by Chant, Zoe
Healing Her Wolf. A curious vet + a wounded werewolf + some tender loving care = one sexy, sizzling story!
A Pair of Bears. One lonely cat shifter + two sizzling hot bears who want to share + a whole lot of action (in and out of bed) = one wild and sexy adventure!
The Billionaire Dragon Shifter’s Mate. A BBW in search of adventure + a dragon shifter in search of a mate + a mishap on a mountainside = one sparkling and sexy story!
Bear Watching. BBW park ranger + bear shifter smokejumper + a lonely fire-watcher's post = one red-hot fire between the sheets!
Wild Flight. A BBW burned by love + a hot eagle shifter who's ready to dare + wild passion on a stormy night = a love that was meant to be!
Wolf Home. Sexy werewolf with pack problems + hot new werewolf seeking a home + arranged marriage = one sweet and sexy story!
The Hawk and her LumBEARjack. BBW hawk shifter + lonely bear shifter lumberjack + ice storm = one red-hot weekend!
Undercover Alpha. BBW + hot werewolf bodyguard + undercover action (and action under the covers) = one unforgettably sexy story!
Bear Down. BBW biologist + bear shifter pilot + huddling for warmth in the wilderness = one blazing-hot story!
Bought by the Billionbear. BBW + billionaire bear shifter + bachelorette auction = one broiling-hot story!
And many more!
If you love Zoe Chant, you’ll also love these books
Laura’s Wolf, by Lia Silver. Werewolf Marine Roy Farrell, scarred in body and mind, thinks he has no future. Curvy con artist Laura Kaplan, running from danger and her own guilt, is desperate to escape her past. But together, they have all that they need to heal. A full-length novel.
Prisoner, by Lia Silver. Werewolf Marine DJ Torres is a born rebel. Genetically engineered assassin Echo was created to be a weapon. When DJ is captured by the agency that made Echo, the two misfits find that they fit together perfectly. A full-length novel.
Partner, by Lia Silver. DJ and Echo’s relationship grows stronger under fire… until they are confronted by a terrible choice. A full-length novel.
Mated to the Meerkat, by Lia Silver. Jasmine Jones, a curvy tabloid reporter, meets her match in notorious paparazzi and secret meerkat Chance Marcotte. A romantic comedy novelette.
The Strength of the Pack, by Jorrie Spencer. Seth Kolski, a werewolf, hides his heritage and passes for normal. Until he meets Jamie.
Taming the Beast, by Honey Dover. Beauty is a paranormal investigator hired to deal with a man cursed to become a monstrous beast. Helping him recover his humanity will change her life.
Claimed by the Wolf, by Candi Jackson. Zenobia Jones ends up pregnant after a night with a billionaire—and lands herself in a war between werewolf packs. A full-length novel.
The Right Bear's Arms, by Nora Eli. After a sizzling one night stand with bear shifter Jake, curvy Katie realizes her perfect man is everything she's tried to avoid. If they can both stop running from their pasts, they may find a destined future together.
Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, by Lauren Esker. Curvy farm girl Julie Capshaw was warned away from the wolf shifters next door, but Damon Wolfe is the motorcycle-riding, smoking hot alpha of her dreams. Can the big bad wolf and his sheep shifter find their own happy ending? A full-length novel.
Handcuffed to the Bear, by Lauren Esker. A bear-shifter ex-mercenary and a curvy lynx shifter searching for her best friend's killer are handcuffed together and hunted in the wilderness. Can they learn to rely on each other before their pasts, and their pursuers, catch up with them?
Discovering the Dragon, by Sofia Stone. When reporter Chloe Martin investigates Lancaster Gold, she finds herself tangled up with the oldest son—Isaac Lancaster, billionaire dragon shifter.
Hollywood Tiger
by Zoe Chant
Special Sneak Preview
Ho-ly shit.
In all his years of investigative reporting, Dennis O’Keefe had never been part of a sting. Until now. But nobody had told him that it would be boring and irritating by turns, spending a lot of time with an asshole like Jerome Haskell and his muscle, big blond Hank, while pretending to swallow these bozos’ bullshit.
