Alphas of Storm Isle (Complete Boxed Set: Books 1-5): Werebear Shifter Menage Romance

by Sophie Chevalier

  “Dane MacAlister, I know,” she cut him off impulsively. Instinct was telling her to show a little moxie, so she listened. Not too much moxie—just enough to hook him, to convince him she could handle his undoubtedly complicated affairs. She wanted this job.

  He smiled; her stomach flipped. “Yes. Come in, why don’t you?”

  She followed him into his office, noting with satisfaction the thunderstruck faces of the two young men who had been waiting to interview. Suck it, losers! Suck it hard!

  Dane closed the office door behind her politely—and she was hard put not to gape at his amazing space.

  Both walls were lined in beautiful cherry-oak bookcases full of legal tomes, and she was standing on a tapestry carpet over treated wood flooring. The back wall of the office had an expensive aquarium full of luminous tropical fish, diaphanous-finned, with his collection of diplomas hanging overhead. The “wall” behind his desk was pure glass, showcasing a view of the Seattle skyline with the Olympic range in the distance, half-obscured by clouds.

  “Have a seat,” he said smoothly. If he noticed that she was gobsmacked, he ignored it.

  Recomposing herself, she slid into one of the fancy chairs in front of his desk, while he sat behind it. She scanned the desk for family photos—Wife? Girlfriend? KIDS?!—but there was nothing.

  She was glad there was nothing.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ginger,” he said, snapping her back to the present. “Or should I call you Miss Graham?”

  Hell, he could call her Melvin von Helperdink III if he really wanted. But he expected a serious answer.

  “Call me Ginger.” Her own boldness surprised her a little.

  “Ginger.” He smiled slightly; a flawless smile. His teeth were white and even. “Alright.”

  She held his gaze. Instinct, again, told her what to do: Don’t blink. Be confident.

  “Hm.” He made a satisfied sound, staring at her. “Let me be direct, Ginger. Miss Majumdar recommends you very highly, and I respect her opinion. She is an asset to this firm. She is convinced you would be of use to me.”

  “I would be.” Damn! Where’s this nerve coming from? Not that it mattered—she needed the work. Needed it. She’d impress anyone to get a crack at twenty-five dollars an hour.

  “I see you have had some experience as an assistant.” His gold-and-brown eyes bored into hers, almost unbearably penetrating. “Tell me about it.”

  “I was the personal assistant to the senior designer of a Seattle-based fashion house,” she said cleanly. Keep it together. “In that position, I scheduled her consultations, screened and returned her calls, took dictation at her meetings, managed her working time, helped her plan presentations, and—got her coffee.” She smiled, as charmingly as she could.

  He chuckled. “I see. You listed her as a reference. When I call her, what will she tell me? Will she tell me that you, Ginger, did this job well?”

  Ginger held his eyes. “Yes.” It was the truth. She had been very good at that job.

  “Why should I hire you, Ginger?” His voice sharpened; little shivers ran up her back.

  What should she say? Because I need the work? Because I’m competent and organized? Because I look cute in a sheath dress? Because I want to stare at you every day? Because… you should?

  “Why should I hire you,” he added slowly, “and not them?”

  Them. The two young men waiting outside. Her neck prickled. Why should he hire her and not…

  The right answer came to her suddenly, in a cold, crisp flash. Of course.

  “Because you don’t want to hire them.” Her voice was level.

  That pleased him, she could tell. His eyes narrowed, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.

  “You’re right. I don’t.” He tapped the desk expressively. “I’m drowning in silver-spoon idiots. I don’t need more.”

  Should she drive home her ordinariness, then? Tell him about the Barnes and Noble gift certificate and the charm bracelet? Family vacations in Spokane? How she’d never been abroad until high school, when the French club went to Provence? That she’d been called Graham cracker as a kid, because kids think food names are funny? The biting part hadn’t been funny, though. She hoped no one tried to eat her ever again.

  “I don’t need you to manage my business affairs,” he said, reclining into his executive’s chair. “I need you to manage my personal affairs. Do you understand?”

  I was a nanny, she almost said, so yes. Dry cleaning. Groceries.

