said, my tone icy, covering the regret I felt. I really, really wanted to kiss him, to know what it was like to be with Ryan Raynard. But I couldn't, not when he only wanted me for one purpose. I was not going to be used.

  Ryan turned away, not even having the gall to look embarrassed. He rattled the latch on the wardrobe door. "Is this where you're keeping my paintings?"

  "It seemed safe enough at the time. I didn't know I had to protect them from crazed fox shifters and raven people, as well as regular old thieves and thugs …" but Ryan had already moved on, his eye catching the artwork that hung above my bed. A Ryan Raynard print, titled Cunning. It was not one of his most famous works, but it was the one that spoke to me the most. In the image, a rabbit chases a butterfly around a grove. A red fox waits in the shadows, its face glued on the rabbit. Its paws are poised, ready to strike, but still it waits, until the rabbit is practically in its grasp. Ryan's brushstrokes created a tension in the scene, drawing you into the battle within the fox's mind, poised between the instinct to pounce, and the desire to wait for the bigger payoff.

  But, of course, I didn't say any of that. "I like that painting," I mumbled. "Sorry, I couldn't afford the original."

  Ryan Raynard stood shirtless in the middle of my bedroom, and he'd just figured out that I was a fan of his work, and I couldn't say anything that made me sound even remotely intelligent? So much for his fated mate.

  "A billionaire fund manager in Tucson bought it from Simon last year," he said quietly. "I actually shed a tear when it left. I think it's one of the finest pieces I've ever done."

  "I agree," I said. He stared at me strangely, and I quickly added. "I mean, of your work I've seen. The colour is just so … good. The way the fox seems to suck in the light as it filters through the leaves, it's almost the opposite of the typical forest scene, where the light streams down on the creature like a spotlight."

  "You seem to know an awful lot about my work."

  "Not really." I lied. "I mean, I had to study up on you for the exhibition. I'm really more into suprematism, op art, and post-painterly abstraction. You know, art that doesn't look so much like stuff."

  "Oh yes," he grinned as his gaze circled the impressionist prints hanging from every inch of my walls. "I can see that."

  "If you're going to stay in my bedroom, you are meant to be in your fox form, remember? That was the agreement." I folded my arms across my chest. "Either change now, or get out."

  "You could turn away," he growled.

  "I want to watch," I insisted. Before, when I saw him shift in the moonlight, I was too shocked to really take in what I was seeing. But now I was able to experience the whole event.

  Ryan sighed. "Very well." He took a step back from me, and stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, his hands open, palms facing forward. He took a deep breath, and his body started to change.

  It began in his face. His cheekbones protruded, his nose forming a long snout, his lips lengthening, and long canine teeth growing from his mouth. His ears seemed to slide up the sides of his face, and his beautiful rust-coloured hair grew over them. I stared down at his crotch, watching with interest as hi
s pelvis twisted, the bones cracking as they formed an entirely new shape. His genitalia changed so that it resembled that of a dog, and his knees bent in a strange angle as they became hindquarters designed for running and leaping and climbing. A bushy red tail shot out from his tailbone.

  Reddish-brown hair grew from the skin on his shoulders and arms, spreading across his body like a strange, quick-growing carpet. Greyish-white hair sprouted on his neck and chest, like the beard of a wizard gone horribly wrong. His body squeezed and contorted, his muscles twitching as they morphed from human to fox. Ryan fell to the ground, landing on his hands, although they weren't hands anymore, but thin, muscled front legs, with five toes containing strong, sharp claws, ready for action.

  In less than a minute, Ryan Raynard no longer stood in my bedroom. Instead, a giant red fox sat on the rug, its head level with my hips. Ryan arched his back and used his back legs to scratch behind his ears. I knelt down beside Ryan, and reached out a tentative hand. He bent his snout forward and nuzzled it, burying my fingers in his soft fur. He pressed his head against my chest, his wet nose nudging my chin. His eyes met mine, and I saw Ryan there, the same intense gaze and lazy arrogance. I scratched behind his ear, and his expression changed to one of complete bliss.