By today he was really hating this job—until the hottest distraction in North America began shimmying her way toward him, hips damn-near humming in the wind.
The room was full of attractive women, and he’d been trying to stave off boredom by looking at every one. He really liked women, all sizes and colors and types. But after that one in the slinky black dress had walked into the bar, the others could have turned into crows and flapped away for all he noticed.
He couldn’t stop watching her. It was like somebody had dug down into his brain and yanked out his oldest wet dreams: she had thick, tightly curly hair the color of chocolate clouding around her face. Her halter top molded a magnificent pair of breasts and the rest of her dress slithered over hips generously curved enough to make a dead man sit up and sing.
And she was shaking those hips. Right. At. Him.
As he tried to swallow past the balloon animal that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat, she gave those incredible hips a double roll and a flick—badoom!—that sent fire shooting from his eyeballs down to the boys in his suddenly tight pants.
He sat back in his chair, sucking in a breath to cool off. But she just kept coming, rolling and shimmying until he’d swear smoke was rising off her. Or maybe it was steaming out his ears.
What was she up to?
Hank was still dancing with one of the skinny women partying hearty across the room. Dennis sent a quick look at Haskell, who seemed criminally oblivious to those clashing beads and dancing tassels, as he leaned in to talk at the sour-faced woman Haskell had introduced as just ‘Patrice.’
Was Patrice part of the scam? Or how about the amazing belly dancer? But Dennis hadn’t been asked to do anything about Haskell’s minions, male or female. His job was to play Daniel Moore, a rich dork eager to invest his millions in a major motion picture.
But first he was going to enjoy every moment of the show. Another reason to despise Haskell—didn’t the bastard have enough taste to acknowledge real art when it was gyrating so awesomely right in front of him?
Dennis shifted, glad the table cloth hid his lower half as he tried to ease the tightness growing down south. He watched as the belly dancer kept gallantly dancing and twirling around Haskell. Dennis wished he could say, “Don’t waste your talents on that prick—the only thing he appreciates is dollar signs.” The guy didn’t even seem to be trying all that hard to get traction with Patrice, judging by the way she sat there, her drink untouched, her lips clamped tight.
With a clatter of beads and a mesmerizing swing and sway of those tassels dipping down low in front, the belly dancer circled back around Haskell the other way. Dennis felt his tiger wake up inside him as the tassels brushed gently over her black silk-covered mound. Wow. She was sexier fully clothed than the nearly-naked super-skinny pole dancers that Haskell had insisted on them watching the night previous, when they’d met in East Hollywood for their previous investment meeting.
Dennis sipped his drink, mentally stuffing the tiger back down deep inside. But then he nearly inhaled the ice cubes when she twirled, the skirt flaring, affording a glimpse of curvy, dimpled thighs.
He crossed his legs the other way, trying to keep Willie and the boys from ripping out of his pants like some Marvel comic guy.
The song ended. Just as well. Another minute and he’d be tent-poling the table.
“I gotta see to something, Danny,” Haskell said to Dennis, flashing a lot of dental whitening at him in a big, fake smile. “Have another drink. On me.” He must have seen the annoyance that Dennis was trying to hide because more teeth showed. “Trust me, I’ll make it worth your time. And it won’t take long.”
“No,” the scowling Patrice said below her breath. “It won’t.”
Haskell didn’t react—he might not have heard, or he didn’t bother to listen as he held
out his hand and the rigid-shouldered woman walked away with him.
Dennis signaled to the waiter, and in a spirit of petty revenge, ordered the most expensive Scotch on the list. The clusterfuck that was this sting could be rescued if he could watch the mystery woman in the sexy black halter dress. Even his tiger liked that idea, and Dennis had to grin.
Except where was she? He leaned forward and looked more carefully at the party women. Definitely AWOL. Maybe she had to make a pit stop. Sure was getting to be a long one. She couldn’t have wrapped it up for the night?
Well, shit. The sharpness of the disappointment surprised him. It was this case. He longed for it to be over and done with, so he could move on.
