Crookshollow foxes box set: The complete fox shapeshifter romance series

by Steffanie Holmes

  “I’ve got some good news,” I said brightly. “I got off the phone with Ryan Raynard this morning. He’s thrilled to be appearing in person tonight, and he’s even decided to add another piece to the exhibition, to be unveiled with all the press in attendance.”

  Matthew’s eyes bugged out of his head. Behind him, Ryan made a rude gesture with his hands, and started laughing.

  “Raynard is really coming?” he choked out. “I thought you were just saying that to get your job back?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s even looking forward to it.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “He thinks it’s about time people recognised him as the artist behind his work.” Behind me, Ryan was sniggering so hard had to hold his hand over his mouth.

  “So you’ve spoken to him? What’s he like? Is he a total rich jackass? Do you think … do you think he’ll sign my limited edition Fox Woman by Stream print for me?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d be delighted,” I smiled sweetly. Ryan had both hands cupped over his mouth now, and was making some weird strangled noises. My own stomach was practically bursting from trying to hold in my laughter.

  Finally, Ryan cracked, and let out a great big “HA!” just as Matthew had turned back to his car.

  “What are you sniggering at,” Matthew snapped at Ryan. “You’re an intern, right? Well, don’t bother coming back tomorrow. You’re a hack. You wouldn’t know a Raynard from a Rembrandt. Don’t come back tomorrow. You’re fired.”

  He stomped off. Ryan turned to me, his eyes crinkling at the edges. The laughter burst from me like a broken valve. Ryan’s face turned red as his own mirth boiled over and he let out a loud bellow. I collapsed against the car, punching the top as I cackled uncontrollably.

  “Oh God,” I moaned, tears of joy rolling down my face. “I can’t wait to see his face when you walk into Halt tonight.”

  Whatever happened, it was going to be an interesting night.

  7

  The gallery was abuzz with the impending opening and the news that Raynard himself was going to put in an appearance. I put my two ditzy cataloguing girls to work sweeping up the broken glass in the main gallery and moving the broken display case into a storage room. The gallery was shut for the day so that we could prepare for the opening, so at least we didn’t have to worry about patrons seeing the mess.

  The hire company, sound technician, and catering staff were arriving at midday to set up, and I had a team of cleaners working from sunup to get the place spotless. One of them came into my office, a funny look on her face. “I found these in the corner of the west hall,” she said, holding a scrap of red fabric over my desk. I squinted, my stomach churning as I recognised my own underwear, the seam torn away. We must have missed them when we cleaned up this morning. I looked down at my laptop, pretending to be busy but in reality trying to hide my reddening cheeks from her view.

  “They were hidden behind a pillar, snagged on a nail.” She said, screwing her face up in disgust. “They’re used.”

  “Er, yes, thank you.” I mumbled. “Sometimes our patrons have strange inclinations. You can throw those away. And best if you don’t mention them to anyone.”

  She gave me a filthy look. I felt my skin burn even brighter.

  At 2 pm, Ryan swaggered into the gallery, looking eminently shaggable in his black, paint-splattered jeans and soft leather jacket. He flashed his newly printed gallery ID at security, and they waved him through. He found me in the gallery with Belinda, moving the paintings around to make room for the new addition, and deposited a beautiful bunch of colourful tulips into my arms.

  “Raynard asked me to deliver this to you,” he smirked, giving me a wink.

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you, and of him.” My chest swelled with joy, No one had ever brought me flowers before. Well, my college boyfriend had, but they were two quid on sale from Marks & Spencer and he only did it because he was trying to get me to forgive him for forgetting our anniversary and shagging his tour manager, so it didn’t count. While I was admiring the bright, lively colours, Ryan stood back and admired the new placement. “I think that looks perfect,” he said.

  “What do you know?” Belinda shot back. “You’re an intern.”

