“Obviously. What kind of person would ask for a Jaguar?”
“‘Boss, I’ve done a good job this quarter. How about one of those expensive cars named after the huge cat?’” Laila suggested.
“What does the car look like? No! What does the man look like?”
“I don’t know,” Ginger dodged, her brain fuzzy. She couldn’t figure out a way to describe him without revealing how much she’d like to take a ride. “Good.”
“Ooooh, she thinks she’s being subtle,” Lalita chuckled. “Laila, what does he look like?”
Laila shrugged, pouring herself more white wine. “You know, I don’t actually see him that often. We’re on different floors. He’s white, and… let’s see. He’s tall. Good body. Nice eyes. I don’t know, I’m not a poet. He’s just really, really, ungodly good-looking.”
“And you’re alone with him all day, Ginger?”
“Actually, I’m just alone-alone all day. I manage his household, and his travel, and—things like that. So I’m at his apartment while he’s at work. Mostly he’s not there.”
“But he obviously likes you.” Lalita paused, then added—taking mercy on Ginger—“Professionally.”
“Yes!” Ginger seized on the word. “Professionally. Just professionally.”
Lalita wasn’t fooled about Ginger’s feelings, though; her eyes sparkled. “And you like him? Professionally.”
“Professionally!”
“I’m sure. Laila, pour me another glass. Calories be damned.”
“Ginger, are you going to come out with us tomorrow?” Laila asked, tipping the bottle over her sister’s glass. “You need a place, too.”
“Yeah, I might. Even though you’re both wretched harpies.”
They laughed; Laila topped up Ginger, also. “True. But you need to get something signed, so roll with us anyway. I don’t want to see you living on the street because you didn’t get somewhere else lined up. Or living in a Jaguar, as the case may be.”
The three of them burst out cackling at the total absurdity of the image.
“With the trunk full of Gucci,” Laila wheezed, wiping at her eye. “Oh, my God. Didi, did you want anything else to eat? No? Even after that long flight?”
Lalita was right about her, of course. She liked Dane—nonprofessionally. And she wanted him.
Bending over the tub, she twisted off the water. Out in the living room, Laila and Lalita were laughing and chatting and relaxing with an Aamir Khan film. She’d given them some privacy to catch up, sister to sister.
And she’d needed a little privacy, too.
She knelt and opened a decorative box on the bottom slat of a wooden shelf—the oh-so-clever hiding place for her waterproof dildo. Not like she really needed to hide it. Laila wouldn’t give even a quarter of a damn if she found it.
Ginger stripped down, tossed her clothes onto the bathroom chair, glanced at herself in the heat-fuzzy mirror—had she gained weight, or not? She did try to watch what she ate, although Laila had brought home sandesh for dessert last week—and then slipped into the silky water.
Sighing, she relaxed. The tub was a stand-alone with animal feet, a quirk she and Laila had loved when they were looking at postgraduate apartments. Ginger stretched, her back pressing up against the tub’s hard rim, her feet touching the spigot.
The bathroom always smelled—and felt—nice. It was white-and-yellow-walled, with a frosted window, a glass of dried lavender blooms and blackberry leaves and, when they remembered, a vase full of fresh flowers from the florist down the street. They were cheap when they started to get a little tired. Ginger also had a little collection of rocks and seashells laid out next to the sink, from Magnuson Beach.
Dane.
He was such a gorgeous man. So composed. So self-possessed. So in charge. Beautifully dressed, wildly successful. Sophisticated. Generous. Kind to her.
She poured some black cherry bath milk into the water; it would soften and brighten her skin. Skin she wished he would touch…
Idly, she cupped one of her plump, pale breasts; the pink nipple darkened to a blood-flushed coral as it hardened. If only Dane would put a hand down her shirt one day, palm her breasts, pinch the tender nipples with his big, masculine fingers…
It was so easy to imagine—all of it.
