Rescue Bear (P.O.L.A.R. Series Book 1)

by Candace Ayers

  Copyright © 2019 by Lovestruck Romance.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This book is intended for adult readers only.

  Any sexual activity portrayed in these pages occurs between consenting adults over the age of 18 who are not related by blood.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Story Description

  1. Megan

  2. Roman

  3. Megan

  4. Roman

  5. Megan

  6. Megan

  7. Roman

  8. Megan

  9. Roman

  10. Megan

  11. Roman

  12. Megan

  13. Roman

  14. Megan

  15. Roman

  16. Megan

  17. Roman

  18. Megan

  19. Megan

  20. Roman

  21. Megan

  22. Megan

  23. Roman

  24. Megan

  25. Megan

  26. Roman

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  Rescue Bear

  P.O.L.A.R.

  Candace Ayers

  Lovestruck Romance

  Author’s Note

  P.O.L.A.R. (Private Ops: League Arctic Rescue) is a specialized, private operations task force—a maritime unit of polar bear shifters. Part of a world-wide, clandestine army comprised of the best of the best shifters, P.O.L.A.R.’s home base is Siberia…until the team pisses somebody off and gets re-assigned to Sunkissed Key, Florida and these arctic shifters suddenly find themselves surrounded by sun, sand, flip-flops and palm trees.

  One week.

  That’s all it took for Megan’s world to fall apart.

  She lost everything.

  Her marriage—shattered.

  Her business—demolished.

  Her life—ruined.

  Enter one hot Rescue Bear to pick up the pieces,

  build her back up,

  and shower her with the love she’s never known and always deserved.

  1

  Megan

  I knew before I walked any further into my house that I was about to become a cliché. Wife walks in on husband sleeping with someone else, wife screams and cries and tears at her hair. Husband, wearing a sheet and nothing else, chases angry wife and apologizes profusely as she runs out of the bedroom. There was nothing original about the scene that was about to play out.

  I listened to the loud moans, the grunting, the rhythmic knocking of my bedframe into the wall behind it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in the room as that bedframe rhythmically knocked into the wall.

  I stood at the bottom of the staircase staring at the framed photos that hung on the wall in the hallway just outside our bedroom door. I’d taken each one with care—capturing just the right lighting and angles in each of them. I’d managed to make Dylan look broader and “manlier” while also making myself look smaller and daintier. That hadn’t been easy. Then, after selecting the best proofs, I’d obsessed over the perfect matting and frame selection. Weeks of work had gone into the grouping on the wall. A thin layer of dust coated the top of each of the frames.

  The third stair always creaked. I skipped it as I climbed. I’d been meaning to fix it. It probably just needed a couple of screws to secure it. I’d refinished the staircase myself last year, but it probably still needed a little work. Just like the railing by the sixth step. The underside could use another sanding and a reapplication of stain. Those things were just a couple of the small projects on my list—a list that kept growing longer and longer. With no time to do anything but work in the shop that Dylan and I owned, the house had been somewhat neglected.

  Our bedroom door was ajar. A crumpled shirt on the floor, one that I recognized, had blocked it from fully closing. Or so it appeared. I’d ironed that shirt for Dylan just this morning. Now, crumpled carelessly on the floor with a button missing, it told a story of fevered passion. Said button was next to it, resting face down, possibly in shame of what was occurring on the bed nearby.

  Further into the room, were two pairs of pants, entwined. Another shirt, significantly smaller. It’d always bothered me that my shirts weren’t much smaller than Dylan’s. Really, it was only the cut that made them appear smaller. Beyond the tiny shirt, tiny underwear on the floor next to Dylan’s boxers. His socks. Why had he taken his socks off last? It would’ve made him look so stupid. The nude male body in just a pair of black cotton dress socks looked ridiculous.

  Standing outside of my bedroom door like some sort of burglar or peeping Tom, I was too afraid to lift my eyes from the clothing trail to the bed. It was the bed Dylan’s mother, Sandy, had gifted us. It was some fancy thing that came with remotes and a built-in heating system. Why we needed that in Florida, I’d never know. The sheets, I’d picked out while visiting my brother in DC. His wife and I had gone on a shopping trip for the perfect bedding for my very first co-owned bed. Something soft, but not too feminine for Dylan’s taste.

  The sounds grew louder. I felt like a third wheel, the only person in the room not caught in the throes of passion. Why did I feel like the intruder? It was my house. I had this weird feeling I’d walked into someone else’s home and was witnessing their personal moment. Two lovers, bound together, unaware of the unwanted spectator edging her way in. Why in the world I felt guilty was beyond me.