  But she held it in, let him finish. What she’d done before was small fry stuff, she knew. This would be harder. If he gave her the chance to try, though, she’d do it—she’d do just about anything for solvency.

  “I need you to organize my home, my incidentals. I need you to deal with the domestics, the deliveries, the upkeep. I need you to safeguard my free time. I need you to make my phone calls, write my congratulations and condolences and invitations, schedule my nonprofessional appointments. I need you to do anything I might need you to do.”

  “So—nothing to do with the firm?” she asked, a little surprised and a little relieved. “Just—your life?”

  He laughed—a wonderful baritone sound. She ached to hear more of it. “You have no interest in law, do you, Ginger? Laila neglected to mention that. It’s fine. In fact, it’s better,” he reassured her placidly. “Anyway, I won’t say ‘nothing.’ I’m sure you’ll get to know some very important people through me.” He gestured to the closed door. “That’s why those morons want this job.”

  The leather of the chair rasped as he leaned forward again.

  “But I want you,” he said with finality, his voice low.

  The look he gave her went right between her legs.

  “Me?” she breathed, stupidly. He wants me?

  “Yes. For this position.” He stood abruptly; she stood too, flustered. Oh. Right. “You’ll hear from me.”

  “Alright.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say; casting around, she came up with “Thank you.”

  He gestured her out. “Tell the others I won’t need to speak with them. Good day, Ginger.”

  She turned to go, shrugging the strap of her borrowed Michael Kors bag over her shoulder and crossing the office. Then, when she was almost at the door:

  “Ginger.”

  She turned. How do I address him? Mister… Dane? Mister MacAlister? Oh, hell. “Yes?”

  “What are you wearing?” There was an intent look on his face.

  Wearing? Oh—does he mean a scent? “Nothing.”

  He didn’t answer; instead, his look of concentration deepened slightly.

  “Should I? In future?” she asked, one hand on the doorknob. “Wear something?”

  “No.” He straightened. “That will be all.”

  Chapter 3

  Her scent lingered even after she’d gone. She wasn’t wearing perfume? That amazed him. She smelled as sweet as hyacinth, and there was a lick of vanilla about her, too.

  She was a beautiful girl—the kind who wasn’t fully aware of it. Pale, porcelain-pale, with big hazel eyes and long, thick apricot-blond lashes. A couple of freckles on her cheek, like beauty marks. A plush, feminine mouth. A slender hourglass figure, with a swan’s neck.

  And her hair—! All that thick, wavy, gingery hair. He had a mortal weakness for redheads.

  If he was honest with himself, he had wanted to skip the interview altogether. Instead, he’d wanted to bend her over his desk, yank up her silk skirt (which was obviously Mujamdar’s, the whole suit was: he could smell her trademark balsam-and-juniper shampoo on it. He’d have to make some kind of provision for Ginger’s wardrobe, if she was going to be in his employ), peel aside her underwear, and—

  No. He didn’t have time to fantasize right now—and anyway, desire brought the animal too close to the surface. Half-hard, he adjusted himself and reached for the phone.

  Ginger needed a contract.

  “Laila! I’m home!” Ginger closed the fr
ont door with her foot, wriggling out of the fawn-colored jacket Laila had lent her.

  “I’m in the living room! Lunch’s cooking!”

  Ginger locked the door, hung up the jacket, kicked off her heels, and headed for the TV room. Laila was lying on the couch, watching one of her favorite Bollywood movies: Amrita Rao was prancing around in a hot pink sari, precursor to a musical number.

  “How’d it go?” Laila asked, turning down the TV.

  Ginger shrugged, noncommittal.

  “What? You aren’t sure?” Laila frowned. “I was certain… you don’t think it went well?”

  Ginger shrugged again, enjoying the misdirection.

  “Aha re, honey, I thought you’d be a shoe-in. I… wait.” She caught the gleam in Ginger’s eye. “Are you lying to me? Did it—it did go well! Ginger!”

  “I was the only one he interviewed,” Ginger burst out, grinning. “I think he liked me. I think he’s going to—”

  Laila shrieked, “The only one? Oh, honey, you’ve got it. It’s yours! Yes! The pay’s going to be amazing, and I know you can handle the work. Even if it’s a little—overwhelming, at first. I’ll help if I can.”

