by Vella Day
Her Reluctant Bear
Weres & Witches of Silver Lake
Book 5
Vella Day
Copyright © 2016 Vella Day
HER RELUCTANT BEAR
Copyright © 2016 by Vella Day
Kindle Edition
www.velladay.com
[email protected]
Cover Art by Jaycee DeLorenzo
Edited by Rebecca Cartee and Carol Adcock-Bezzo
Published in the United States of America
E-book ISBN: 978-1-941835-28-9
Print book ISBN: 978-1-941835-29-6
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief questions embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
White tiger shifter, Jillian Garner, would know the scent of the shifter who killed her father anywhere. When she gets a slight whiff of him years after her father’s death, all the old trauma and fear come roaring to the surface. Now more than ever, she’s determined to track him down and get her vengeance.
Encountering Brian Stanley, Jillian knows instantly that he’s her mate, and that he just might be the man to help her. However, leery of people and mistrustful of others, Brian wants nothing to do with Jillian—despite how incredibly beautiful and persuasive she is. Jillian knows Brian more than he knows himself, and she’ll stop at nothing until he realizes his true potential. It’s up to her to convince him of their future while they’re both fighting the pain of their pasts.
But when Jillian’s history comes back for her, Brian must find the strength and courage to help save her. The only problem is: he doesn’t believe in himself. Can Jillian find a way to show him the power of his love or will her enemy destroy her once and for all?
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Book
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Excerpt from Freeing His Tiger
Other Books by the Author
About the Author
Beneath the calm and shimmering surface lie intrigue, power, magic, and danger.
Welcome to Silver Lake—where appearances can be deceiving, and what you see isn’t truly what lies below.
Chapter One
‡
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*
When hired stripper Sergeant McDirty swiveled his hips in front of the dark-haired bride-to-be, his rotating pelvis failed to match the beat of the sensual music. Given how far the other women’s tongues and eyeballs were hanging out, Jillian Garner was pretty sure none of the women even noticed.
She just shook her head. Sure, the hunk was hot. Not only did he have a nice smile, he possessed slim hips and had shoulders packed with muscles, but he did nothing for her inner tiger—not that this was about her. Her college roommate and fellow coworker at the law firm, Renee Williams, was getting married, and Jillian couldn’t be happier for her.
As Renee stuck dollar bill after dollar bill down the man’s G-string, her older sister, Camille who worked Vice at the Los Angeles Police Department shouted, “Go Renee!”
It was good to see the defense attorney loosen up, something Renee hadn’t done in the last few years. It wasn’t until Richie had entered her life that she’d decided to slow down and smell the roses, so to speak.
As for Jillian, Los Angeles had wound her tighter than any Swiss watch, but she wasn’t looking for someone to help her slow down. She was fine the way she was.
“Jillian,” Camille said, nudging her arm. While Renee wore her dark hair short, Camille preferred her light brown hair shoulder length. She claimed it softened her appearance and made it easier for witnesses to relate to her.
When Jillian glanced up, Sergeant McDirty was thrusting his tiny maroon pouch at her. Oh my. The women, who were packed into Camille’s tiny, modern living room apartment, clapped and cheered, waiting for Jillian to deposit the two dollars she’d been clutching for the last half hour into his package. She was thirty-two, much too old to be doing this sort of thing, especially with a guy who didn’t look old enough to drink. For Renee’s sake though, Jillian tossed him her best smile and jammed the bills inside, careful not to let her fingers touch his skin while at the same time not dislodging the mass of bills already crammed into the tiny space.
“Thank you!” He graced her with his perfect smile and thankfully moved on.
Camille leaned over. “Dalia would have loved all the fanfare.”
“She absolutely would have.” During college, Dalia had been the wild one of the three, but ironically, she was living her dream, studying nature in Oregon. Nature, she claimed, calmed her down. Jillian sucked in a breath. “Oh, shit. I told her I’d take pictures, but I forgot. I’ve been distracted.”
“Haven’t we all?” Camille winked.
Jillian chuckled then whipped out her cell. Pressing the camera’s video button, she recorded the stripper gyrating and thrusting hips in front of his next victim. Jillian made sure to include the three egg tempera paintings above the teal blue sofa that Camille had painted. One of the smaller ones was of a richly colored iguana feasting on a plump red fruit. The one below it was the face of a wolf whose eyes glowed yellow. The delicate interweaving of gray, tan, white, and black in his fur blended together to create a striking image. The last picture was as tall as the two together. It was a magnificent scene of a white polar bear with her two cubs floating on a slab of ice.
