by C J Matthew
TREASURE
Celtic Zodiac Shifters
Paranormal Romance: Willow
by
CJ Matthew
Table of Contents
Title Page
DEDICATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Celtic Zodiac Shifters
Dragonstruck
Slone's Bounty
Murdoch
Devlin
Also by CJ Matthew:
Acknowledgements:
About the Author:
Copyright
DEDICATION
Treasure: Sea Dragon Shifters Book 3
is dedicated with love to my dear friend,
Heather.
I can’t thank you enough for
cheering me on in my writing career.
And Facebook has now designated you
my number 1 fan. Way to go, my dear!
Chapter 1
Liam
Liam Rudraige jammed his arms into his raincoat, jerked the collar up against his neck, and stomped out of his Port of Dublin office. Into a torrential downpour. Damn it. He had work to do. Critical work. So why the hell was he hurrying home in the middle of the day? Because when his cousin Murphy, the almighty clan chieftain, wanted a secret conversation, Liam went directly to the secure communication room in his condo. The top-boss sea dragon in Boston didn’t give a damn about time zones, either.
Ducking his head, Liam ran for the car. Since it was the first week of April, he could guess the topic of Murphy’s call. And he seriously had no time for any Druid crap. Sliding into his car, Liam dripped rainwater all over the upholstery. Swiping his wet face with one hand, he twisted the key in the ignition with the other. This wasn’t his year; it wasn’t anywhere near his turn again.
He backed out of the reserved space and steered toward his condo building located in the less commercial end of the Port. The last thing he wanted to do today was spend time quibbling over the clan’s ancient Celtic obligation. Their family of sea dragons was fairly bursting with eligible Guardians. In fact, more than half of his far-flung Rudraige cousins had been born under the Celtic sign of the Willow tree.
Centuries ago, Murphy’s father had established the Guardian’s calendar, and Liam’s regularly scheduled service had rolled around just two years ago. During his designated month, Liam had gone above and beyond by making a significant contribution to the hidden island’s perimeter defense. After spending each night patrolling underwater along all the shorelines, he’d worked from dawn till noon every day developing a new coastal early warning system. By the day of his departure, he had his invention installed, tested, and working along the western coast.
Leaning over the steering wheel, Liam wiped the condensation off the inside of the windshield. Slowing for the usual puddles, he finally pulled into the condo parking garage. Hey, whose year was it? His copy of the official Rudraige calendar had to be somewhere upstairs. He’d check, identify the dragon who was on tap, and raise holy hell.
Liam turned off the engine. The sharp edge of his temper was already wearing off. Quick to temper, the curse of a ginger. He brushed back his wet hair. His red, shoulder length, wet hair. In his youth, a loss of temper usually resulted in a burst of immature behavior. Hell, he’d often resembled a terrible-two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
And he’d always regretted the outbursts. As he matured, he’d heard about and tried different methods to handle his temper. Liam stepped from the car, grabbed his briefcase, and on the short walk to the elevator, left a trail of water drops and wet shoe-prints from his expensive, sloshing shoes.
So far, the best anger management solution had been the recommendation to simply walk away until his temper cooled. It worked for most instances of pushy business associates and drunks at the pub, but it was not an option when dealing with the clan chieftain.
He shed his drenched coat, clothes and shoes at the front door. Wrapped in the terry robe he kept in the hall closet, he password-ed and palm-scanned his way into the mini-secure room tucked into a corner of the condo. Then he signed onto Muirdris Shipping’s worldwide communication software to connect to Murphy in Boston.
His most recent ‘walk away and cool off’ tactic had been spectacularly unsuccessful. The grand finale of months spent politely avoiding the persistent American gobshite from Wells and Hancock Public Relations firm of New York. Liam had been proud and excited when the Irish government had committed to developing the Port of Cork into a major container vessel hub. So excited, he’d personally fired up the rest of his Muirdris cousins.
Until that annoying Yank arrived and began pestering him about attending every meeting. Insisting he vote on every insignificant aspect of each and every project? Too much. Liam already had an active port to supervise. So, he’d spent the entire last quarter of last year ducking the man. And he’d soon discovered the hard drinking, fast talking Yank had no boundaries.
Liam held a steaming mug of tea in both hands when Murphy’s face appeared on the computer screen. And the devious chieftain began the call with an apology. A tried and true tactic to disarm the poor git, the soon-to-be-victim, at the other end of the call.
“I’m sorry Liam, to pull you away from the office, but our Willow Druids wanted me to once again pass along their gratitude for the amazing job you did installing the wind-powered warning system outside the magic perimeter on the western coast.”
Lifting one shoulder in a modest shrug, Liam pointed out, “I left behind all the design drawings and instructions...” and the Willow guardians last year, on duty from April 12th to May 15th, claimed they were too busy fighting Hunters to make any progress extending the system.
Murphy made a tsk sound. “Unfortunately, last year the Hunters renewed their focus on the Southern coast. And so far this year, the Druids report Hunters have concentrated their efforts between the south and east coast.”