  "You know," I said as I scratched harder and his eyes rolled around in his head, his bushy tail twitching back and forth. "I think I like you much better in this form."

  He whimpered in protest.

  I pointed to the nest of blankets he'd made at the foot of the bed. "To bed with you, Ryan Raynard, before I change my mind about this whole thing."

  His tail dragging along the ground, Ryan curled up amongst the blankets, using his snout to push them around to get comfortable. I flicked off the main bedroom light, pulled back my covers, and crawled into bed.

  Moonlight streamed over Ryan's back through the bedroom window, and his red fur shimmered, as if it were a bright jewel. He flicked his tail at me, and cocked his head, as if to ask what I was looking at.

  I shook my head, laid my head on my pillow, and tried not to think about the man inside the beautiful fox sleeping at the foot of my bed. Feeling happier and more secure than I had in a long time, I turned off the light, and fell into a deep sleep.

  6

  I woke up the next morning to find the fox gone. There was an indentation in the blankets from his body, but he was nowhere to be seen. My stomach clenched in fear. I tugged on the wardrobe door. It was still locked. Phew.

  I heard Ryan's voice in the kitchen below, and Kylie's laughter floated up the stairs. For some reason, this made me feel jealous. Why have I been sleeping while she's downstairs eating breakfast with Ryan? Why is she so interested in him, anyway? She's dating Ray the re-enactment geek, and she doesn't even know anything about art.

  I pulled on my best dressing gown (made from red satin, and containing no holes), stopped in the bathroom to gargle and brush down my bed hair, and padded downstairs.

  I found Kylie sitting at the kitchen table, retelling one of her favourite anecdotes about the time she was invited to tea at Buckingham Palace and ended up getting completely trashed. Ryan stood in human form in front of the stove flipping an omelette in the pan and nodding at appropriate moments. He looked even better than I remembered, with his red hair all rumpled, the curls falling over his warm brown eyes. Miss Havisham sat on the corner of the counter, attempting to hook a rasher of bacon from out of the container. Everything had been cleaned up and put back in place, except the smashed painting, which lay in a plastic bag by the front door.

  "–and then my aunt said we should celebrate with a few pre-tea glasses of champagne, and then–"

  "Hey," I waved timidly from the doorframe.

  Ryan dropped the spatula against the pan. "Good morning, Alex," he said stiffly, his expression impossible to read. Is he upset with me, because I rejected him last night?

  I gestured around the clean kitchen. "When did you have time to do this?"

  "When it became clear the sun was rising and Marcus wasn't coming back. I couldn't abandon my post and fall asleep, so I got up and cleaned up a little."

  "Thank you," I said.

  He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "No need to thank me. If it weren't for me, nothing would have needed cleaning up in the first place. I'll buy you another print to replace the one that broke."

  "Don't worry about it. I work in an art gallery. They sell those things in the lobby for ten quid," I replied. "Something smells good."

  With a devilish smile, he lifted a fresh omelette from the pan, folded it with all the confidence of a celebrity chef, and presented the plate to me.

  "I didn't expect Ryan Raynard to know his way around the kitchen," I said, as I slumped down opposite Kylie. "I thought a rich snot like you would have a kitchen staff preparing fois gras and snail droppings twenty-four hours a day."

  "A man cannot live on snail's droppings alone," he replied as he cracked more eggs into the pan. "Before I returned to the family manor, I lived in an artist's squat in Belfast for a few years. You learn fast that cooking skills are a commodity that can be bartered for cigarettes or clean blankets. I never stopped enjoying being in the kitchen."

  "Do you think it's something to do with being a fox? The scents and things?"

  He looked up from the pan and met my eyes for the first time, a strange expression on his face. "That's very insightful. I'd never thought about it, but you're probably right."

  Kylie smiled at me from across the table as she stuffed the last square of omelette into her mouth. "What are you doing today, Alex?" She asked, her mouth still full of egg.

