Bear Sin

by Isadora Montrose

  She blushed, but nodded. “I would.”

  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Folks usually dress up a bit when there’s an excuse.”

  “Good jeans dressing up, or something fancy?” She looked a little worried.

  “Good jeans,” he assured her. “It’s still Hank’s with beer in pitchers, not fancy at all.”

  The rosy glow was still in her cheeks. Her smile returned. “I haven’t been anywhere since I came out here. I’d like that fine.”

  He stood up and pushed his chair back in. “It’s a date.” And by God it was. Ugly, scarred, one-eyed Lance Prescott had a date with the prettiest girl in Colorado.

  Read the rest of Bear Fate on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  Dragon’s Treasure

  Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 1

  Arrogant, sexy, Dragon Lord Hugo Sarkany seduces his curvaceous PA Leah and ignites her passions. But when this delectable virgin BBW turns into a dragoness she isn’t thrilled with this bad boy’s proposal or his billions. How does Hugo win her reluctant heart now that he owns her smoking body?

  Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You and your brother are wasting your lives,” Stephan Sarkany told his eldest great-grandson. “You should already have sons.” He drew air into his wasted chest and let it out again with a cold and gusty sigh. His frail body was propped up in the ancient tester bed on a multitude of pillows, but nothing served to procure him a full lungful of air.

  “I have not yet met my mate, Grandfather,” said Hugo Sarkany respectfully. “One day perhaps. But I have not yet had such good fortune.”

  The sight of his great-grandson should have warmed Count Sarkany's heart. Hugo Sarkany was six foot eight, broad shouldered, and loose limbed. Intelligence and determination were written on his chiseled patrician features. But Stephan did not seem pleased by his handsome heir.

  Fire burned briefly in the old man's faded golden eyes, and he snorted skeptically at Hugo's courteous rebuff. “You are lucky, Hugo. It's in our blood to be lucky. But you must not waste your luck—or your youth. You must marry and breed another generation of Sarkany firelings. You and your brother are the only two left of our ancient line.” Stephan drew in a ragged breath and fought for another.

  “Be easy, Grandfather,” begged Hugo, placing his large, strong hands over Stephan's thin, frail one. The skin was almost translucent and in the bulging purple veins, the blood moved sluggishly. The Eldest of their House was dying. “I will marry when I find my mate.” The words were a vow.

  Stephan inhaled shallowly into his ravaged lungs. “You are getting older,” he warned. “You do not have many years left in which to breed. And if you don't search, you will not find your mate. You will wind up an old, immortal dragon sitting on his hoard, longing for death.”

  “Is immortality such a curse, Eldest?” asked Hugo.

  “If you have no mate, it is the doom of eternal loneliness.” Stephan's breath rattled in his throat. “It's not true immortality if your body withers into solitary dust atop your treasure store, leaving your soul hungry. You must marry and beget heirs.”

  “I promise, Grandfather.”

  “Where is your brother? Why is Ivan not here?” the Eldest asked querulously.

  “He only left for a few moments, Grandfather. He will return soon. Be easy. Look, here he comes.”

  Another tall, masculine aristocrat came into the Count's bedroom. He too had inherited his dark hair, gold eyes, and bone structure from the Eldest of their House. At the sight of the listless body in the great four-poster, sorrow etched lines on his handsome face. He looked a question at his brother.

  Hugo nodded. Ivan knelt beside the high bed and bowed his head over his grandfather's left hand. Hugo took the Count's cold right hand in his own warm clasp. Together they held onto the emaciated hands as the life fell out of the eighth Count Sarkany in the presence of his lieutenants.

  * * *

  “You need to marry, Hugo,” said Ivan Sarkany to his brother. He gazed uneasily at the portraits that looked down at them from the dark wood paneling of the library. The ancestors stared back haughty and unblinking. “It's your duty to make babies.”

  Hugo looked gloomily at his younger brother. “We both should marry and procreate. I promised the Eldest at his death. He was full of dark forebodings of a lonely old age with nothing but gold to comfort us.”

