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

by Chant, Zoe

  Wary and tense, he followed Torvaldsen inside the house, which was incongruously decorated in warm shades of browns and gold and soft green in harmonious William Morris Arts and Crafts style. As they walked silently through a spacious living room, Dennis spotted paintings on the walls from that period, and wondered if they were originals.

  Then the obvious hit him: this house did not belong to Torvaldsen, and Dennis wondered whom it did belong to. Probably one of the investors Haskell had scammed.

  They walked through diamond-paned French doors onto a shaded terrace that curved around a huge, vaguely cloverleaf shaped pool built to resemble a lake, with a rock waterfall at one end, tucked against the hillside. It almost looked real.

  Patio furnishings lined the terrace, curving around one end of the pool. Dennis tried to get near Mindy but Torvaldsen deliberately walked between them, forcing Dennis to one side, and Mindy to the other.

  Torvaldsen settled into a chair next to a low table, and indicated they should sit down as he said to Dennis, “Haskell is not coming. We are finished with him.”

  “Well that’s damned unfortunate,” Dennis began loudly. “If I’m not a producer, he owes me my money back.” He remained standing, leaning on his cane, and doing his best to project self-righteous dominance.

  Torvaldsen held up a hand, and turned to Mindy, who sat on the very edge of a chair, Hank standing directly behind her. “Who are you?” Torvaldsen said to her.

  “Payton,” she said. “I’m with Danny. Jerry said I could have a part in his picture. I’m a belly dancer.”

  Dennis watched Torvaldsen’s thin lips flatten minutely—he was already bored. Good.

  “This is a pretty place you got here,” Mindy went on.

  Torvaldsen looked past her to one of the silent men dressed alike in dark colors, and said, “Bring out something to drink. You want?” He turned to Mindy.

  If this was a subtle test, she passed with flying colors. “Rum and Coke,” she replied.

  God, I love her, Dennis thought. His head rang like a bell as the truth of it hit him: he did love her. Though he still didn’t know what love meant, or how to measure its strength, he knew with utter conviction that Mindy stood at the very center of his life.

  He didn’t want a life without her.

  Mate.

  “You?” The ice blue eyes turned Dennis’s way, and he snapped back into alertness. His tiger roused, awareness now in stealth mode. Their way was not the roaring charge, but the quiet ambush.

  “Scotch,” Dennis said, though he’d far rather not have alcohol blurring his reactions. But so far their cover was holding, as well as their pretense that nothing was wrong. And right now that was about all they had for defense—and time.

  “Find Scotch,” Torvaldsen said to the man, who walked into the house. Then he turned back to Dennis. “So you followed Hank.”

  “We thought he was going back to the studio,” Dennis said in Daniel Moore’s bluff tones, projecting injury and affront. “Haskell told me all the producers were going to meet. I thought it was going to be at that film location, then we’d go out to dinner at Spago to celebrate.”

  “This can still happen,” Torvaldsen said, then showed the edges of his teeth in not-quite-a-smile. “It is to be determined, if that is with or without you.”

  Dennis scowled. “I gave Haskell a check for five million. Good faith. I haven’t even seen a damn contract yet!”

  “Yes, let us discuss this five million,” Torvaldsen said. “If it is such good faith, why so long to tender it?”

  “My man of business goes by-the-book. That’s why I hired him—”

  “I have heard much of this man of yours, but no names. I will have his name. Write it down. I will talk to this by-the-book man myself.” He jerked his chin at another of the silent men surrounding them: they were now down to one guard and Hank, Dennis saw, as this one departed.

  Damn. JP would be able to take out all three guards, plus Hank and Torvaldsen and not break a sweat. But JP wasn’t here.

  Should he try with only these? But the moment that guard through the door, the first one came out carrying a heavy silver tray with a variety of glasses and bottles on it—including a can of Coke. He set this tray on the table near the lounge chair where Torvaldsen sat.

  “I say again, sit.” The big man gave a curt nod at the chair adjacent, and Dennis sat down slowly, with one leg straight out as if his leg were still bad. He leaned his cane against his chair arm, and tried to look expectant, not wary.

