by Zoey Thames
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
Acclaim for Zoey Thames
Look for these titles from Zoey Thames
Title Page
Copyright Warning
Dedication
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Coming Soon
Also by Zoey Thames
More Romance from Etopia Press
~ Acclaim for Zoey Thames ~
Praise for Curves for Fighters
“The passion felt real and the twists were unexpected. I found their relationship fun and intense. And the combined chemistry between these men and Ruth was hot.”
—Manic Readers Review
Look for these titles from Zoey Thames
Now Available
Quick & Sexy Wolves
Curves for Three (Book One)
Curves for Fighters (Book Two)
Curves for Shifters (Book Three)
Coming Soon
Curves for Cowboys (Book Four)
Curves for Shifters
Quick & Sexy Wolves Book Three
Zoey Thames
Etopia Press
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
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Curves for Shifters
Copyright © 2016 by Zoey Thames
ISBN: 978-1-944138-64-6
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: October 2016
~ Dedication ~
Thank you to my editor and my publisher for taking a chance on my werewolf romances.
And to all the readers who enjoyed the other books in this series. Thank you so much! You are the best!
CHAPTER ONE
Michelle Ross definitely needed her good luck charm tonight. She pulled her handbag from the limo’s passenger-side floor and dug around inside, searching for it. Her charm did its best to hide from her in the depths of her handbag, and she started to get nervous.
She excavated deeper, biting her lip to stop the panic. Tissues. Lipstick. Lip balm. More lip balm. Her phone. One balled-up sheer stocking. Spilled breath mints. A half million gas receipts. Where was it? Ah, there. She pulled out the golden charm bracelet her grandmother had given her for her twelfth birthday and hung it on the limousine’s rearview mirror.
The charm bracelet had a dozen little…well, lucky charms. Golden horseshoes and four-leaf clovers, coins, lucky fish, maneki-neko cats, and magic symbols of good fortune. She usually hung it from the rearview mirror when she was working as a chauffeur, driving a limousine for Mirage Confidential. God knew she needed all the help she could get, what with crazy New York drivers and nightmarish Manhattan traffic. Too bad it had never made her lucky in love.
Michelle straightened her uniform cap in the mirror, gritting her teeth and trying to look cheerful and ready to serve. She’d need even more luck to pull off that look tonight. Her client was supposed to be a difficult one. Mirage Confidential specialized in meeting the needs of paranormal clients. Rich, powerful, accustomed to getting their way. Everything had to go perfectly for this assignment. She couldn’t afford another pink slip. Not after getting fired from the brokerage firm. Oh, had she just said fired? More like betrayed, heartbroken, backstabbed, and kicked to the curb.
She started the limo and cruised through the spacious underground parking garage for Mirage headquarters, passing rows and rows of high-end, luxury limousines. She waved to some of the other drivers before slowing for Mitch, the guy at the security booth for the parking garage exit.
She pressed the button to roll down the automatic window. “Hi, Mitch.”
Mitch put down the large slice of pizza he’d been eating and leaned on the counter, grinning at her. He was a large man who loved large pizzas. He always, and she meant always, had a pizza box with him inside his security booth. “Hey, Michelle. Wanna slice?”
“Thanks but no thanks.” One time she’d accepted a slice and some saucy cheese had spilled on her uniform slacks. Luckily, the trousers were black, but from that day on, she’d been terrified she’d stain the rest of her uniform trying to eat while driving. And Mirage drivers never looked stained. Or rumpled. And certainly not greasy. She suspected it specifically said as much in the employee handbook she hadn’t read.
Mitch shrugged. “Suit yourself. You have a big whale in the tank tonight.”
For some reason, Mitch always called the limos “tanks,” and he meant “aquariums on wheels,” not the army kind. He called the clients either fish or whales, depending on how rich and powerful they were. Mitch was really…unique. She tried on her brightest smile to hide the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Right now, she didn’t need someone reminding her how important the man she’d be driving around tonight happened to be.
So she gave Mitch an awkward, half-choked laugh, touched the brim of her chauffeur cap with a little salute, and drove away. Drove away wondering what was wrong with her brain, giving Mitch of all people a weird, jaunty salute. Where had that come from?
Scratch that. She did know what was wrong with her.
Aaron Duval.
Mr. Duval was not only an alpha-level shifter, but he was the billionaire chairman and CEO of Dark Howl Security—a private security company that delivered bodyguard and other protective services to wealthy paranormal clients. Ella had told her Duval was a really intense client, but then again, Ella was always pulling pranks and making stuff up. Although Duval avoided the media like the plague, she knew from Mirage’s client portfolio that he had those rugged, ex-military, tough-guy looks that could drop panties faster than a rocket. Dark hair, dark scruff, dark eyes. The picture in the portfolio didn’t have him smiling. Instead, he looked ready for the climactic battle in some action movie.