  I did one last sweep around the room, satisfied that everything was in place. Then Ryan drove me back to Raynard Hall to get ready for the opening. Kylie and I invaded Melissa’s closet for an outfit to wear. I had to admit that even though she was an evil witch, Melissa had impeccable taste. One whole rack in the vast closet was dedicated to the storage of several sexy, slinky dresses, each one more flattering than the last. It was like going prom dress shopping all over again, except this time we had breasts to fill out a dress and a never-ending supply of free designer couture.

  “Try this on,” Kylie thrust a shimmering purple Grecian gown into my arms. I fingered the gold brocade around the neckline, mesmerised by the beauty of it, before shimmying out of the fuchsia cocktail dress I was wearing and slipping the purple gown over my head.

  I elbowed Kylie out of the way of the full-length mirrors, admiring the way the sheer fabric clung to my hips and flared out around my legs. The thin gold straps accentuated my athletic shoulders. I looked like a fierce Greek goddess – Artemis of the Hunt.

  “This is the one,” I said.

  “Of course it is. You look like one of those women in renaissance paintings. Only way hotter.” Kylie danced across the closet in a bias-cut black dress that set off her toned shoulders. She looked amazing. She started to hunt around in the racks toward the back of the closet.

  “You should wear that dress,” I told her, fingering the brocade again. “It looks stunning on you.”

  “I know,” Kylie emerged, holding up a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps. “I was looking for the perfect pair of heels to go with it, and I think I’ve found them.”

  I added a pair of gold sandals and some thick gold cuff bracelets and twisted my hair into a half-ponytail, leaving a few tendrils around my face. I added some light, natural makeup and a bit of sparkle around my eyes, then tottered downstairs to find the rest of the group.

  Ryan and Marcus were outside, arguing loudly with each other as they tried to squeeze Ryan’s large canvas into the small boot of the stretch limousine Simon had rented for the occasion. The canvas was covered by a thick velvet cloth, pinned on the edges of the frame so it would stay intact and hide the painting from view until Ryan chose to unveil it.

  “Twist it a little more this way,” Marcus grunted as he tried to tip the canvas sideways.

  “Don’t touch it, whatever you do!” Ryan snapped in return.

  “Relax, I won’t touch your precious painting. Lift your edge a little? There, now, isn’t that better? Look, it’s actually going to slide in now–”

  “I said not to touch it! Grip it by the frame only! I’m serious, Marcus. This is life or death here.”

  After ten more minutes of bickering, they managed to slide the painting into the car without damaging either it, or each other. Ryan went inside and returned with an immaculate black suit on a hanger, which he hung from the hook in the back window. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. “You look amazing. You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.”

  “But not the most beautiful man. That honour goes to the great Ryan Raynard on his first public appearance in ten years.” And he did look more handsome than ever, dressed in a blood-red dress shirt, a buttery-soft leather jacket, and black pants that showed off his thin waist and muscular legs. His red hair was still wild, flopping adorably over his eyes. He looked like a rock star.

  “Hush, you’ll give me a big head.” He smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “No, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  I smiled. “You’ll be fine. It’s time the world got to know the real Ryan Raynard. You are going to be amazing. Does Marcus have his uniform?”

  “He’s putting it on right now.”

&nb
sp; Just then, the front door opened and Marcus appeared, wearing a black suit and shirt that made his huge, muscular frame appear even more menacing, and a pair of dark sunglasses that obscured his wild eyes. With his hair slicked back and a gold chain around his neck, he looked like a bodyguard for a rap artist, which is exactly how we wanted him to look. On his arms, he escorted Clara and Kylie down the steps. Clara looking stunning in a royal blue evening dress studded with crystal beads, her shoulders covered by a hand-dyed silk scarf. And Kylie looked like a runway model in her black, figure-hugging dress, her hair piled on top of her head and her face framed by dangling diamond earrings.

  Simon followed behind, with Miss Havisham clinging to his arm. She wore a funky purple fifties-style dress with a flared circle skirt, and little kitten heels that showed off her shapely legs. Simon walked around the limo, opening doors for everyone. When we were all settled into the plush leather seats and Simon had poured us each a glass of champagne, he slipped into the driver’s seat, and we were off.