  “You’ve helped enough, Lai,” Ginger said seriously. “I’ll sink or swim honestly.”

  Laila stood up on the couch cushions, mimicking Amrita’s theatrical dancing. “We should celebraaaate. I made your favorite lunch, ’cause I knew!”

  “We celebrated last night!”

  “Dil mera paagal hai jaana, isko tum behlaaaaaaado,” Laila sang, in time with the film. “Dil mein kyun halchal hai jaana, mujhko tum samjhaaaaaaado! Ginger has a jooooob nooooowww!”

  “Laila, stop it! Get down!”

  But Laila grabbed Ginger’s hands and pulled her up on the couch, and they giggled and shrieked and jumped on the cushions like kids.

  “Park in the garage,” Dane’s voice instructed her, on speakerphone from her iPhone.

  “Okay.” She spun the wheel, turning into his building’s attached parking garage. The security porters waved her through, to the valet terminal.

  “They’re expecting you.”

  “Yeah, they let me in, no problem.”

  “You’re about to lose service. Come up as soon as your car’s taken care of.”

  The line cut, the signal blocked by the tons of concrete above her. A valet came running to the driver’s side window; she rolled down the glass.

  “Hi. I’m here to see Dane MacAlister.” She flashed her brand new firm ID—Dane had insisted she have one, even though she’d hardly ever be at the downtown office. “I’m his personal assistant.”

  “Oh, the new one?” the valet asked, mildly interested. “Yes, that’s right. Miss Rebecca moved off to Phoenix, I think it was. Marriage. Alright, Miss”—he squinted at her ID—“Graham. I’ll park it. Just give your name at the booth when you come back.”

  She got out of the car—carrying another loaned bag and dressed in another loaned outfit—and was escorted (!) to an elevator. There she punched in the right number—32; he owned the entire floor—and ascended.

  Nervously, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

  You can do this, Laila had said before she’d left. Just be poised.

  She was trying. Straightening up, she reminded herself not to slouch.

  Too soon, the elevator pinged to a stop; she’d reached his floor. Alright. Zero hero. The beautiful, glossy doors opened.

  She swallowed a gasp. His apartment was magnificent.

  Modernist, minimal, everything in it was obviously and breathtakingly expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a view of the skyline and moody Mount Rainier. The kitchen, to her right, was as streamlined as a space shuttle; the living room, in front of her, was spacious, white-carpeted, and white-walled. There were more rooms to both sides, beyond her line of sight.

  “Ginger.”

  Dane strode toward her, perfectly dressed in a Ralph Lauren sweater and slacks. He was just as dumbfoundingly gorgeous as she remembered.

  “Hello,” she said, instantly feeling that it was an insufficient greeting. Hello, Your Majesty?

  “Hello,” he returned easily. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “No.” Of course not—he lived very close to his office.

  “Good.” He gestured her further in. “Come. Sit with me.”

  She followed him to the living room; he sat on one of the white luxury sofas, and she sat on its twin, across a coffee table made of glass as pure as spring water.

  “I have an informal lunch in”—he checked his watch, an expensive Swiss piece with creamy gold plating—“forty minutes. I’m going to leave in fifteen.”

  Fifteen? Fifteen minutes for him to communicate what he expected of her?

  “We will get to know each other over the coming week,” he went on coolly. “You will have a perfect idea, by Sunday, of what my needs are and what I demand from you. And I will have a perfect idea of your competency. Impress me.”

  She knew better than to interrupt and say anything. He went on.

  “Today I want you to engage a new maid service. The last one sent me a woman who stole.” His gaze was hard. “That is something I do not tolerate.” Did he think she, Ginger, was going to steal? Unconsciously, she bristled—and he smiled, very slightly. “And neither do you, I see. Good.

  “I also want you to book me a flight to Berlin for next Wednesday, as well as engage a German car service and hotel. Can you do that?” Automatically, Ginger nodded, feigning unperturbed confidence. “Good. I won’t accept less than first-rate accommodations—remember that. Similarly, next month I have a meeting in Shenzhen. You will put together the application packet for my business visa; my last one has expired. The materials you need will be in my home office.” He gestured down one impeccable hall; the office had to be that way.