If she didn’t return by the time he finished his drink, he may as well retreat to that expensive room Haskell had rented for him and report in.
* * *
So it was Plan B after all.
Just as well. Mindy didn’t like the way Red Hot had watched her while she danced around the couple who hadn’t exchanged Word One before they got up to leave.
No. Check that.
She’d liked the way Red watched her too much. Way, way, too much. It was those feline eyes of his, so light a brown they looked pale gold, almost yellow. Those dimples, that mouth, smiling with such ready enjoyment that she’d had this flash fantasy of dancing alone for him, peeling off her clothes, then his, one by one. That tawny hair with golden sun streaks and a dark red undercoat . . . she wanted to bury her fingers in it. She wanted to . . .
Stop that! The Cheater was on the move.
Time to follow. She pulled off her scarf, slipped the beads back over the branch, and dropped the tasseled cloth back onto her table.
The Cheater and Patrice were out of sight by then, but Mindy had done her homework, and knew where Haskell’s suite was. Summer Dress and her friends were getting up to dance as those left behind ordered another round.
In the general movement Mindy slipped out of the bar, and away.
She walked sedately toward the stairway with its back exit. She let herself out, and breathed the fresh summer-warm air of the resort’s inner garden, the trees and shrubs dark except where they’d been draped or wound with strings of tiny twinkling lights.
Haskell’s suit opened directly into the garden. Of course the French doors were locked up tight, the curtains pulled—which was just what she wanted.
She looked both ways, then backed into a thick bunch of ferns that effectively screened her on all sides. With practiced ease she slipped off the dress, which rolled into a tight little ball that she fitted into her soft purse. She pulled out her recorder, and flicked it on. She left the purse and her sandals lying on the moss as she stood up naked. She clenched her fists, scrunched up her face, did that thing somewhere against her spine . . .
And opened her eyes much closer to the ground, her hands turned into dainty little paws, her body covered in tight, close, chocolate-covered curls. A fascinating world of heady scents surrounded her:
She was now a poodle.
A toy poodle, though she hadn’t been toy-sized as a person since she was about three. She didn’t know where the rest of her went, and there was no one to ask, and not sound crazy. She remembered all too well the whispers about her “crazy” Great-Granny.
As always, it took a few moments for her eyesight to adjust to the blur of darkness and her nose to sort the thousands of new scents. Delicately she picked up the recorder in her jaws. With her heightened hearing, she could pick out Haskell and the woman inside the room.
She walked quietly up to the door then sat, like a dog of manners and pedigree, as she set the recorder down, and carefully nudged it with her muzzle directly against the glass the way her step-brother’s tech friend had explained.
“ . . . the problem?” Haskell demanded. “I told you I had an investor to entertain, but the rest of the weekend is just you and me, like I promised.”
“’What’s the problem?’” Patrice repeated, her voice rising. “You’re asking me what’s the problem? You’re married. You’re fucking-A married!”
“What gave you that idea?” Haskell said.
“Somebody—at first I thought it was you—sent me a cute little e-mail, saying surprise—”
Ah, you got it, Mindy thought, smiling a doggy smile.
“—I got a surprise all right! The link went straight to your wife’s Facebook.”
You clicked it, Mindy thought in satisfaction. She did always try to warn the Cheatees, if she thought they weren’t aware of the truth.
You know,” the soon-to-be-ex mistress’s voice rose to a fine crescendo of sarcasm. “Your wife? Courtney Winterhaldon Haskell? Does good works all over Hollywood. Married to Jerome Haskell. With a big picture of the two of you at your third anniversary a month ago. Two weeks after you introduced yourself to me as Henry Jerome, and told me you were single.”
“Look, babe, there’s a perfectly good reason why I use an alias—if you knew how the paparazzi harass me every time I turn around—”
“Every time you cheat on your wife?”