  I felt giddy with a mixture of excitement and nerves. This exhibition had been my entire life for the last month, but ever since I’d met Ryan, it had felt like an afterthought, a nuisance in the background of the much more important battle against Isengrim’s pack and my burgeoning, if somewhat complex, relationship with Ryan. But now it was here, and I was all dolled up and riding in a limo, and I suddenly felt a burst of pride that I had achieved all this. Even though we still had Isengrim to defeat, I suddenly felt like tonight was going to be fun. I clinked glasses with Kylie and Clara and downed my champagne. I noticed Ryan staring at his empty glass, his face hard. I reached over and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, crushing my fingers under the weight of his nervousness.

  Simon rolled down the window. “We’re driving past the gallery now.”

  I pressed my nose against the window, my chest fluttering with excitement as I saw all the people crowded there. Was this really Halt? It looked more like a blockbuster Hollywood premiere. In front of the gallery entrance was a line of empty parking spaces that had been roped off, and fancy sports cars and limousines were pulling in and out. A red carpet led right up to the entrance, and a huge crowd of press and onlookers pressed in tight behind the velvet ropes. Lights flashed as cameras captured the celebrities and reality TV stars and glitterati who were milling around. Just watching it made me feel even more excited, but I looked across to see Ryan’s face had gone completely white.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Chances are no one will even recognise you.” Ever since we’d released word that Ryan Raynard himself would be showing up at the gallery, press have been camped outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive artist. Someone had taken a picture of him from his street art days in Belfast and used some kind of aging software on it, and so the news-stations were circulating this strange, bedraggled caricature with shaggy hair and a thick beard, although the regal nose and strong jawline did bear a striking resemblance to the Ryan I loved.

  Simon circled the block and dropped me off around the back entrance. When I went to leave, Ryan refused to let go of my hand. “Please don’t make me walk in there on my own,” he begged. “I need my vixen by my side.”

  I kissed his clammy forehead. “I have work to do. You know that. But you’re going to be fine. You’ve done much braver, much harder things all by yourself. I will be waiting inside for you. Just make a beeline towards me. You’ll be fine.”

  To Simon I said, “He needs to calm down a bit. Take him for a drive around the edge of the village, then bring him back. Open another bottle of champagne.” Simon nodded. The last thing I saw as the doors shut and the limo pulled away was Ryan’s glum face staring longingly at me through the window.

  As soon as I was inside Halt, I made a beeline for the bathroom to touch up my makeup and smooth down my dress. Belinda came in just as I was twisting some more of my hair into braids to pin on top of my head. She whistled approvingly. “Look at you, all Aphrodite, Goddess of Fertility,” she said. “You actually look halfway decent.”

  “Thanks, Belinda. You look like you’re on the hunt for a husband.” Belinda’s snakeskin dress was cut exceptionally low.

  “Ryan Raynard is going to be there tonight. The man has been hiding behind the doors of Raynard Hall for ten years. I intend to show him what he’s been missing out on.” She bent over the sink and started applying a violent red lipstick.

  “Good luck with that,” I said brightly, as I gave my hair one final puff, and went out to the main gallery space.

  It looked fantastic. The wooden floors shone with fresh polish. Waiters in black tailcoats and forest-green cummerbunds circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. In the corner, a lively duo played some light jazz, the music filling the cavernous space, making the huge gallery seem smaller, more intimate. The who’s-who of the art world circulated slowly around the room, cocktail dresses swirling and glittering under the dim lights of the rented chandeliers. There were several reporters and critics milling around, standing in front of the paintings and talking excitedly. We had security on the doors to the gallery, checking press credentials. Only a handful of outlets were allowed access to the opening. The rest would have to crowd around into the lobby, snapping pictures through the glass walls. The photographers had claimed the two square seats Ryan and I had spent so much time on in the last week. They spread out their gear over the leather cushions and sat gingerly on the edges as they mumbled about light levels and lenses. I felt my cheeks blush slightly as I remember what Ryan and I had done on those seats. All in the name of art, I reminded myself.