  "I have to take Ryan's paintings to the gallery. They need to go into cataloguing today if we've any hope of getting everything hung in time for the opening. Someone," I shot Ryan a filthy look, "insisted on a ridiculously tight exhibition deadline."

  "I'll take you into the gallery," Ryan offered.

  I spat out my juice. "Excuse me?"

  "I'll drive you to the gallery. I'm the artist. I should make sure my paintings arrive at the venue in appropriate condition."

  "Ryan, I don't think you understand. You haven't been outside your manor in ten years. When people see you walking into the Halt Institute with me, you're going to get swarmed."

  "Maybe I'll go in disguise."

  "What? I just walk a fox inside? What do I tell Callahan? ‘Don't worry, sir. The fox is just another part of the exhibition. Raynard is experimenting with naturalism – this fox here is his attempt to place the viewer inside the painting...' No, Ryan, that won't work."

  He laughed. "You're not thinking clearly. If I haven't left the house in ten years, no one knows what I look like. Now, where is your car?"

  "On the street, why?"

  "We'll need to take it. I came here through the forest. I don't have my car. I don't even own a car."

  "You want to drive my car?" My mind reeled as I thought of all the takeout containers, fashion magazines, dirty laundry and art books strewn across the backseats of my little Fiat.

  "You know what Marcus has done to those other people. It's my responsibility to protect you," he said. "I can't do that if I'm not near you. Besides, you could use some help carrying the paintings."

  "Fine," I shovelled in another mouthful of omelette. "Give me twenty minutes to get dressed. And get some coffee brewing. I'm going to need it."

  7

  Forty minutes later, I gripped the edges of my seat, my knuckles turning white with terror, while Ryan threw my little car around the streets of Crookshollow like he was on a Formula 1 track, oblivious to all known traffic laws. In the boot, ten priceless paintings bounced and slid against each other.

  "I haven't been behind the wheel since my days in Belfast," he laughed as he careered around a corner, cutting off a large lorry exiting Prince Edward Drive. I cringed as horns blasted in our wake.

  Once on the high street, Ryan weaved in and out of lanes. "Watch out!" I cried as he raced through a traffic light, n
arrowly missing a woman pushing her pram across the street. I shut my eyes, unable to watch. I heard my brakes squeal, and the women shouted something unseemly though my open window.

  "Oops." I opened my eyes to see Ryan smiling at me. Despite the situation, my insides turned all giddy. Dammit. I didn't want to like him, but the more time I spent with him, the closer I was to falling for him.

  "You'd better not think this is funny." I snapped, trying to hide my desire behind scorn. "Park in here." I pointed to a building up ahead.

  "Don't you have a space at the gallery?" he asked.

  I shook my head. I did, but it was right next to Matthew's space, and the last thing I wanted was for Ryan to crash my car into my boss's car. Ryan turned in, scraping my door along the concrete barrier, and miraculously managed to park on the third floor without hitting anyone. I opened the boot and was surprised to see none of the crates were damaged. Ryan picked up the three largest pieces, while I carried a stack of smaller paintings. We descended the fire escape, Ryan leaping the steps three at a time, while I leaned against the wall and slid along the balustrade, feeling out each step with my heels before I set down my foot.

  I’m walking down the fire escape, carrying millions of dollars-worth of precious modern art in my hands, and the world's most sought-after art celebrity – who also happens to be a shapeshifter – is walking in front of me, whistling "Eye of the Tiger" under his breath.

  Surreal.

  At the staff entrance, I swiped my ID card, and walked through a dark hall into the main storage and inventory space. It was early, and, although there were lights on in the offices, the warehouse was still shrouded in darkness. I flicked the lights on, watching the fluorescent tubes flicker to life. "Quickly, in here." I pulled Ryan down the aisle for incoming exhibitions that needed cataloguing. I found the bay we'd set aside for his work, and dumped the seven heavy wooden frames into it.