She’d be in his office—no, his living room, she decided. Admiring the expansive, rain-grey view of the city and the mountains. He’d come up behind her, surprising her; put a hand on her hip, a hand flat on her stomach. She could imagine exactly how it would feel—the warmth of his palm bleeding through the silk of her blouse, heating her tummy.
That hand would slide up her front, onto her chest, onto a breast. It would squeeze, squeeze almost too hard. The hand on her hip would slip around onto the front of her skirt. Her panties would already be honeyed and wet; her nipples would be cut-glass hard.
She reached for her waterproof dildo, thumbed it on, and brought it gently, teasingly to her swelling lips. Tenderly, teasingly, she ran it up and down her pink slit.
He’d unbutton her blouse, slowly, unhurriedly; his cock would be hard against the plush cushion of her ass, straining through his slacks. She just knew it would be big, thick—demanding.
Unbuttoned, the blouse would be ripped down her arms and thrown on the carpet. He’d spin her, shove her against the window glass, crush himself to her and kiss her. He would taste like he smelled—smoked wood, cedar bark, the dry fragrance of cologne. It would be a hot, insistent kiss; his stubble would be rough on her soft, flushed face.
She pressed the dildo shallowly inside her. Mmm’d.
He’d get his own shirt undone—she’d help, popping buttons. His hard, muscular chest showing between the open halves of the shirt would drive her wild—she’d have to run her hands up and down his cobbled, hot-skinned front, abs to clavicle.
Her bra would come off; maybe he’d tear the closure in back, instead of unhooking it. Anything to get it off her—to see her breasts. Then he’d bend and kiss the pebbled nipples—suck them. Suck them hard, making her head tilt back.
The dildo was wholly inside her now, vibrating softly but insistently. She bit back a moan.
The rest of their clothes would come off in a feverish, unimportant rush. He wouldn’t even bother to bring her to his bedroom; he’d just push her down onto the carpet, rug burn be damned.
He’d never stinted her for anything—so she knew he’d eat her. It was easy, so easy, to imagine his stubble stinging her white, smooth inner thighs—to imagine his hot, coarse tongue on her sensitive, cream-soft pussy. On her bead-hard clit.
In the tub, her back arched.
Then his weight would cover her, muscular and dense—delicious. He’d kiss her more, more, more—fiercely, deeply, with raw desire. His hands would be buried in her red hair. His cock would be rebar-hard, sandwiched between their bodies, leaking hot pre-come onto her navel.
Then he’d grip himself and the fat, flared head of his cock would part her sensitive folds—
“Ah!” she whispered, flushing fuchsia, the dildo deep inside her.
His entire hot length would sink in. Fat, manful, achingly hot. Everything she wanted—everything she needed. He would sheathe in and out of her, rapidly, demandingly, and she’d writhe and claw his neck and make breathless, girlish sounds of pleasure—he’d nip her jaw, kiss her throat—their hips would grind together, fast, rough—
She pulled the dildo out of her cunt. Pressed it to her swollen clit.
And came, trying not to shout his name.
Ginger was first up. She had insisted Lalita take her bed, and the sunlight pouring in the living room windows to drench the couch had made further sleep impossible. Struggling up, she shuffled to the kitchen in her zebra onesie and made the household coffee.
There was a kathunk outside the door—mail being delivered. She slouched over to retrieve it from the wall box.
Bleary-eyed, she shuffled through the post. Two alumni magazines from Lewis and Cl
ark… a couple of bills… junk mail…
And something from Dane.
Instantly, she was fully awake. What was this? What was going on? He had never mailed her anything before. There was no need to. He could text, or call, or—was he alright? Had she done something wrong? What was this about? It made no sense—
She ripped open the envelope. Dimly, she was aware of Laila shambling yawningly into the kitchen behind her.
Ginger, the note inside read, here is the address of your new apartment.
Chapter 6
Ginger checked her iPhone. There was a message from Dane: Went to cabin a day early. Still need certain things seen to. Please handle wedding gifts for Freeman family, visa for Dubai, and carpet cleaners.