  I began to walk through the crowd, bending my head occasionally to greet an art critic or billionaire collector. My body coursed with adrenaline as I passed movie stars and TV personalities. Ryan had invited Lars Ulrich from the band Metallica, who was apparently quite a fan, but I couldn’t see the rock-star drummer anywhere.

  I also couldn’t see Isengrim. I scanned each group of people for that familiar long face and wolfish grin, but so far he had eluded me. But I knew he’d be trying to avoid me. Chances are, I wouldn’t see him until he tried to show himself. I patted the bottle of iridium pigment I’d stashed in my bag. He’ll be here, I told myself. Of course he’ll be here.

  A great flurry of activity started outside. The excitement in the room reached a crescendo, and everyone in the room flocked toward the doors, their faces poised with anticipation as they peered through the glass walls of the gallery and lobby, anxious to get a glimpse. I stood back beside the bar, unable to see anything, but knowing from the way the cameras flashed that Ryan Raynard had finally arrived.

  Marcus was the first to enter the building, his head darting side to side, searching the crowd for Isengrim or any other threats. Next came Ryan, looking dashing as he strutted through the crowd behind Marcus, his red hair falling deliciously over his mischievous brown eyes. He was beaming, his whole body glowing under the adoration of the cameras. He looked like he was actually enjoying himself.

  Behind him, Clara, Kylie, and Miss Havisham sauntered in, drawing jealous glares from many women in the room. And at the rear was Simon, who struggled along carrying the new canvas draped in its velvet cloth.

  Ryan strode through the glass doors of the gallery as if he owned the place. His eyes scanned the room too, but my heart skipped when I realised he wasn’t looking for Isengrim. He walked straight up to me, took my hand, and kissed it, his warm lips brushing mine. Cameras burst all around us, and I felt like I might float away.

  “Who is that woman?” a reporter yelled at Ryan. Suddenly, a hundred camera lenses were shoved in my face, the bright lights of their flashes dazzling me.

  “Isn’t she the love interest in that new superhero film?”

  “I thought she was on Chefs on the Runway?” I was starting to feel panicked. But then, I felt a reassuring hand on the small of my back. Ryan, of course it was Ryan. He pulled me close to him and I beamed. We might as well give them a show.<
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  “Mr Raynard, can you tell us why you decided to reveal yourself now?” A BBC reporter shoved a microphone in his face.

  “I can,” he answered. “If you’ll just allow me to enter the gallery.”

  Marcus elbowed several cameramen out of Ryan’s way as we made our way slowly up to the raised wooden platform I’d had erected in front of the space where Ryan’s new painting would be hung. I smiled at the sandy-haired vulpine. He made an excellent bodyguard. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Kylie, Clara, and Miss Havisham following behind us, creating a protective circle around Simon, who was struggling with the painting.

  Ryan escorted me up on to the platform, the cameras around us snapping away. Behind me, Simon lifted the frame on to the hook and adjusted it, ensuring it was straight. Ryan turned to me, his smile wide. “This is crazy,” he said. “I can’t believe all the people here.”

  “Tell me about it. They think I’m the next Paris Hilton.”

  I dropped his hand, and made to leave the platform, but he pulled me back. “Alex, you must stay with me. I need you by my side when I do this.”

  “Are you sure? Won’t it look weird, me standing up here while you–”

  “No, it won’t. Now, come on. Let’s show them how wild we can be.” He grinned, and squeezed my hand. My heart pounded against my chest, my whole body alive with adrenaline as I looked out into that ocean of faces. Belinda handed Ryan a microphone, and he raised it to his lips and called for silence.

  “None of you know me, because I’ve been out of the world for a spell, but my name is Ryan Raynard. I’m the artist behind this little exhibition, and I’m absolutely honoured that you braved the mean streets of Crookshollow to come out and celebrate with me tonight.”

  The room erupted into applause. I clapped too, beaming across at Ryan. His face was calm, his voice steady. His hands weren’t shaking at all. He looked as if he were born to be in the spotlight. I don’t know what he was so afraid of. He’s perfect at this.