“The early warning alarm I designed is just that. A signal that a boat or underwater device is nearing the magical barrier. It can’t stop the intruders. It doesn’t work like magic. We’ve got a huge coastline to protect. The system is meant to give the Guardians a little extra time to pinpoint and check out what’s approaching. Is it a Hunter submarine or an innocent fishing boat?”
“No doubt about it, Liam, it’s an important contribution to the defense of Draíochtia. And before we go any further, I do realize this is not your year; not your turn. However, the Druids also mentioned the awesome success of your Bealtaine festivities two years ago.”
Liam gritted his teeth, just managing to clunk his mug of tea onto the table before his hands lengthened and huge claws appeared. His sea dragon was near the surface, ready. Hell, Murphy was going to order him to return to Draíochtia ahead of schedule.
“Seriously, Murphy?” Liam grumbled. “First you flatter me about the warning system, after you failed to prioritize working on it to last year’s guardians. They didn’t devote a single day to the expansion, and you didn’t say a word. And now comes the truth. The real reason you want me to give up a month of my work year, out of turn, and it has nothing to do with the system. It’s because I’m the Druids’ favorite party planner?”
The silence that followed vibrated with tension.
“Careful,” Murphy growled. “You’ve pushed me
to the limit.”
“Sorry.” He waited a beat, then went on, “Per our usual custom, I’ll forward my office numbers and iPhone to Boston headquarters while I’m on Draíochtia. I’ll be incommunicado beginning with a travel day on April 13th. I’ll swim back to Ireland on May 16th.”
“Liam,” Murphy said, realizing he’d won, “maybe you could go for one—”
“Heads-up, chief, I’m gonna need a budget increase for the Willow sponsored Bealtaine festival on Draíochtia. After you and I convince the Druids to select Murdoch’s new mate, Annalisa, as Queen of the May, our entire clan will want to be there. Since only two cousins have found mates so far, I should be able to persuade them to allow a thirty-two-hour festival visit, like a dispensation, for any Rudraige Clan sea dragon shifter to bring his claimed mate, don’t you think?”
“Thank you for going.”
“No problem.” Shooting his clan chieftain an evil grin, he shut down the connection. He accessed his plans for the early-alarm and spent several hours ordering enough parts to build a decent extension. Then it took him what remained of the workday to arrange paid vacation time for most of his office staff and designate a person to take charge of the docks and his Muirdris ships sailing during the weeks he’d be gone.
After a quick dinner, he consulted his Celtic Bealtaine festival plans and guest list from two years ago. As soon as he arrived at Draíochtia, he’d urge their Willow Druids to invite every other house of the zodiac and as many of their guardians as they could spare.
Liam began ordering supplies while keeping in mind the tricky delivery to an invisible Island that didn’t appear on any map or GPS. Two years ago, he’d arranged for the party food, drink, supplies, and wood for the continuous bonfires to be loaded aboard a Muirdris cargo ship in the Dublin Port. Then the skeleton crew anchored off shore and went below while sea dragons, flying dragons, Selkies, and shifters of all varieties moved the cargo ashore to the Willow village.
Good news, following tradition, the party would begin at sunset on April 30th with the lighting of the bonfires, food and drink. Then continue through Mayday with dancing around the Maypoles, a procession to honor the chosen May Queen, more food and more drinking.
The Willow Guardians on duty should be able to party in shifts with no danger to the hidden Island.
Chapter 2
Heather
Heather rose to her feet, straightening the stack of slick Wells & Hancock PR folders on the conference table in front of her.
“No,” she said in her quiet, firm voice. “That’s unacceptable. I can’t believe you want me to follow in my predecessor’s footsteps. I was told fixing Lester’s mess is the reason you brought me on. Moved me all the way here to Cork from New York.”
“You come highly recommended,” her new supervisor, Jeff, murmured.
“Not as a sledgehammer. My specialty is building long-term relationships with our clients. The shipping company executives you’ve been targeting are disgusted by Lester’s take-no-prisoners-attitude and his pitbull behavior. You have to understand each shipping executive sees their role in developing the port in Cork differently. They do want to participate, but at varying levels. Most of them already have ongoing obligations to their ancillary businesses in Dublin.”
“What makes you such an expert?” Jeff asked. When he raised his chin like that, he looked just like his namesake uncle and half owner of the Manhattan based firm, Mr. Jeffrey Wells. She’d also carefully considered that complication before accepting this assignment.
“You’ve only been here a few days,” Jeff pointed out the obvious.
“I did all my homework before I accepted this promotion,” she said. “We need to—”
“Your first assignment,” Jeff-the-jerk spoke over her, “is to figure out which contracts with W&H are missing signatures and follow up immediately on those.”
She stayed calm. “There wasn’t much in Lester’s desk and his office PC was wiped clean. Do you have his business phone, or a diary or any of his call records?”
“No. But as I just said, we need to identify the unsigned contracts to know who to go after.”
