Bear for Christmas: Kodiak Den #4 (Alaskan Den Men Book 15)

by Amy Lamont

  Bear for Christmas

  Kodiak Den Book 4

  Amy Lamont

  Productive Ink Media

  Contents

  Bear for Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Christmas with the Billionaire

  The Bet

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Excerpt: Snowbound with the Biker

  A Note from Amy

  Copyright © 2016 by Amy Lamont

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Bear for Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Ivy

  Gross. Using my ability to wander through the hotel clerk’s mind was a lot like walking through a frat house the morning after a big party. You had to tread carefully or God only knew what kind of vile substance you might encounter.

  I held back a sigh. As much as I’d like to abort this particular mission, picking through his brain to see if I could find any signs he recognized me was vital to my continued well-being. And while I found lots of remnants of several of the seven deadly sins, I couldn’t find any hint that he’d been in contact with anyone searching for me.

  I pulled back and widened my smile, my cheeks aching with the effort to hold it in place as I fought back the need to throw up a little in my mouth as one last impression hit me—a flash of lust as his eyes raked over me. Relief filled me as I completely disengaged from his thoughts and feelings.

  “Are we all set?” I managed to ask through the plastic grin that was beginning to feel more like a grimace with each passing second.

  “Let me just get you that key.” He winked at me as he turned to the rack on the wall behind the counter.

  I scanned the small hotel lobby. The whole place had a little too much of the feel of the Bates’ Motel for me with its orange floral décor reminiscent of the seventies and the desk clerk who looked fairly clean cut, but a dip into his mind showed a whole host of ickiness hiding behind the squeaky clean exterior. Even the sad little Christmas tree on a table in the corner looked like it could have been sitting there for decades.

  But beggars couldn’t be choosers. A brand named hotel came with all sorts of pesky problems. Like needing to keep a credit card on file and having my personal information stored in their databases. The people my father hired to find me were already getting a little too close for comfort on too many occasions. I didn’t need to make it easier on them.

  “Here you go, Miss.”

  I turned back to the clerk. He held out a blue keychain with a key dangling from the end. I reached out for it. “Thank you.”

  He leaned forward over the counter slightly and held onto the key for an extra long second before relinquishing his hold. “My pleasure. You’re all set up in room 127.”

  I nodded and pulled my rolling suitcase along behind me. It took every bit of self-control I possessed to walk sedately out of the office and back into the biting cold of the Montana evening. Every molecule in me wanted to run to my room as fast as my feet would go and lock the door behind me. Maybe pile some furniture in front of it for good measure.

  But I knew locked doors and even a pile of furniture would only give me the illusion of safety. If someone really wanted to get to me, the best it would do was hold him off for a few extra minutes. Better to behave normally and avoid suspicion so things didn’t progress to the point where I needed those few extra minutes to try to escape.

  So I put one foot in front of the other and even stopped at the vending machines tucked into an alcove between the hotel office and my room. I tried to be as nonchalant as possible as I examined my surroundings. Not much traffic on the two-lane road. There was a gas station across the street and a small diner that looked like its heyday had been around the same time as this motel’s. I’d stopped in there on my way from the bus station and picked up a sandwich to go before heading over here to check-in.

  I fed a dollar and some change into the machine and hit the button for water. I rolled my eyes when instead a bottle of Mountain Dew slid out the door at the bottom. What was that saying about luck? If it weren’t for the bad kind, I’d have none at all? That about summed up my life for the last month.

  Even though I knew better, I couldn’t fight the feeling of relief that slid through me as I locked the door to my room behind me and made use of the extra chain lock. A determined six-year old could probably bust her way inside, but it still felt good to be off the street and away from prying eyes.

  I hefted my bag onto the bed and eyed it longingly. I’d shoved my sandwich in there. The last time I ate was sometime yesterday afternoon and my stomach felt like it was gnawing away at me from the inside.

  But first things first. I huffed out a sigh and got to work. I checked every nook and cranny of the room thoroughly—peeking under the bed, behind the shower curtain, under the sink, and inside the closet. A shudder shook through me at the sight of some of the stains on the carpet. I’d be happy to never know what might have caused those spots.

  I made sure the high bathroom window was locked, even though it would be almost impossible for a grown person to slip through. The money offered for my capture and return was a mighty motivator. Perhaps enough so that one of the people searching for me might find a way to get through there.

  The window next to the front door was the worst spot. I double-checked the lock, but it would be fairly simple for someone who knew what they were doing to pop it.

  I moved back to my suitcase and pulled a bag from the front zipper compartment. The window was my first priority. I dug the sliding bar window lock out of the bag along with a pair of pliers. I slid it into the window frame and with a quick glance out through the curtain to make sure I didn’t have an audience, I twisted the screw tight with the pliers. After testing that it would keep an intruder from sliding the window open, I let the ugly orange floral curtains fall back into place.