  The second guard reappeared immediately with a yellow pad of paper and a pen. This he brought to Dennis, who had not memorized the number that Agent Sloane had set up as a blind, in case of need. Amanda Peretti would answer it with the name of the fake accountant’s office. Dennis hated to take out his phone, but knew it was necessary—part of his persona—who memorized numbers anymore?

  Dennis reluctantly took out his phone, and as he thumbed it open, he saw with sinking heart that there were no calls. He made a slow business of tabbing to his contacts, and reached the entry they’d set up.

  As Dennis wrote, the guard stood there waiting. Dennis put the pen down on the pad and made to return his phone to his pocket, but then the guard reached and snatched it from his hand.

  “Hey,” Dennis protested.

  “We talk private,” Torvaldsen said, holding out his hand for the phone. “Perhaps you have it back.” He thumbed it on, and slowly punched in the number written on the pad.

  Dennis held his breath. He was pretty sure the efficient Amanda would recognize his cell number. He hoped she wouldn’t think it was Dennis, but stick to the plan—and a few seconds later, Dennis’s ears picked up the tinny sound of a female voice: “Fortescue, Jackson, and Hill, Accounting. May I direct your call?”

  “I will speak to Thomas Hill,” Torvaldsen said.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hill is in conference with a client. May I take a message?”

  “He is to call back this number as soon as possible,” Torvaldsen said, and hung up on her.

  And if she doesn’t call out the cavalry, then I’m an armadillo, Dennis thought. The question was, with Agent Sloane missing and Greg wounded, and with the unknown secondaries still back in Hollywood, who constituted the cavalry? Once again Dennis wished he had an earbud, but would Daniel Moore have one? Too late to wonder about that. Focus.

  Torvaldsen then snapped his fingers at the silent guard and pointed at the drinks. The clink of ice cubes and the swish of poured alcohol added a surreal note—and heady aroma—to the chlorine and dust already permeating the atmosphere.

  As the guard carried these drinks around, Dennis’s chest tightened, his tiger roused very near the surface. Dennis gazed across the corner of the pool at Mindy. She was not just heartbreakingly brave, but in spite of her smudged, heavy makeup and bright dress, she was beautiful. Not just her fascinating eyes and delectable mouth and magnificent curves. She was beautiful in ways he couldn’t even define because he’d never learned the vocabulary of romance. He’d denied its existence, and now he felt like a parched man in the desert who had turned his back on water.

  She’s my mate. The tiger surged protectively, and Dennis’s skin hurt and his muscles locked with his effort to maintain control. A thread of humor helped to steady him: only Dennis could manage to discover his mate while sitting in a dangerous situation a heartbeat away from the threat of death.

  The guard approached. Dennis saw the telltale bulge of a weapon under the man’s armpit as he held out the tumbler. Dennis took the drink he didn’t want. He pretended to sip as he watched Mindy, who from the looks of it was not gulping hers down either.

  Unlike Torvaldsen, who drained his, then slammed the crystal tumbler down on the table so it rang. “That is good! What is it?” He squinted against the bright afternoon light at the bottle.

  “Bruichladdich,” the guard replied.

  “Ha, the four times distilled,” Torvaldsen said. “Jim Wells, he has good taste. Expensi
ve taste! Pour me another.” He flicked the crystal tumbler with his nail, and after the guard did so, he said to Hank, “Take the girl in. Show her the paintings.”

  Mindy said, “I’ll stay with Danny. I want to hear all about the film.”

  Torvaldsen flicked his chin again, and Hank gripped Mindy’s arm. She didn’t resist, but cast a worried look back at Dennis from those soulful brown eyes.

  The tiger nearly leaped out. Not yet. Dennis gritted his teeth, watching Mindy vanish.

  She had to be safer away from Torvaldsen, and Dennis was convinced she would use any opportunity she could.

  ***

  Mindy exerted all her control not to pull away from those fingers gripping her arm. Payton wouldn’t yank free. Payton liked any attention from men, even repulsive gorillas like this Hank. So she shoved down her irritation, aware of the emotions below that she hadn’t had time to sort out yet, far stronger than heat—stronger than the sun and the stars and the planets. She had never expected to be in love. Never wanted to be in love, but here she was.