So Michelle thought she could be excused for a few stomach butterflies and a bad case of the nerves.
She took the Lincoln Tunnel out of Manhattan, then 495 toward Teterboro Airport in Jersey. Teterboro handled a lot of the luxury jets coming into the New York City/New Jersey areas, so she was there often enough picking up arriving clients.
Traffic was tolerable, which meant her good luck charm was working. She reached out and ga
ve the dangling bracelet a brush with her hand. Thank God she hadn’t forgotten it again. The last time she’d left it in her apartment, she’d had the worst day at work…ever. Correction, her worst day ever at Mirage Confidential at least. Her client that night had been a shifter from Albuquerque, of all places, who got hammered at a nightclub and transformed into a bear the back of her limo. So she’d been driving around Manhattan with four hundred pounds of drunken bear reeking of rum and Long Island Iced Tea. By the end of the night, he’d left the passenger compartment clawed-up and covered in fur and rum-flavored bear vomit. Yuck-o. And yes, once he’d shifted back to human form, his gratuity had been super generous. Still, she didn’t know if she could handle another headache like that again.
She didn’t want to think about the other time she’d lost her lucky bracelet and her life had crashed hard. She’d had a career. She’d had love.
And then she’d had neither.
Michelle forced away the blues before they could derail her already-stressful night-to-come. She sighed out a shuddering breath as she made the turn past the blue sign announcing Teterboro airport and took an access road meant for private car pickups from the tarmac. She cruised through the security-gate with her Mirage credentials and followed the signage to the correct area where the luxury jet was supposed to be waiting and she’d been instructed to pick up Duval.
She spotted beautiful white Gulfstream G680 was stopped off the runway with its engines idling. There were several security people standing around a couple of dark SUVs, one particularly big guy positioned between her and the jet’s airstairs.
She swallowed the uneasy lump in her throat and carefully parked near one of the SUVs. She shut off the engine and got out. All the large security men were watching her with an intensity she found unnerving. Another nervous flutter rippled through her as she paused to check her reflection in the limo’s darkened driver-side window. The early summer sun had dipped below the buildings in the west, but she had enough light to see that her chauffeur uniform still looked snazzy and neat. And her mascara was still good because she hadn’t started sobbing her eyes out over losing her jerk-scumbag ex-boyfriend and then watching her career as a stockbroker implode.
Deep breath. Forget about the past. Let go of any worries about previous mistakes. Ignore the scary bodyguard men. Forget about how in a matter of minutes she was going to be driving around the tall, dark, and handsomely billionaire-ish Mr. Aaron Duval. Werewolf alpha. No-nonsense ex-soldier and security guru who could probably bench-press her with one arm, and who would tolerate absolutely no mistakes tonight whatsoever.
Great. Now she was not only nervous but in danger of hyperventilating and falling over.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go talk to security yet or if she should wait for the jet to turn off its engines first. After she waited awkwardly for a few minutes and no one came over to help or even acknowledge her, she opened the limo door again and climbed back inside. She checked her instructions on the limo’s onboard computer, but they only gave time and place information to pick up Duval. The Other Details field was empty.
She picked up her dispatch radio and called Mirage. “Hi, Mandy, this is Michelle in Black Seven. I’m at the client’s pickup location, but he’s not around. Just a bunch of security guys who probably shift into elephants and rhinos.”
Mandy laughed. “I hear you, Mandy. Checking on it now.” A moment later Mandy came back over the radio. “Your terminal should have client instructions. Let’s see. Oh, here it is. ‘Driver should speak with Mr. Duval’s personal assistant, Mr. Maxwell, upon arrival at precisely eight o’clock. He will be waiting inside the plane. Do not be late.’”
Michelle stared at her computer terminal as dread rushed through her. Eight o’clock was only five minutes away. She’d almost killed her chance at a gratuity tonight because of a technical mishap. Even though she had the job pulled up onscreen, she wasn’t seeing any of the information Mandy had just read off.
Great. Another tech glitch. These limos cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, but there were still annoying gremlins sometimes. No use giving Mandy a hard time about it though. It wasn’t her fault technology hated Michelle with a passion. Case in point, Michelle’s cell phone routinely committed phone-suicide in the bathtub, it hated her so much. Usually right when she was about to get the high score on one of those little app games too—
“You still there, hon?” Mandy asked.
“Oh, yep, sure thing. There’s some issue with my terminal updating. I’ll note it in the log when I get back to base.” She always felt self-conscious calling the Mirage Confidential buildings “base” out loud. But at least she didn’t have to say things on air like “Breaker-breaker there’s a smokey on your tail—”
“Well…I suggest getting your fanny on over to speak to this Mr. Maxwell,” Mandy said, interrupting her wildly veering train of thought. “Mr. Duval is a client we’d like to keep, after all.”