  Ivan assessed his brother over the rim of his wine glass. Both men were in the prime of their lives and towered over most mortals. They were muscular, strong limbed, flat bellied, broad of chest and thick of thigh. Their dark hair was glossy and nearly black. They were beloved by women. Old age seemed a long time away. Particularly for dragon shifters.

  The room they were lounging in was richly appointed in the fashion of their great-great-grandparents, but they scarcely noticed the ornate draperies and intricately gilded furniture. They were used to this opulent, over-furnished library, as they were used to the rest of the Schloss Sarkany.

  The Schloss had been built high in the Swiss Alps in the sixteenth century as a hunting lodge by the fourth Count. Since the abandonment of their twelfth century castle in Hungary, this sprawling castle had been home to the Sarkanys. They had other houses and apartments all around the globe. But this dark residence, overlooking the great stones the locals called The Dragon's Bones, was where they had been reared.

  Ivan leaned back in his deep armchair, his dark clothes blending with the forest green of the thick velvet upholstery. “We should hold your ceremonies soon,” he said. “And you should announce a mate hunt right afterwards.”

  “All in good time, brother.” Hugo sipped his wine reflectively. “Great-grandfather told me that if we did not mate, we would turn to dust over our treasures. Do you think that's why we have no very old dragons hanging around our castle? Unless you believe those stones below are indeed the bones of our ancestors.”

  “You're being flippant,” Ivan reproached him. “But great-grandfather always said that if we didn't mate we would just wither away. He was right—dragons do need strong mates to be happy and have a long life.”

  Hugo snorted disdainfully and let flame flicker around his nostrils. “Well, he claimed to be two hundred and thirty years old when he died, if he was telling the truth. But in any case, I will defer my investiture until our period of mourning is up.”

  “Believe, Hugo. Grandfather lived a very long life. Long enough to seem immortal to ordinary men. He swore to the truth of his great age on his wife's honor. You know nothing is more sacred. And he might have lived longer if he had found a real dragoness to wed.”

  Ivan raised his glass to the portrait of a sternly visaged dowager in a tiara and satin draperies that hung opposite the fireplace. “To your great good health, Lady Sarkany,” he said solemnly.

  “Do you really think that one was a dragon born?” asked Hugo eying the portrait of his great-great-great-grandmother with searching eyes. “I've never yet met a female dragon who hadn’t been turned. Not one. Great-grandmamma was mortal. So was grandmother. And Mom. I don't know that I believe that female dragons are naturally born.”

  Ivan blinked his golden eyes. He chuckled. “I think that Amelia, Lady Sarkany looks fierce enough to have been a dragoness born. And that is what we were taught as boys. But it is equally true our entire race runs to sons. You get yourself a virgin and breed some little firelings to carry on the family name.”

  Hugo stretched out his long legs and smiled sardonically. “Virgins are rarer than unicorns,” he objected. “Rarer than dragonesses.”

  Ivan looked concerned. “Has to be a virgin if you want to turn her,” he said earnestly. “Otherwise, you won't have any young. No firelings at all.”

  Hugo snorted rudely. “Maybe it's time to put an end to the Sarkany dynasty. I don't know if the modern world has room anymore for twenty-four-foot long, fire-breathing, flying reptiles. Not much call for armor plated monsters.
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br />   “We dragons have given up fighting the battles of mortal kings. We trade these days instead of pillaging. We seldom stretch our wings. Perhaps it's time we faded away.”

  In the firelight, Ivan's hard face might have been carved from adamantine. He drew himself to his feet, a dragon roused. Flames leapt from his nostrils in his wrath. “You gave your word, Lord Sarkany. Don't bring a curse down on our line by breaking your vow to the Eldest. Seek a virgin. Woo her. Breed firelings.”

  Hugo made a face. “Great-grandfather is dead, brother, and his world with him. My world is full of beautiful women. Why should I restrict myself to just one, and deprive all the others? You be careful, you'll set fire to the draperies.”

  Ivan exhaled gustily and the tongues of flames went out. “You mock our heritage at your peril, Hugo. Don't joke about your destiny,” he urged his brother. “You are sneering what you should revere. You should begin your bride hunt as you promised. Do not doubt your fate.”