  And she didn’t want to get out of it.

  Okay, she could do this. They just had to talk themselves out of this mess and away from that horrible Torvaldsen and his grunts, and get away alone. Assuming Dennis felt even remotely the same, she would go with it. And it wouldn’t be like lying, if she was very careful to completely avoid certain subjects with Dennis. Because she knew whatever happened, she could not be the one to say goodbye.

  All this passed through her head within the space of five steps, then they reached the doors, and she pasted a smile on her face and blinked up at Hank. “You don’t need to hold on so hard. I’m not wearing heels—I won’t fall.”

  Hank stared down at her, his mouth mean. Mindy wondered if he was one of those creeps who liked pushing women around. But then he let go. “Just stick with me.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What paintings are we seeing? Whose house is this?”

  “Guy’s name is Jim. One of the investors. At Cannes right now. That’s all I know. There’s a bunch of art in this hall, and more in the rooms down that way.”

  “Oooh, I love pictures of farms and stuff,” Mindy said, looking up at what seemed to be an original Dutch painting of the 1600s, though from a minor painter.

  Hank grunted, obviously bored.

  Mindy smiled, a sort-of-plan opening up before her. Hank was standing close, stiff, obviously on guard. If she could convince him she was a total airhead, would he relax a little?

  Like, enough so she could claim to need the ladies’ room so she could run away?

  Only how would she rescue Dennis?

  Think, she scolded herself. And in the meantime, let’s bore this jerk into catatonia.

  “I wonder who painted that one? How much did it cost? Wow, did they have magic markers in those days? That color is bright enough for a magic marker . . .”

  Chapter Twelve

  Outside on the terrace, silence stretched as water poured into the pool, and the hawk swooped overhead once, and away.

  Torvaldsen motioned for his guard to pour a third glass of Scotch, which he examined in the sunlight before sipping with his eyes shut.

  He’s enjoying this, the bastard, Dennis thought.

  Torvaldsen finished the glass, set it down, then turned to Dennis, his blue gaze flat and cold. “So. You are with this man-owl?”

  Greg. Dennis did his best to look confused. “What did you say?”

  Torvaldsen struck the table with the flat of his hand. “My English is good. This owl-man. He is not alone. Who is with him? You?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ben. My man-hawk who strikes down the owl-man out of the sky, who is following us. Ben goes to watch Haskell and he follows Hank. You follow Hank. Ben becomes man. Calls me,” Torvaldsen said slowly and distinctly, his gaze merciless. “He tells me two things. One, a tiger appears, and then is gone. A male tiger. Two, you and that woman follow Hank in the little white car, though Hank says over the phone that he told no one to follow.”

  “I told you, we saw Hank and followed him because we thought he was going to the producers’ meeting that Haskell kept yapping about. I’m a producer now.” Dennis increased his injured air. “I paid up. So what’s the problem?”

  Torvaldsen ignored the question. He set the tumbler down again and leaned toward Dennis. “I think this tiger is you. I want to know how many spies there are. Where they are.”

  Dennis’s mind worked fast. He felt the hunt closing in, but he would fight for time—and to keep Mindy safe. “Why don’t you ask Haskell?” he asked loudly, bluffing hard.

  “Sheet,” Torvaldsen exclaimed in disgust. “Haskell, he knows nothing. I make certain he knows nothing. He is the front window. Finished. He thinks your money will pay for this clown show today, but I take that, too.” His teeth showed. “I think you know more. Much more. You say the same things over and over, and yet there are questions you do not ask.”

  He turned his head. “Bring out the girl.”

  One of the three guards ran to the door, spoke, then returned, and at a nod from Torvaldsen, joined the other two in a half-circle around Dennis.

  Hank appeared a minute later, walking next to Mindy. She tried to head for Dennis, but Torvaldsen flicked a forefinger and Hank took hold of her arm and steered her to the other side of the little pool, some thirty feet away.