The nephew was a nightmare. Instead of listening, he was mansplaining her job priorities to her. “Before we go after anyone, we need to figure out how badly Lester harassed these people already.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jeff insisted. “Most of the contracts are coming up on their due dates. The one that jumps out is with Muirdris Shipping.” Jeff waved a sheaf of legal-length papers in the air. “Nothing has been signed by Mr. Rudraige and several are about to expire. You need to track him down. Get his signature now. Today.”
Not without a current assessment of Mr. Rudraige’s attitude toward W&H. “Do you know how the Muirdris manager feels—”
“Mr. Liam Rudraige doesn’t have feelings.” The way Jeff said the word made it sound dirty. “He’s a Director of Muirdris Shipping. And one of the very first and most vocal supporters of the Port of Cork expansion. Unless he recently had a complete change of heart, he should have signed all of these contracts with our company a year ago and be ready and willing to renew today.”
Trying to reason with Jeff was futile. The man wasn’t listening. His default response was to argue with her. Better appear to go along until she could figure out Rudraige’s state of mind toward their PR firm on her own. “I’ll do my best to contact the Muirdris director today and—”
“Your best? Like hell. Just get his damn signature,” Jeff finished her sentence on his own terms.
We’ll see. Heather made a point of taking the stack of unsigned or coming-due contracts from Jeff and slid them into her briefcase on her way out of the conference room. Back in her office, she closed the door and called the Muirdris port of Dublin number. And hit a brick wall. The receptionist—“Mikayla, how may I help you?”—was very polite with a charming Irish accent, and obviously fibbing since she followed up with: “I can’t be certain where Mr. Rudraige is right now. And until I have more details on his travel plans, I can’t confirm an appointment for you.”
Time to grovel. No matter what, she needed this woman to know that Lester no longer represented their company. And his tactics weren’t condoned by…well, by her or the owners in New York.
“Understood. As Lester’s replacement, I want you to know, W&H is embarrassed by his behavior, ashamed of his conduct. Please accept my personal apology to you, Mikayla. And I’d appreciate the opportunity to apologize in person to Mr. Rudraige. With my pledge not to harass you or him, ever, and to keep the apology short. Perhaps he could spare me a minute or two of his time?”
“Heather did you say?”
“Yes.”
She cleared her throat then said, “Mr. Rudraige is leaving Dublin tomorrow for an extended business trip. If you call back after May14th I’ll try to get you an appointment.”
“Thank you, Mikayla. That’s very kind and I will call back. If he happens to come back early, could you let me know?”
Heather considered delivering the bad news to Jeff face to face versus telling him over the phone. The phone won. She called her supervisor on the intercom and vowed to keep it short. “I spoke to the receptionist at Muirdris shipping. Mr. Rudraige is leaving Dublin for a month-long business trip. I believe her. She said she doesn’t know where he’s gone. I question that.”
“Of course, she knows. What a ridiculous lie. And I might know as well.”
“Where Rudraige is headed?”
“Exactly. The man seldom travels. Until two years ago when he took three or four weeks off, all at one time and flew to the Scottish Highlands. I suspect he could be an avid angler.”
Who goes fishing every other year? “If you expect me to follow him to Scotland, try to track him down, I need to refuse. I don’t have time to spare for a wild goose chase and certainly not the budget.”
“I can solve both your problems. I have a friend with a plane. I’ll convince him to fly you to Inverness. You snoop around for a
few days and if there’s no sign of Liam, I’ll send my friend to bring you back.”
“That sounds really dicey.”
“What alternative do you have?”
“You fly to Scotland and search for Mr. Rudraige. In those several days I can promise I’ll catch up with half the corporate executives on your list and get their names on these contracts.” She picked up the folder did her best to stare Jeff down.
“Good plan,” he snapped back. “With our places switched. You’re going to Inverness, Scotland. I’m taking the folder of unsigned contracts and by the time you return, I’ll have more than half the names on the dotted line.”
The next afternoon, the taxi dropped her off at the Air Charter section of Dublin airport and a young woman in light blue coveralls escorted her to a twin-engine plane. The pilot friend of Jeff’s—"call me Drake”—eyed her business suit and heels, tossed her bag behind the front passenger seat, and made her climb up into the cabin. She’d never flown in a plane this small.
Fastening the seatbelt, her traitorous brain replayed every movie scene with a plane crash. Drake swung himself into his seat, donned his headset and looked a smidge more professional. “First time in a small plane?” he asked.
“I flew in a Gulfstream once.”
“La de dah.”
“Is it okay if I catch a nap?” She might survive if she closed her eyes and kept them closed.
“Sure. Go for it.”
An hour and a half into the flight they hit turbulence. The plane dropped like the elevator in Tower of Terror. Her eyes flew open, she shrieked, and grabbed for anything to hang on to.
“I’m altering our course,” Drake announced, “see if we can get away from the worst of this.”
After endless minutes of the plane jerking and bouncing, it seemed Drake finally found smooth air. She released her death grip and was trying to restore blood flow to her fingers when he shouted, “Brace yourself. Incoming.”
“What?” She twisted around, tried to see what was coming. “A missile?”