  Next I pulled a portable door alarm from my bag and attached it to the doorknob. Not like it would offer me much protection. Once somebody managed to get the door open, I’d be in trouble. But at least I wouldn’t be caught completely off guard.

  The last item in my bag was a wedge to stick under the door. I used the steel tip of my black boot to kick it firmly into place.

  With a glance around, I knew I’d done the best I could to make the space safe. Time for a shower. If I had to run for any reason, at the very least I’d be clean.

  I flipped open my small suitcase and the aroma of the warm sandwich floated up to me. My stomach rumbled in response and I dropped my eyes closed for a second. For a run-down old diner, the place across the street knew how to make a tempting sandwich. Thanksgiving on a Bun, they called it—turkey, stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce on a long roll.

  The smell made me long for home. I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell too much on what I was missing, but the reminder that Thanksgiving had just passed sent a wave of homesic
kness crashing through me.

  I carefully pulled my breath in through my nose, ignoring the hot prickle stinging behind my eyes. I did my best to shove down thoughts of home and resolutely placed the sandwich on top of the small, scarred dresser that held an equally battered television.

  I rifled through my meager possessions, pulling out my toiletry bag, clean underwear, and a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt. As if the tiny reminder of home had opened a door in my mind, I found myself looking at my utilitarian clothing and toiletries and thinking of all the things I’d left behind when I ran away from the home I shared with my father.

  Leaving the way I did meant packing light. And that meant leaving behind silky undies, lacey nightgowns, designer clothing and handbags, and expensive lotions and makeup.

  My current miniscule wardrobe came mostly from big box discount stores. No designer labels. No twenty-dollar bottles of shampoo or hundred-dollar tubes of lotion. My things now were strictly no-frills all the way. Strictly utilitarian. That didn’t mean that I didn’t miss my ruffles and lace.

  I shook my head at my silliness. My newest psychic talent—being able to read people’s feelings and get a sense of their thoughts—had allowed me to see things in a way I never had before. I hadn’t even intended to peek into my father’s mind.

  But what I found there made me see my entire life in a new light. I was no longer the beloved, sheltered daughter of the brilliant Dr. Quinn, but more like some decades long science experiment. The home I loved, filled with memories of holidays and dinners and special moments with my father, suddenly looked more like a really pretty petri dish.

  So for now no more frills or designer shoes. Right now didn’t have room for those things. Maybe my life never would again.

  And I was okay with that. Because even if I didn’t have fancy and expensive, I wouldn’t be living like someone’s expensive pet. Whatever and however my life played out from here on out, I knew one thing.

  My life was mine. Nobody else would ever be calling the shots. I’d never allow anyone to get that close again.

  Chapter 2

  Ivy

  Once I’d showered, dried my wild curls into some semblance of order, and dressed in my clothes that were comfy enough to sleep in but decent enough to wear out in public should I need to hit the road fast, I got to tuck into my dinner.

  I allowed myself one indulgence while I ate and got ready for bed—the television. As much as I knew I should listen for potential intruders, I needed the escape from my own thoughts provided by some mindless show.

  I kept the volume down low, but I took comfort in the sounds of the chatter of some eighties sitcom family and the canned laugh track. My father had kept me sheltered most of my adult life, and I’d allowed it even past my twenty-first birthday. If I’d thought of it at all, I assumed his overprotectiveness came from the fact that he loved me, and between his wealth and the work he did with the government, he didn’t want me to be the target of potential enemies.

  But even though my number of friends and acquaintances was limited then, it was nothing compared to the isolation I’d lived with the last month. I’d moved from place to place, never staying anywhere longer than a day or two. Every person I interacted with, I couldn’t help but view as a potential threat.

  “Enough with the gloomy thoughts,” I told myself. Life on the run wasn’t all bad. I took pleasure in all the ways I’d learned to take care of myself. It wasn’t anything earth shattering. But before I left home, I’d never traveled alone, never used public transportation, never worried about my own safety too much.

  Not like the simple steps I’d taken to secure my room were anything to write home about. Stuff I’d learned on the internet. And managing to stay one step ahead of my father’s men had a lot more to do with my abilities than any skills on my part.

  But I managed to stay one step ahead of men I assumed were experienced in tracking people down. Knowing my father, they were the best money could buy. I felt a little pride in that fact.

  Only one thing I hadn’t quite managed to figure out. I gave the tiny coffee maker on the edge of the dresser an evil glance. This would be another thing I’d put in my bad luck column.

  Coffee was part of the reason I kept putting one foot in front of the other every day. It made me believe in the existence of God.