  “I’ve yet to meet a woman who was not more in love with my hoard than with Hugo Sarkany. Do you think my fated virgin would be any different?” Cynicism dripped from his words.

  “They say dragons love forever,” Ivan reminded his brother. “Your destined mate is out there waiting for you.”

  Hugo reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. He gave Ivan another sardonic glance and shook his head as if amazed at his brother's naiveté. “Keeping her virginal legs crossed until I arrive.” He laughed bitterly. “What are the odds, that I'll meet a virgin, fall in love, and persuade her she wants to become a dragon—and have a fireling, or two or three?”

  Ivan sat back down and restrained his temper. “It's traditional to deceive the virgin,” he reminded Hugo more calmly. “Once she's changed, there's not much she can do. She must accept that she herself is a dragon who is bonded forever to her lord.” He shrugged unconcerned.

  “You know, that's the place the old stories always end. But I always thought that was where the trouble would begin.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Tell me why you think you would be a good fit at Executive Services, Leah?” Abby Markham asked, her eyes on the form before her, rather than on the candidate who was seated on the other side of her desk.

  Leah St. George straightened her spine, squared her already erect shoulders, and smiled politely— in case Ms. Markham looked at her. Because I need a job and I need it now. Duh. “I am adaptable,” she said, trying to look competent, efficient and enthusiastic. “I think Executive Services could use a temp on the books who can walk into a new place and turn her hand to anything.”

  Leah had spent money she didn't have to make sure her blonde hair fell in shining waves to her shoulders. Her face was carefully made up and she was wearing her best, her only, wool suit. But it didn't seem as if she was impressing her prospective employer. She tried her widest smile, the one that showed her dimples.

  Abby barely glanced at her before making a note on her clipboard. She peered at Leah's CV on her computer screen, scrolled down, and moved on to the next question. “I see you haven't been employed for three years,” she said disapprovingly.

  Leah kept her broad smile on her face through sheer determination. “It depends on your definition of employment,” she said firmly. “I gave up my job at Lever Security Systems to be my grandmother's full-time caregiver. She had Alzheimer's. But I've been writing code freelance for the last three years.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Hmm, I have clients all over the US,” said Leah. “My client list is private, but I can provide some references if you would like.”

  Abby made another note and consulted her clipboard. “Why are you looking for a job now?”

  “My grandmother passed away last month, so I'm free to look for a day job again.” Leah managed her best corporate smile this time, to disguise how sad those words made her feel. “I would prefer a job in IT, but while I'm waiting, I would be an asset to your team.”

  Ms. Markham scratched at her clipboard with a pen. Her finger moved down her list on to the next question and the interview continued for another twenty minutes. At last, she stood up. “We'll be letting the successful candidates know next week,” she said dismissively, running censorious eyes over Leah's figure.

  Leah stood up and let her navy skirt fall into place just below her knees. Nothing she could do about her bosom or hips. They were as nature made them. Abundant. She held out her hand even though the other woman didn't seem to want to go through the bother of the social niceties. “Thank you for your time,” she said pleasantly.

  Abby watched Leah's tall, curvaceous body leave the office and her lips made a moue of distaste. She wrote on her clipboard and used her phone to speak to reception. “Send the next one in, Maddy,” she said.

  * * *

  “So did you get the job?” asked Beverley Simpson as she and Leah drank coffee at the Laughing Goat. Beverley was as dark as Leah was fair. Her glossy black hair framed her dark brown eyes and brought attention to her wide cheerful mouth.

  Leah had tugged her carefully arranged hair into an untidy bun on the top of her head and fastened it with a stick, just to get it off her neck. Curls fell artlessly around her face. She looked much less prim with her hair in disarray, thought Beverley. But what the heck, it was hot even for Atlanta. And Leah needed to loosen up a little.

  She and Leah had been friends since kindergarten when feisty Leah had faced down a pack of bullies who had thought they had a new victim in shy, sweet, gap-toothed Beverley. Their bond had held through high school and Bev's college days at Duke.