  When I forced my gaze higher, my eyes landed on a petite, shapely back. A small mole dotted her right shoulder and an even tan went all the way down the slim waist with no visible tan lines. Blonde hair bounced wildly from a ponytail, my husband’s hand entangled in it as they rocked together. His hand, a part of him that I’d always found so attractive, was a shade darker than her tan, the golden hairs dusting it just so. It was a beautiful hand, strong and well formed. I loved that hand.

  My carefully selected sheets were bunched at the end of the bed, the light duvet on the floor by Dylan’s socks. From my angle, I could see everything. Dylan’s legs, his paler feet digging into the mattress, pumping his hips upward. The owner of the beautiful back had her small feet planted on either side of my husband’s thighs, her toes curling. Her tight ass, her perfect curves, their joining, I could see it all.

  I could see everything but Dylan’s face. His handsome face was obscured by her body, his voice muffled as he grunted a name I didn’t recognize. That same face that had smiled at me that midmorning when he told me he had to step out of the shop to run some errands. As it pertained to the business side of the shop we owned, I wouldn’t understand it, of course. No need to worry my little brain about it. That face that had kissed my chin, an awkward miss of a kiss that I hadn’t thought to laugh at, was buried in the chest of a woman with perfect curves, a beautiful back, and a tight ass. It was calling out another’s woman’s name as he reached orgasm. It hadn’t been so long that I didn’t recognize the sound of his orgasm.

  Just to the side of their clutched hands
, over on the nightstand, was a picture of me and Dylan on our first date. Ten years earlier, at a pizza shop. He’d wanted pepperoni. I’d wanted sausage. We’d gotten pepperoni. A younger, more naive version of my own face stared out from the picture frame and onto what was happening on the bed, her smile appearing strained even then. Maybe she knew deep down. Next to her, Dylan. Dylan, always charming. Dylan, never wrong. Dylan, best boyfriend and worst husband. My Dylan.

  Groaning and ruffling of the sheets drew my attention back to my bed, and I watched as beautiful back rolled off of my husband and curled into his side. They spoke to each other with the breathiness of an orgasm’s afterglow, still unaware of my presence.

  I didn’t want to be a cliché. I didn’t want to be the wife who found her husband in their bed with another woman. I didn’t want any of it.

  I was never the type to run from problems, though. I squared my shoulders, shoulders much broader than those of the petite woman lying naked next to my husband, and cleared my throat. My voice was steady and clear.

  “We should probably talk, huh?”

  2

  Roman

  Sunkissed Key was about as hot as the fires of hell. It would’ve been scorching even if I wasn’t a polar bear shifter accustomed to frigid climates. As it was, I was melting into the ground. I couldn’t remember a time since we’d arrived that I hadn’t been sweat-soaked. My bear absolutely hated this miserable hellhole.

  Our P.O.L.A.R. office on Main Street had two window air-conditioning units. The damn things blew a stream of cold air about two feet forward in a straight line, never actually dispersing it throughout the room or cooling much of anything down. Only when I stood directly in front of them did I find any sort of relief. Then, I had to deal with listening to the others bitch about blocking the cool air.

  P.O.L.A.R. was our private ops task force, a specialized, clandestine unit within a worldwide army of shifters. Our unit name: League Arctic Rescue. There were six of us in our unit: Serge, Maxim, Dmitry, Alexei, Konstantin, and me. The “Arctic” part of “League Arctic Rescue” meant that we were usually based in a colder climate—Siberia, to be specific—where the daytime temperature didn’t plaster our thick fur to our bodies while we drowned in our own perspiration.

  Due to a little screwup, we found ourselves abruptly transferred to what could accurately be described as Dante’s butthole on Earth—Sunkissed Key, Florida.

  A month had passed and none of us had gotten acclimatized. It was mid-September and showing no signs of cooling off. Swimming in the vast expanses of the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico helped, but as soon as we stepped out of the water, the hot sun beat down mercilessly.

  I was sitting under one of the AC units in the office when we got the first hurricane warning. It wasn’t the biggest surprise. Something had felt off for days, and the way the pressure in the air shifted over our fur had been mentioned a few times. When headquarters sent us the memo, it all made sense. It would be our first hurricane, and I couldn’t help but get a little excited.

  We were used to doing real private operations work in Siberia—infiltrating organized crime, ensnaring double agents, doing the dirty jobs that government agencies didn’t keep paperwork on. The only thing we’d done since arriving in Sunkissed Key was break up bar fights, dissolve domestic squabbles, and drip sweat. The prospect of real danger was almost like an icy cool breeze. Almost.

  Serge, the team leader of P.O.L.A.R., stood and walked over to the printer. After a few seconds, the thing spat out a sheet of paper which he snatched up. He scanned it and thumped it, just as excited as the rest of us. “It’s about a week out. Looks like its path is going to slam right into us—head on, boys.”

  Dmitry stood up and nodded. “Okay.”

