Hollywood Tiger: BBW Tiger Shifter Paranormal Romance (Hollywood Shifters Book 3)

by Chant, Zoe

  Hollywood Tiger

  By Zoe Chant

  © Zoe Chant 2015

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  Mindy Maurek walked into the bar of the Lake Arrowhead resort hotel, searching the plant-filled area with a fast glance. Around the bar’s perimeter, artfully arranged ferns, orchids, and palms obscured romantic little tables lit by hurricane lamps, decorated with tasseled cloths. Strings of beads glittered in the candlelight.

  At those little tables around the bar’s perimeter couples leaned toward one another. The center was better lit as well as open, featuring a dance floor before the band playing world fusion.

  Mindy paused beside a leafy fern as she scanned the little tables and the open area in search of the Cheater. She was distracted by the whooping voices of some women at one end of the dance floor. She took another step into the bar, peering past dancing couples and spotted three men: two big guys maybe early to mid-thirties, one blond and one with reddish hair—whoa, Tawny Locks was hot—and one graying fifty-something with a five hundred dollar haircut.

  Bingo.

  That was Jerome Haskell: star of the latest rendition of that perennial fave, “Yer Cheatin’ Loins.” Mindy’s target.

  Mindy headed toward the bar, scanning for a place from which she could watch the lobby arrivals as well as Haskell the Rascal. No, ‘rascal’ sounded kind of cute. Too bad his last name didn’t rhyme with something more appropriate, like dirtbag or sleazeball.

  Okay. Mindy had found her latest Cheater. Now to wait for the Cheatee and then get the evidence of them together.

  “Your order?” the bartender distracted her.

  “Gin and tonic with a twist, hold the gin,” Mindy said, pushing a ten forward.

  When she got her drink, Mindy chose a table near the partying women, hoping she would look like one of them. They were all well-dressed, looked about Mindy’s age, and from the sounds of it, were celebrating someone having turned the big three-oh.

  A song ended and a couple of the flushed, laughing women returned to the table, where another round had been served. Some raunchy teasing got a couple more of them up, prowling for single guys to haul onto the dance floor as the band struck up a Cuban rhythm.

  In the lobby, a tall, blonde woman entered, looked around, then spoke to the desk. She turned her head—yes, it was Patrice, the Cheatee, and she didn’t look happy.

  Mindy smiled, hoping she knew the cause of that mood. As Patrice approached the bar, she saw the three men, and checked. The Cheater was not alone. Uh-oh. Would she leave? No, she continued grimly on and joined them.

  As Haskell gestured around the table, plainly introducing everyone, Mindy brought up her cell as if she were talking, but aimed the camera at Cheater’s table. She shot a slew of pictures, as nearby, a couple of the party women teased each other to get up and go for a new dance partner. Mindy glanced over at the Cheater’s table, then realized she’d turned the camera toward Red-haired Hot Guy. Damn!

  She jerked the camera back on target—in time for a crowd of dancers to block off her target.

  She sighed, annoyed with herself. She was definitely not looking for dates. But all she needed was a clear shot of Haskell and Patrice together, and she must have got thirty shots altogether. One out of thirty had to be good.

  Now for some recorded words. It didn’t have to be a lot.

  Mindy eyed the table again, her gaze sliding from the scowling, stiff Patrice to Haskell’s unpleasantly fake grin, past the big blond guy to . . . whoa, he really was hot, how that tawny hair swept carelessly down over his brow like wings, his strong-boned profile, his—

  She squinched her eyes shut. This was a cheater-hunt, not a man-hunt.

  Get your head in the game, Mindy scolded herself. Haskell and Patrice kept exchanging looks. It was clear that Patrice, at least, wanted to talk, but wasn’t going to in front of the others. And Mindy needed to record that talk as proof they were together.

  She put the cell back in her purse, glanced at the table—making sure not to ogle Red Hot—then she got an idea. She leaned toward the birthday party women and said, “Fifty bucks to the first one to get Blondie and Red over there up and dancing.”

  One woman grinned, clearly ready for fun. “Game on,” she said, and lurched to her six inch stiletto heels.

  The second one blinked owlishly at Mindy, took a swig of her drink, and leaned an elbow on the table. “What kind of up do you mean?”

  Mindy pulled out another fifty. “You decide.”

  The woman pursed her lips, tried to whistle, but her lips were obviously too numb. She shook back her beautifully cut black hair, stood up and smoothed out her Julia Seeman summer dress, and ten steps later moved on Red, as her friend brought an obviously willing Blond Guy to the dance floor.

  One down, and the hot one to go, Mindy thought as a waiter appeared at the guys’ table and Patrice looked up. Mindy glanced from her tight-lipped face to the Cheater.

  Except that Red wasn’t cooperating. Mindy leaned forward, mentally coaxing as Summer Dress did her best with Red. The guy smiled up at her, hands raised, palms out as he said something and she said something back. Why didn’t he get off his handsome ass and dance? Damn, he was good-looking, long legs and narrow hips in dark slacks, a gray silk shirt turned back at the cuffs revealing muscular forearms. The kind of dimples deep on either side of a smiling mouth that evoked all kinds of wicked sin.

  But he wasn’t moving.

  At length Summer Dress returned, shrugged, and said, “Can’t dance. Pointed to a cane, and said something about a bad leg.”

  “It was worth a try.” Mindy smiled and slid across the fifty.

  The song had ended by then, and the band segued into a percussive Moroccan beat.

  “Your turn,” Summer Dress said, obviously more interested in the fun than the money.

  “My turn?” Mindy was totally unready for that.

  Summer Dress pushed the fifty back toward her, catching the attention of a couple of the other party women as she grinned. “Let’s see you take your best shot.”

  A blonde and a petite dark-haired woman woohooed and promptly threw down big bills.

  Mindy glanced through the dancers at the other table, and her gaze collided with Red’s. Heat shot straight from her skull to her delicate Narciso Rodriguez sandals. She ripped her eyes away—feeling like gigantic squid suckers had issued twin pops that could be heard in San Bernardino down the mountain—as more of the party women added their voices. A new game! And everybody’s focus was on Mindy.

  Shit! Mindy’s great idea was suddenly not so great. Much as she would love an excuse to get closer to Red Hot, one hard look from Cheater and she’d be made if she tried to get closer.

  As the percussive beat rolled around her, she got an idea. “Sure!”

  She’d tied her mass of hair back with a floaty scarf, which she pulled out with one hand. The other hand she slid into her purse to turn on her recorder. Then she draped the scarf loosely around her face and hair, snatched the tasseled tablecloth from her little table and tied it low around her hips over her black halter-neck jersey summer dress, then pulled down a couple strings of beads that had been hanging on a nearby fern.

  As she slung these around her hips on top of the makeshift tassel belt, she said to Summer Dress, “I’m upping the game.”

  “Day-amm,” the woman next to Summer Dress yelled. “Adding fifty bucks if I see bulge!”

  “Woo hoo,” the party joined in, cranking their fists with enthusiasm as
Mindy began shimmying her way across the dance floor.

  The sheer fabric of the scarf blurred the Cheater, Patrice, and Red, but not enough to block out the impact of Red’s gaze. Adrenaline spiked through Mindy, chased by a heat she channeled straight to her hips.

  * * *

  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—