“Babe, I’m practically single. It’s over—all but signing the papers. I haven’t touched her in years! Who would? She’s old—lied to me about her age. Total witch, wants everything but the shorts I stand up in—I have to fight for my rights! I’ll buy you a—”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
Mindy carefully picked up the recorder in her jaws and carried it back into the ferns. There she shifted back to her human shape, remaining on hands and knees until the dizziness passed. Then she listened briefly to the recorder. Babe, like I told you, it’s over—
Okay, that much had worked. Then, to make double sure, she pulled out her cell and checked the camera, though she was confident that she’d gotten at least a couple good shots of Haskell with Patrice.
But when she scrolled through, to her horror she discovered that not one of them was any good—dancers obscured either one or the other, or both, and in the one clear shot of Patrice, Haskell was bent away, only a shoulder visible. He could have been anyone. Meanwhile she had about twenty-five shots of Red Hot.
Inside her, the poodle practically wiggled with joy, and she held her breath to keep her dog from popping out again. She groaned, disgusted with herself. All of a sudden, acting like a teenager with her first crush—on a job?
Back to work.
She needed at least one clear shot of Haskell with Patrice, and from the sound of it, Patrice was on her way out. So Mindy hurried into her dress, pulled on her sandals, and snatched up her purse. She walked as quickly as she could to the stair exit, tying her hair up as she did. She made it to the entry to the suite, at the end of a short, discreet corridor, with seconds to spare—from behind the big double doors came Patrice’s shrill tones clashing with Haskell’s snarl.
Mindy nipped her cell out of her purse, heart banging against her ribs. She tapped the camera app—made certain the flash was off—and held the phone up to her ear a second before the suite door opened. She began gabbling as if talking to someone and turned her head sideways, finger pressing hard on the camera button in hopes that one shot could capture the man and woman emerging.
At the sight of Mindy both Patrice and Haskell shut up. And in the sudden silence, the click of the camera was faintly audible.
Oh God oh God oh God—
Someone rounded the corner and stepped into the hall outside the suite.
It was Red Hot.
“Hey,” Haskell began, glowering at Mindy. “Who are you—”
There was only one thing to do. “Darling! There you are,” Mindy cried, turning her back on Haskell, and threw herself into Red Hot’s arms.
“Huh?” he said, then nothing more because Mindy, still clutching her phone, reached up (whoa, he was tall, and he smelled so incredible), laced her fingers behind his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.
She meant to freeze there until Haskell was safely past, then apologize and pretend that
she was drunk and had mistaken him for someone else. But the surprised hand that gripped her shoulder her drifted down her back, heating her skin to a tingle. The hard thing that pressed inside her hip—That was not his cane!—shifted into the hollow between her thighs as the lips mashed against hers opened.
And her lips opened.
And every cell in her body shot straight into the sun.
* * *
Two seconds after Dennis entered the hall leading to Haskell’s suite, an armful of woman landed softly against him. “Darling!” she said.
It was her! Fragrant, curly chocolate-colored hair brushed his chest as she cooed, “There you are!” and the next thing he knew, the hottest, sexiest pair of lips in the history of the universe short-circuited his brain.
He was vaguely aware of Haskell blabbing something, but he was too busy exploring the softest, sweetest, loveliest mouth he had ever kissed, tongues teasing and dueling—hot, shaky breath mingling.
Somehow the key card he’d been carrying fumbled the door open, and somehow he tossed the card this way and his cane that way and she did something magical with those killer hips of hers, and he fitted up and tight right where it counted.
His brain was still back out there going WTF? But his body had already tabled that discussion as one heel kicked the door shut behind him. Thump, thump, her cell phone and purse fell to the carpet to join his key card and cane.
He took a step backward toward the bed, nearly stumbled, then caught himself as she fell against him. His arms filled with deliciously curvy woman, smelling of some kind of perfume that drove him wild.
Not the man to question miracles, he bent, closed his hands under her hips, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, her sandals thumping to the floor as those amazing hips of hers did something that made his dick jump painfully in pants suddenly fifty sizes too small.
The backs of his knees found the bed, and they fell, with her landing on top of him.
When they broke for breath, a single brain cell wandered back and he gasped, “Who are you?”