  “How do we prepare for a hurricane?” Alexei looked around the office like he was going to find a prep kit at his feet. “I mean, I’ve watched Gilligan’s Island and all, but I’m not sure we can tie everyone on this island to a tree.”

  “They didn’t tie themselves to trees.” I frowned. “Did they?”

  Serge shook his head. “It makes no difference what a bunch of actors did in a zany sixties sitcom. We’re getting off track here. Can we focus, please?”

  “I’ll call headquarters for detailed instructions,” I offered. “They hate me slightly less than they hate you bunch.”

  Maxim snorted. “That’s only because your sister works in the main office.”

  Shrugging, I reached for the phone, but Serge was faster. He pointed the mouthpiece at me and smirked. “Too slow. I love pissing off headquarters. It’s what I live for. You useless SOBs scout the island and find out what the locals do in these situations. God knows they’ve been through this before.”

  I scowled at Serge, not thrilled about being sent out in the heat. Even though the air conditioners sucked, they were better than the outdoors and straight sunshine. “Should I remind you that we’re here, on this flaming head of a matchstick, because of you?”

  He just laughed. “Yet, somehow, I’m still the boss and I still outrank you.”

  My bear didn’t like the reminder that someone else outranked him. It was always an issue in our league. We were all dominant brawlers, and our animals tended to be loners. Each one of us knew logically that in order for the unit to work efficiently, we needed to kowtow to an alpha, but knowing it was one thing. Doing it wasn’t as easy.

  Despite getting us banished to Florida, Serge was a good bear, a great soldier, and an even better man. He had never led us wrong in all the years he’d been our unit leader.

  Konstantin stood up from his spot in the corner of the office and stretched. He never said much, and that moment was no exception. He just silently left the office and shut the door behind him just as quietly. He was like a ghost most days.

  Alexei groaned. “I’ll follow Ghost. He freaks the locals out when he’s alone.”

  Maxim scooted his chair up to his computer. He was the techie of the league. “I’ve got this. Nothing that Google can’t provide answers for.”

  With nothing left to do in the office, I sighed. Outside, it was. I clapped Dmitry on the shoulder as I passed him and used my best Austrian accent. “I’ll be back.”

  Opening the door and stepping outside, I felt like a casserole stepping into a preheated oven. I shielded my eyes and squinted around at my surroundings.

  Our P.O.L.A.R. office was in a rented office space at the southern tip of the island. The last building before the island sloped into a sandy beach leading to the ocean. The view was stunning. Ocean as far as I could see, which, for a polar bear shifter, was far. It was a picturesque place and, if it wasn’t so miserably hot, it would’ve been a nice place for a vacation.

  Sunkissed Key was a three-mile stretch of land with one main road splitting it into two halves. Business controlled most of Main Street, from one end to the other, with homes dotting smaller roads that split off it. There was a lot of beach, a lot of beauty, and a lot of vulnerable areas if the hurricane did come at us head on.

  It was probably unwise to be excited about the idea of a hurricane coming. Lord knew I didn’t want anyone to get hurt or killed, but we were specially trained bears, built to fight and trained to rescue. And, we were slowly dying on this island. If the heat didn’t kill us, the boredom surely would. We all could do with a little excitement.

  Plus, we would each do everything in our power to ensure the safety of the island’s residents. We were the best of the best—highly-trained, adept operatives. If need be, we would protect our charges with our very lives.

  3

  Megan

  I sat on the top step of our staircase and waited for Dylan and his mistress to get dressed. Their hushed whispers were a one-eighty from their former passionate cries. I could hear parts of what they were saying. Dylan was shocked that I wasn’t at the shop. She was mad at Dylan for putting her in such an awkward situation. He was pissed at me—for coming home. It was great stuff, really.

&nb
sp; A few minutes later, she rushed past me on the stairs. She didn’t look back. I never even got a good look at her face, although I imagined she was as stunning from the front as she was from the back. Even her voice was attractive.

  Dylan was slower to emerge. He even took a shower first. I glanced at my watch a few times, wondering how long he was going to drag this whole thing out. The shop was closed while we were both away. He had to know that. Normally, he had a tantrum if we left the shop closed for longer than fifteen minutes.

  I sat there, my elbows resting on my knees and my chin in my hands. I didn’t know what I was feeling. My mind was racing with stupid thoughts that made no sense. I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the projects I needed to finish around the house and about how much there was on my to-do list.

  I expected anger to bubble up at some point—or sadness. My husband had cheated on me. In our own house, in our own bed, while I was off working at our business that he insisted we open. Yet, instead of being incensed, which would have been the logical response, I sat there picking at my nails wondering when Dylan would emerge from the bedroom. As each minute ticked by, nothing. And I just couldn’t stop thinking about all I needed to do.