“Yes, of course. Um. Black Seven signing off. And stuff.” She replaced the radio transmitter and hesitated, staring at the four very big, very scary bodyguard-types looming between her limo and the (gangplank> to the plane’s door. She didn’t see this Mr. Maxwell anywhere.
She took a deep breath and climbed back out of the limo into the warm air. Then she double-checked her reflection in the darkened limo glass again and adjusted the tilt of her chauffeur’s cap just so. Then she smoothed her hair and tucked a stray strand back under the cap. Then she realized she was stalling.
Michelle walked straight toward the plane. It was sleek and white, spotless and detailed with dark stripes on the fuselage and rows of circular windows. She knew these luxury private jets were like setup like 5-star hotels on the inside, with staterooms where you could sleep and everything. What would it be like to fly inside one, jetting across the country from coast to coast to wherever the chic parties were that night? And dimming the cabin lights and fucking like a sex-crazed fiend at forty thousand feet with some blazing-hot shifter stud… She felt her secret core begin to heat, and lazy warmth spread from between her legs up through her body. A little harmless fantasy. Something to keep her busy tonight when—
“Ma’am, please don’t come any closer,” one of the security guards in a dark suit and sunglasses growled at her, breaking her fantasy into little pieces. He had shoulders that seemed as wide as her limo. When he moved to cut her off, he showed the same grace she’d noticed in other shifters.
When in doubt, smile. Michelle tried on her winning-est smile. The kind that was so bright it could melt caramel better than a microwave. “Sorry about that, sir. I’m Michelle, a driver with Mirage Confidential. I have instructions to contact Mr. Maxwell at eight o’clock sharp.” She edged to the side slightly, trying to see past the security goon as big as a wall. “Inside the plane.”
“Denied,” the man said in a bass-heavy voice.
Her smile faltered. Her heart sank. She glanced at the time on her phone. 8:01 p.m. She was now late. She was late picking up one of Mirage Confidential’s most important clients. And here was this impassive wall of muscle standing right between her and the possibility she would wake up tomorrow still having a job.
How could this night get any worse?
CHAPTER TWO
Usually Aaron Duval was a happy man. Just not right now. Not at all right now. The reason, of course, was the bastard sitting right across from him. Jackson Smith. The man had dark hair cut short enough to see his scalp on the sides, the most piercing blue eyes Aaron had even seen, a muscular frame that filled out his high-end, designer suit. Perfectly tailored, of course. A dark shading of stubble roughened his cheeks. It was that damn stubble Aaron found most distracting. He wanted to rasp his hand along it, feel it brush against his own skin, his neck, his chest. Like he had years ago, before… Well, no time for distracting thoughts like that now. The truth was, he was supposed to be a hard-ass at the negotiating table with this man, and all Aaron could think about was how much he hat
ed him, and how much he wanted to kiss him.
Like he’d said. Bastard.
“This is not a matter open to discussion,” Aaron said carefully, focusing his thoughts again with military discipline. He had to keep his tone even, almost cold. He couldn’t let the other man know how hard he was finding it to be in the same airplane with him. His custom-modified G6 had plenty of space, designed around flying only four passengers max, luxury leather, mellow lighting, and yet right then it felt oppressively confined. What he wouldn’t have given to be able to shrug out of this suit and run out his frustrations as a wolf, sprinting beneath the stars.
“On the contrary,” Jackson said, arching one perfect eyebrow. “Our business is very much open to discussion. Why else are we here?”
That was a good question. It was hard to believe this meeting had been Aaron’s idea. He was alpha to a pack, though not a standard pack. He was the alpha wolf and CEO of Dark Howl Security based in New York City. He headed a pack of professional bodyguards, security personnel, and private investigators who handled the safety of rich and powerful paranormal creatures or investigated threats and lawsuits against them. They provided services for summits, clubs, concerts, private events, public events. Didn’t matter. Dark Howl was one of the finest in the States.
But he had competition. Alpha Protective Services. Based in Los Angeles. Led by none other than billionaire werewolf Jackson Smith. The man sitting across from him.
The man Aaron had shared so much with, a long time ago. Before he’d been betrayed by Jackson. Before he’d been left behind.
Aaron clenched his fists, then let his breath out slowly. It wouldn’t do to let the other man see him rattled. He was ex-military, eight years in the army. He was the alpha keeping a pack full of other tough-customer shifters in line and on task. He was a very successful businessman. It didn’t matter if his cock still went hard at the sight of this other man—his competition, his nemesis. It didn’t matter that all he could think about was reaching across the space that separated them and yanking the man into a fierce kiss, capturing his lips, making him submit to the feelings they’d once shared—