  I moved over to the coffee maker, approaching it like I would an injured animal—slowly, cautiously, ready to run at the slightest sight of danger.

  The thing that made my coffee addiction even better was the fact I didn’t seem susceptible to the effects of caffeine. I could hit the Starbuck’s drive-thru for a giant latte five minutes before bed, and it never gave me insomnia or made me restless or jittery.

  None of this might sound like bad luck. In my life before a month ago, it wasn’t. My father’s housekeeper kept our coffee brewing all day long. A few of the people that worked for my father were amused by my obsession and often brought me a coffee or a latte or some other coffee concoction.

  Now that I was on my own, I discovered something horrible about myself—I couldn’t brew a cup of coffee to save my life.

  That didn’t keep me from trying, though.

  I carefully read the instructions on the top of the little coffee brewer. Sounded so simple. I opened the package holding the coffee in a little tray. I slid the tray into the slot at the top of the brewer and filled a cup of water to pour into the top. Pressing the start button, I placed the cup under the drip.

  As the aroma of coffee hit my nose, I couldn’t help but grin. It smelled like coffee was supposed to smell. Maybe this little brewer was foolproof.

  I watched the dark liquid drip into the cup for a few more seconds that felt more like hours. Maybe I should keep myself occupied.

  The thought reminded me that I hadn’t yet finished my safety precautions for the evening. I carefully repacked my small suitcase, placing the half of sandwich I’d saved on top.

  I placed the case at the foot of the bed and lined up my boots next to it. I tucked the hotel key, my small penlight and a stack of cash into the pocket of my pants. Everything was packed and ready to go should I need to make a fast escape.

  A hiss came from the brewer, letting me know my coffee was done. My teeth sank into my bottom lip as I made my way over to it. I reached for the cup and brought it to my lips, ever hopeful that even I couldn’t manage to ruin coffee in that simple little coffee maker.

  A long sip told me my luck hadn’t changed. I spitting the brackish brew back into the cup. Gross!

  With a huff, I carried the cup to the bathroom and dumped the offensive swill into the sink, spewing a few curse words under my breath as I watched it swirl the drain.

  “What did you expect?” I asked myself as I tossed the cup in the wastebasket.

  Since I wouldn’t have a treat to enjoy this evening, I figured I might as well go to bed. I slid between the scratchy sheets, and I absolutely did not spend any time thinking about the soft, million thread count sheets I’d left behind.

  I used the remote to lower the volume on the television until it was barely audible. This was another new ritual. The voices made me feel less lonely, and even better, the light from the flickering television meant I wouldn’t wake up to a dark room, unable to see if anyone slipped in while I slept.

  I snuggled down under the covers and tried to come up with a plan for the immediate future. Maybe I could stay here for the next few days. No new premonitions had warned me of imminent danger. Was it possible I’d managed to evade my father’s men?

  Not for the first time, I wondered how long I’d have to stay on the run. Would my father eventually give up? I toyed with the idea of calling our housekeeper, Mrs. Rollins. In addition to keeping me in coffee, she’d also always been kind to me, almost motherly. Maybe she wouldn’t tell my father if I called to see if she had any information about what was going on there.

  I dismissed the idea immediately. Of course I couldn’t call her. She owed her l
oyalty to the man who signed her paycheck, not his daughter. I was sure she wouldn’t appreciate me putting her in that kind of position either.

  Laughter from the television made me flick my glance in that direction. The voice of the sitcom mom drifted to me—“You’re going to need to trust somebody, sometime.”

  I snorted my disagreement with the sitcom mom as I snuggled deeper under the covers. Trusting people was the best way to get you into trouble. I’d take a lifetime of motels and bad coffee over being an unwitting prisoner and political pawn every again.

  As I closed my eyes, a vision drifted through my mind. Not a premonition. No, this was a picture of my dream man. He didn’t come in the premonitions I had while awake. But for almost a week now he’d been pushing his way into my dreams.

  He was huge and fierce. His looks were part soldier, part lumberjack, part serial killer. In my dreams, he always stood between me and something else, something I couldn’t see. I could never tell if he was protecting me or keeping me from getting to safety.

  But in every single dream, his molten brown eyes pinned me in my place. The look in them holding me enthralled.

  I always woke up unsettled from these dreams. But as I tumbled into sleep, I couldn’t decide if I hoped for a dreamless sleep or another sighting of my soldier-lumberjack-serial killer.

  Chapter 3

  Ivy

  I bolted up straight in bed, coming awake in an instant. My breath came in harsh pants as my eyes scanned the room. The television provided enough light to show me I was alone, but something had pulled me from sleep.

  The clock beside the bed read 3:12. The middle of the night. I tried to remember if I’d been dreaming, but nothing came to me. It could just be the strain of the last month making me jumpy.