She set down her coffee, cracked her neck. It was a pretty morning, for all that it was raining; she glanced out at her backyard, where the shower was rustling the ferns and rhododendrons.
Dane had called this an “apartment,” but it wasn’t—not really. It was the bottom half of a duplex in the desirable high-income neighborhood of Ballard. Everything was fine-grain wood and white plaster trim and granite countertops. And he’d paid the next two years’ rent.
She poured what was left of her cup into a thermos. She had to get to his apartment and see to the day’s business.
It had been a busy few weeks, she reflected, as she navigated the Jaguar through traffic. She’d gone to San Francisco with him, standing by for every need, and then to Zurich.
It had been a busy trip. She’d spent most of it accompanying him to meetings and parties, keeping notes, calling cars, badgering room service, looking up numbers—anything he needed, usually before he realized he needed it. He’d complimented her for that. Even thinking about it now, she flushed.
Things hadn’t all been work, though. He’d taken her skiing on the Hautbahnhof, where she’d impressed him by falling down the slopes (he was an accomplished skier—of course). They’d had fine Swiss hot chocolate after, on which she’d burned her mouth, and then—back in the city—he’d taken her to dinner at Kronenhalle. The way he’d listened to her, and spoken to her, and gazed at her from across the table… she could still see his gold-brown eyes, flickering and intent in the low light.
If all business trips with him were going to be like Zurich, she’d go on every single one.
Her vibrator had gotten a savage workout during the trip, of course. At the rate her fantasies were going, she might as well name it Dane Junior.
A sedan cut her off. She honked.
The carpet cleaners were already there, working conscientiously on Dane’s living room’s carpeting by the time she arrived. She put her coat on the peg, discussed the job briefly with their site manager, and then went back to Dane’s home office to deal with other things.
And froze.
“No.”
He’d never do this. He was too detail-oriented.
But he had done it.
He’d left important papers.
Gently, as if the packet were a bomb, she picked them up off his desk. He had told her more than once that he needed to spend the weekend reviewing them, for a counsel meeting with Amazon on Monday.
“Fuck!” Somehow, someway, she had to get these to him.
She tore apart the desk, looking for the one sheet where his cabin’s address was written down. He’d told her it was in the hidden drawer on the bottom left, and that she should only look at it in an emergency. Hopefully this qualified as an emergency.
“There—”
But it made no sense. There was no—street number, or… well, fair enough, it was a cabin. But there was no zip code either. Mail couldn’t be delivered if there was no zip code. She double-checked the address online: it didn’t come up, and no matter what she tried, she couldn’t get a related zip code.
Sweating into her Dolce and Gabbana peplum blouse, she phoned FedEx.
“Hello, yes, I’d like a documents package rush delivered to this address—‘Storm Isle, Southern Vancouver Island’… what do you mean, that address is undeliverable? Yes, I know, but I don’t—there’s no zip code given. Yes, I double-checked! I couldn’t find one listed online, or… please, this island must exist. My—manager is there right now. He owns a cabin out… but he just… there must be something you can do. Something you can suggest? No? Nothing? Alright. Goodbye.”
“Come on, Dane,” she muttered, phoning the nearest federal post office. “You did not do this in my lifetime. Fuck! No. This is not happening… you are not going to lose the Amazon account while I’m your assistant.”
And not after everything he’d done for her.
But the post office couldn’t help either. And when she tried to call Dane, she got a cheerful automated message informing her that this customer is out of service range.
“What the fuck, Dane?” she shouted, ready to throw her iPhone through his office window.
Desperate, she did the only thing she could think of to do.
“Hi. I see there’s an eleven a.m. flight to Victoria, Vancouver Island? Yes. I’d like to reserve a ticket. I’m leaving for the airport now, yes.”
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.
Alphas of Storm Isle (Complete Boxed Set: Books 1-5): Werebear Shifter Menage Romance Page 4