Jillian continued her slow pan to include several women who Dalia had never met, but hopefully would. Even as she recorded the festivities, Jillian felt guilty coming to the party when Dalia had flown all the way in from Portland to attend Renee’s bachelorette party, only to have come down with the flu.
Jillian gladly would have stayed home and played nursemaid, but Dalia insisted she attend—if for no other reason than to take pictures.
“She’ll appreciate seeing Renee so happy,” Camille said.
“Definitely.” Renee, Dalia, and Jillian had roomed together freshman and sophomore year. “Dalia’s here for another few days, so the three of us will have time to get together.”
“Renee would love that. She was so disappointed when she found out Dalia couldn’t make it.”
One of the ladies approached them, or rather staggered toward them, with a big bottle of champagne and refreshed each of their glasses. Good thing Jillian’s shifter metabolism could handle this massive influx of alcohol. Otherwise, she’d have to call a cab to drive her home.
Mercifully, around one a.m., the hired hunk said his farewells. While Jillian had enjoyed watching the drunken women paw over Sergeant McDirty, she was increasingly worried about Dalia. Her friend hadn’t texted even once to ask about the party. Dalia’s fever had come down to almost normal before Jillian had left, but those kinds of things could change in a heartbeat.
Just as she was about to tell Camille she was heading out, her friend jumped up and rushed over to Renee whose eyes had rolled back in her head. Clearly, the bride-to-be had partied way too hard. Good for her, though she’d be sorry tomorrow when the hangover hit.
Convinced no one would even remember she’d been the first to leave the festivities she’d helped organize, Jillian slipped out.
Fortunately, her house was only a fifteen-minute drive from there. As Jillian entered her neighborhood, she had to smile at how wonderful the get together had been. Camille, who dealt with crime all day, had been more relaxed than Jillian had seen her in months. Several of the other women at the party also worked in her same law office. Seeing another side of their uptight and ambitious personalities was something she would not soon forget.
As Jillian rounded the corner to her house, what sounded like gunshots came from her street! What the fuck? Even though she lived on the outskirts of Los Angeles, crime was rare in her upscale neighborhood.
Pressing hard on the accelerator, she sped toward her driveway. As she neared, a man wearing a ski mask dashed out of her house through the front door. He looked straight at her before turning and charging fifty feet down the road. He then disappeared into a maroon sedan and peeled out of there, leaving burnt rubber in his wake.
Her heart raced so hard, she thought she’d shift—something she hadn’t done or considered doing in years. She couldn’t afford for anyone to find out what kind of freak she was. Hell, the world wasn’t ready to learn about shifters, especially her very rare kind of white tiger.
Her focus returned to her sick friend asleep in the house. Dalia! Oh my goddess. Had she been shot? That was the only plausible conclusion, but logic had failed her before.
Decision time: Follow him or check on her friend?
What am I thinking? It’s a no brainer. Dalia comes first.
Jillian could only hope he’d left enough evidence for the cops to find the bastard. If he harmed her friend, she’d do whatever it took to find him and make him pay.
After cutting the engine, she jumped out of her Mercedes, not even bothering to pull into her driveway. Because it was so late, she used her Wendayan talent to sprint to the front door, moving almost as fast as a speeding bullet. She hoped no one would notice the super human feat.
The front door sat open, and acid burned in her stomach.
“Dalia?” Jillian yelled as she rushed in. When she received no response, her legs nearly gave way. Mouth dry and pulse soaring, her stomach performed a million somersaults as she ran to Dalia’s bedroom. The stench from that man’s scent permeated the air and, for a moment, blocked her brain from working. Memories came flooding back even though she tried to force them away. Something other than his scent overpowered her—something terrible. It was blood!
The door to the guest room sat wide open, and while the light was off, enough moonlight streamed in through the window to show the devastation.
“No!” Jillian screamed then choked out a sob.
As much as she didn’t want to turn on the light, she had to see the extent of the injury. When she flicked on the lamp, Jillian gasped as one knee hit the floor. The side of Dalia’s skull had a hole in it, the blood staining her long blonde hair. Jillian’s heart stopped for a few seconds. While it appeared as if her friend was dead, Jillian checked for a pulse anyway. Unfortunately, her own heartbeat was near to bursting, preventing her from detecting any signs of life.
Her instincts clicked in, and she fumbled in her purse for her cell to call 911. The words to describe what happened barely formed on her lips, but the operator assured her help was on the way.
This couldn’t be happening. Jillian’s front door had been locked, and she doubted Dalia would have answered if someone had knocked. Had he busted in? Or was he more sophisticated than that and had picked the lock?