  “I also expect you to purchase a new peanut plant for my home garden.” He had a home garden? “One of fine extraction. You also need to direct my grocery delivery service in what foods to send this week. I expect you to plan the meals in doing so—I don’t have time. I have no allergies.

  “One of the daughters of a senior partner at our firm, Davidson, is graduating from Duke. Write a congratulatory note; I’ll sign it when I get home.” He stood. “Did you get all that?”

  Inside, she was terrified; outwardly, she managed a calm smile. “Yes.” Maid service! Berlin! China visa! Peanuts! Groceries! Congrats on Duke!

  “Good.” He seemed satisfied. “I’ll be home around nine-thirty. I anticipate all the things I’ve requested will be done.” Nine-thirty… ten hours. It didn’t seem like enough.

  “They will be.”

  “Excellent. Walk with me to the door, Ginger.”

  She stood and followed him back to the apartment’s door. He shrugged on a well-made coat and favored her with a smile.

  “Please, feel free to show yourself around. You can order meals; mention my name when it comes to the bill. I’ll pay them this evening.”

  She half-smiled, the nerves starting to disrupt her show of calm. His eyes went right through her—they were so bright, so gold-and-brown; totally irresistible.

  “I’ll see you this evening.”

  He had to collect himself in the elevator.

  Ginger was so lovely, so intoxicating. Her scent dizzied him—enticed him—aroused him. He’d thought he could handle it, but no—he couldn’t. He’d have to buy her some perfume if he retained her as his assistant. Something strong, to cover her natural fragrance. Hopefully he’d hidden from her the effect she had on him.

  Even now, closing his eyes, all he could see was her beautiful face, her thick, coppery hair, her pretty little body. His imagination suggested obscene things: what it would be like to strip her tasteful dress off, pare her bra away—inhale the achingly sweet, feminine scent of her skin—kiss that skin—nip her creamy breasts, bite her soft, tender neck, bite it hard—

  His eyes snapped open. Bite her?

  H
e was fantasizing about biting her?

  That wouldn’t do. He would have to buy her that perfume. For both their sakes.

  Chapter 4

  As soon as he was gone, she hopped around, yanking off her heels, and then went racing into his home office. It was a beautifully appointed room with a commanding view of the city and the mountains; she imagined it would be luminously sunny on a clear day. She scrabbled for a pad on the double-pedestal desk and found one. Grabbing a pen from a cup next to a bear-shaped paperweight, she wrote down everything he wanted before she forgot it.

  It certainly seemed like a lot.

  She stared at the list. It was quiet, almost eerily quiet, in his apartment; she sighed.

  “He said to look around,” she murmured to herself finally. “I’ll just start with that.” It would center her. All her life, she’d liked to investigate her surroundings. Naturally nosy, her mother called her.

  She set down the legal pad, ran a hand through her hair—Laila had fussed at her to leave it down again, with nothing but a halo braid—and then wandered out of the office, back into the hall.

  Even the hall was nice. It was lined with high-quality art prints: she recognized Remington’s The Bear at Bay (Roping a Grizzly), a couple of John Muir’s Yosemite photos, and Bierstadt’s Grizzly Bears. Did he have a bear fixation or something?

  Well, who was she to judge? She’d always liked tigers.

  She investigated the other rooms off the hall. One was a kind of home library, large and handsome, but most of the books seemed to cover matters of the law—boring. Another was a well-appointed den, with a faint scent of tobacco lingering on the attractive leather chairs. The last was a little bathroom, minimalist and gleaming.

  Then she was back in the living room. For a long moment, she stared out the huge windows onto the toothy outline of the city; then she moved on, exploring the apartment’s other wing.

  On that side, off a second hall (hung with more Muir prints), there was a broad, glass-enclosed balcony, with a filtered pool inlaid in a floor of Tuscan stone. This was the home garden he’d mentioned—but the plants he had chosen to grow were, in her opinion, very strange.