  Torvaldsen then turned back to Dennis, and his smile was merciless. “You will now answer my questions, or you will watch while Hank takes each lie out on the girl.”

  White heat flared in Dennis. JP wasn’t here, but he’d taught Mick and Dennis a few things when the three of them were in Afghanistan with the Signal Corps.

  He grasped his cane and whirled up. A swinging strike to the side of the head dropped Thug One like a stone. The backswing caught Thug Two in the knee—Dennis heard the crunch—and the man crashed into the table, fouling the approach of Thug Three—

  And red pain jolted Dennis, whose right arm suddenly went dead. He stared, shocked, into Torvaldsen’s cold blue gaze over the pistol he didn’t even know the guy had, as Thug Three looked back and forth between Dennis and Torvaldsen.

  Hank slid his hand inside his jacket.

  Dennis swayed on his feet, shock flaring through his nerves to pool in his belly as his hazy gaze locked on Mindy’s.

  She gave him a wistful, hopeless look, and then she reached behind her neck, and in one motion, with all the grace he loved so much, ripped off her dress.

  Torvaldsen, Thug Three, and Hank were scum-sucking villains, but they were also men. All three froze at the sudden sight of a naked woman, then in the blink of an eye she blurred into a small brown shape that leaped from the ground to a patio table and then straight into Hank’s face, little claws raking.

  Hank screamed and recoiled away from the totally unexpected attack. The gun went flying as Hank’s arms wind-milled and he fell backward into the pool. Splash! Went Hank. Sploop! Went the gun into the deep end.

  Dennis stared for a heartbeat in sheer disbelief.

  Mindy? A dog? Not just a dog, but a dainty, adorable chocolate brown poodle with a cloud of fluffy hair on top of head and tail. She skittered, diving under a table as both Thug Three and Torvaldsen turned their guns toward her.

  Oh no you don’t, fuckers. And the tiger roared, bursting out.

  God I hate ripping clothes, was Dennis’s last thought as he shifted.

  The seams of his shirt and pants felt like whips cutting his fur and flesh before they gave, sending burning spears of pain through his wounded shoulder. Then his tiger stretched out, and with a massive bat of front claws, sent Thug Three crashing backward into the furniture, slash marks from his face down his torso. The man dropped and didn’t move.

  Dennis turned on Torvaldsen. Yeah, shoot me again, he growled, but I’ll get you first.

  And leaped.

  ***

  Mindy’s vision blurred into the dog’s world
of grays, dim yellow and washed-out blue.

  Her nose was fifty times better than human smell, but this time it could not be trusted as the scents changed wildly. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening, beyond crashes and clatters that hurt her sensitive ears.

  She scrambled out from under the table and peered at the water. A vague shape moved beneath it, but she couldn’t determine Hank’s details from the mass of gray-blue water, and because Hank was below the surface, she couldn’t smell him.

  So she shut her eyes and shifted back to herself, crouched naked on hands and knees, her dress puddled a few feet away. She snatched it up and wriggled into it as she looked wildly from left to right.

  Hank, surging up in the water to gasp, roared cusswords in her direction before diving down to retrieve his gun.

  And in the other direction—

  She froze, trying to make sense of what she saw. Dennis and that horrible Torvaldsen were gone. In their place a gigantic dull green snake with black spots had wrapped itself around a tiger.

  The tiger snapped at the snake, trying to sink its teeth in. Blood dribbled in horrid streaks from one big shoulder.

  Shoulder.

  That beautiful tiger—the same one she had seen at the film location in Hollywood—could that be Dennis?

  Whoever it was, that ginormous snake was trying to squeeze the life out of him.

  She cast one quick look back. Hank was diving down into the deep end. Mindy finished tying the halter top and ran barefoot toward the epic battle, giving them a wide berth. As she circled cautiously around, she saw another pistol lying near the foot of the guy with the tiger claw marks down his front. He was moaning and stirring.

  Mindy picked up the gun, and looked at it. She had never held a gun in her life, much less fired one. She didn’t even know if the safety was on. Or how many bullets it had—or if it would kick back, like in the movies.