  Leah unbuttoned her suit jacket and folded it onto the seat beside her to reveal her high-necked, blue shell. Now that she wasn't being interviewed she didn't mind if her girls were on display. And a wool jacket was a trifle warm for Atlanta in May, even with air conditioning.

  Bev's question made Leah wrinkle her nose. She shook her head gloomily. “I don't know. I didn't feel as though I was talking to a person, if you know what I mean? Markham said she would call the successful candidates next week. Bless her heart.”

  Beverley blew out her breath in exasperation. “Typical. When did it get to be acceptable to be so rude to job hunters? She interviewed you—she could at least send an email.”

  Her friend laughed cynically. “I couldn't say, Bev. My Grandma told me that it used to be routine to send letters to job applicants—even when the letters were unsolicited. And she meant snail mail done by hand on a typewriter, and done over if you made a single mistake.

  “Now we have email, and folks claim to be too busy to make a form to reply, 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I probably will never know if or why I didn't make the grade.” Leah chuckled. “I sound like an old bat complaining about modern manners. But maybe I'll get the job.”

  “What are you going to do if you don't?” asked Bev in concern.

  “Get a job waiting tables, write some code online. Carry on. If I don't get a job here in Atlanta, I guess I'll have to try elsewhere. It's not as though I have anything much to tie me to Georgia anymore.” Leah's plump face looked dispirited just for a moment before she remembered to smile at her friend.

  “I'd miss you, girlfriend,” Bev said. “You keep looking. Have you heard anything from your real estate agent?”

  Leah laughed ruefully. “Oh, yeah. He's found me a buyer. The house closes next month. When all is done and dusted, I am only going to owe about fifteen grand. Grammy ran through all her capital and her house belongs to the mortgage company.”

  “Fifteen grand!” Bev was appalled. “Does that include the funeral?”

  “Nope. Thank goodness for Veteran's Affairs. But Grammy’s urn will still be living on my bookcase for the foreseeable future. I just cannot afford to have Poppy's plot opened up.” Leah swallowed hard and blinked back her tears. “Who knew how expensive it was to die?”

  Bev tossed her hair over her shoulders and patted Leah's hand. “Oh, you poor thing. But I'm sure you'll find something soon.”
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  “Sure I will,” said Leah, doing her best imitation of a plucky heroine. She stuffed the thought of her maxed out credit cards and her overdraft down deep. She didn't feel plucky. She felt scared and forsaken, but none of it was Bev's fault. Or Grammy's either. Old age and death weren't anyone's fault.

  The two women parted with genuine hugs. Bev went back to her job at the bank, and Leah to the bus stop. She thought about saving the bus fare by walking, but the humidity would make her sticky and that would do her interview clothes no favors.

  * * *

  “Good morning, ma'am,” Leah said in her sweetest tones to the woman glaring at her from the doorway of this morning's temporary office. “Are you Ms. Randall?”

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the tall, whippet thin woman who had entered Gwen Randall's anteroom.

  Leah smiled broadly and said in her syrupiest tones, “I'm Leah St. George, ma'am.” She paused a beat. “I'm the temp from Executive Services. I'm filling in for Cecelia Bradley today. She has the flu.” Another big smile. “Ms. Randall doesn't seem to be in yet. Can I help?”

  “The boardroom isn't open,” snapped the whippet.

  Leah stood up. She was five eleven in her sock feet, but today she had on three-inch heels for confidence. Good thing, too. The whippet was wearing five-inch stilettos but Leah was able to look over the top of her head and smile down into her infuriated face. “Is it Cecelia's job to open the boardroom?” she asked, keeping her voice as sweet as pie.

  “It supposed to be ready for the meeting at ten,” the other woman criticized. Which didn't really answer Leah's question.

  “I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do anything that Cecelia does until Ms. Randall gets in,” Leah said quietly. “This desk is locked. Her computer is password protected. I'm not authorized for anything, and IT tells me I have to get Ms. Randall to request authorization.” She looked at her watch. It was eight forty-three. She was not supposed to start work until nine.