Grief rocked her as tears streamed down her face. It was déjà vu all over again. Twenty-six years ago, an unwanted shifter had broken into her home and shot and killed her father. She’d seen the killer then, and she’d sort of seen him now—or rather she’d smelled him again. The stress of both murders made her whole body feel as if a ten-ton truck was sitting on her, breaking her bones into tiny pieces.
The image of the man with the crescent-shaped scar that she’d seen this afternoon at the police station appeared in her mind’s eye. Jillian had spotted him when she’d stopped in to see Camille. Because Jillian had helped with the party preparations, she needed to discuss some last-minute details with her friend. Halfway through her conversation, the same stench that permeated her house had registered. It had come from the man who’d killed her father. She’d been sure of it. Working hard not to let Camille know what was happening, Jillian had glanced around. Big mistake. The second she spotted the man’s crescent-shaped scar on his jaw, she’d almost shifted. Then reason intruded. The man was a cop for goddess sake.
It is the same man, her tiger warned, angry at the quick dismissal.
It can’t be him, she argued.
She didn’t have to be a lawyer to know that memories of a six-year old were never reliable. Because scars weren’t unique, she dismissed the thought that it was the same man.
You’re wrong, her tiger screamed. You never forget a scent.
Her tiger might be right. His smell was identical to what she remembered all those years ago. Or had spotting the scar brought up that memory and was fooling her now?
*
Frank Whitlaw slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Seconds ago, he’d been gloating that he’d finally tied up that loose end and that he wouldn’t have to worry again about a six-year-old’s memory returning.
He’d jammed the key into the ignition and floored his souped-up car. A quick glance in the rear view mirror assured him that Jillian hadn’t shifted. Even if she had chanced coming after him, she would have never been able to catch him.
How had he been so careless? For years, Frank had watched Jillian Garner—carefully. He knew where she lived, where she worked, who her friends were, and even where her relatives lived. Nothing escaped him. Then this afternoon when Jillian was visiting her friend Camille at the station, he’d walked near. The moment she’d glanced his way, recognition crossed her face. Even though barely a muscle moved, hatred had filled her eyes.
That mistake on his part sped up his decision to kill her. When he’d picked the lock to Jillian’s house, he’d made enough noise to waken any shifter. He’d expected her to come out and investigate. His plan was to then shift into his wolf and attack. Even though he didn’t know her species, it didn’t matter. He’d trained his whole life to be a fighter. Jillian was destined to die.
He should have questioned why the blonde woman in the bed hadn’t stirred. Even more careless of him was the fact he hadn’t detected a shifter signature, yet he didn’t stop to think why that was so. He was slipping, and that really pissed him off.
The next time, he wouldn’t fail. His thoughts jumped back to the night he’d broken into the Garner house. He wouldn’t have had to kill her father if the straight ass cop hadn’t suspected him of pilfering weapons and drugs from the evidence locker where he worked. Garner had said he was going to turn Frank in to Internal Affairs. No way he’d let that happen. The money was
too addicting.
As he cleared Jillian’s neighborhood, his shaking hands stilled. He’d fucked up tonight. Hopefully, the mask prevented Jillian from figuring out who he was. While he might have botched this first attempt, it wouldn’t happen the next time. That was a promise he’d be sure to keep.
*
“Ma’am?” a male voice asked as he placed a hand on her shoulder. Jillian looked up to find two paramedics in navy blue uniforms standing next to her.
She hadn’t even heard them come in. Jillian must be losing it since noises never escaped her notice. And how come their faces were so blurry? “Yes?”
“We need to check on your friend,” the guy with the long face said.
Even though she was still holding her phone, she’d forgotten for a moment that she’d called for help. When she didn’t move, the second paramedic helped her up.
Pull yourself together, her tiger demanded.
I’m trying, but it’s so damned hard, she retorted.
Both men checked Dalia, and then the one with the long face stepped over to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
So she was dead. Why would anyone want to kill her? “Thank you.”
Jillian’s heart nearly cracked. Or were those her bones, readying her to shift into her tiger?
I want to find the bastard, her animal growled.
Stand down, she demanded. The last thing she needed was for her caged animal to go off half-cocked. Jillian had spent years steeling her human, making her strong enough to fight her tiger’s urges. Right now, she was losing the battle.
Jillian wasn’t sure how long she’d stood there, but sirens sounded outside and then the paramedics moved out of the room, leaving Dalia in her resting position. No sooner had they left the bedroom than two police officers came in. One was a shifter; the other was not.
“Ma’am.”
Her eyes took a moment to focus through the tears. When the man’s face became clear, a giant claw ripped at her gut. No! No! No! The evil person who’d killed Dalia and her father—or so she believed—stood before her.