Tigers in Her Bed [The Tigers of Texas 7] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)
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The Tigers of Texas 7
Tigers in Her Bed
Sexy tiger shape-shifters Sam and CJ Goldclaw have a strict rule—they don’t get involved with guests on their vacation ranch. When Rachel returns to the ranch, she’s not a guest anymore. All bets are off as they spend steamy summer nights together. But she lives and works in New York, and they won’t leave Texas. Rachel’s boss, Mason, also wants to stake a claim. Can they work out a long-distance love affair, or is their hot and heavy attraction too much to resist?
When danger rears its ugly head it threatens to separate Sam, CJ, and Rachel forever. Sabotage threatens their relationship and the future of the ranch. If they don’t discover the culprit in time it could mean the end of all their dreams.
Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Paranormal, Shape-shifter
Length: 50,199 words
TIGERS IN HER BED
The Tigers of Texas 7
Em Ashcroft
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
TIGERS IN HER BED
Copyright © 2015 by Em Ashcroft
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-721-2
First E-book Publication: September 2015
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
TIGERS IN HER BED
The Tigers of Texas 7
EM ASHCROFT
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
The weather reporters weren’t kidding when they said it would be hot. Heat waves shimmered outside the minibus, and the air conditioning roared with effort. The fields that Rachel had seen as green last year now had brown patches, and the animals they’d seen on the way to the ranch house sheltered under the trees, or weren’t in evidence, no doubt in their nice air-conditioned stables and shelters.
Rachel found a clip in her bag and twisted her hair back and up.
“It’s better than New York,” her companion said. Dana always acted reserved and looked as cool as a cucumber, whatever the weather. Maybe coming from one of the best families in the city was really bred into the bone, as they claimed. While Rachel made do with a messy updo, Dana’s hair was sleeked into a high knot on the top of her head, not a strand of golden hair out of place.
“I guess. Is anywhere pleasant in August?”
“Alaska.”
That forced Rachel into a laugh. “I guess so. Or London?”
Dana shook her head. “It gets hot there as well.”
Of course Dana would have visited Europe. She’d probably done a gap year. While Rachel envied her experience, she didn’t resent it, just decided she’d make it there one day and see all the things she’d read about.
She was on her way. She’d gotten a promotion from receptionist at Style magazine to PA by the boss—the new boss, who was sitting at the front of the bus, his white dress shirt doing nothing to hide the muscular power underneath. One step further toward her ambition of joining the creative side.
“Edinburgh,” she said on a spurt of inspiration.
Her boss turned around. “You were saying?” he said in that accent that made every woman melt. “Talking about me?” He winked at her and added, “Lassie?”
Since he’d arrived in the States, Mason had collected hearts on the strength of that accent, and he knew it, too. After last year’s scandal, Style had been sold to a Scottish publisher, and Mason McCall came over to take control. Although he didn’t seem the kind of person to run a fashion magazine, being ripped, plainly though expensively dressed, and, oh yes, male, he’d turned it around until Style was once again associated with fashion and not fraud. The man knew what he did best and left the rest to the experts.
“I was saying,” she said, trying to concentrate on what she meant, “that Edinburgh would be cooler at this time of year.”
Her boss raised a dark eyebrow. “Not always. In any case, Edinburgh is the last place you’d want to be in August. It’s a madhouse.” She loved the way he pronounced it “madhoose.” “The Festival is on, and every corner of the city is filled with comedians, actors, and their audiences. My parents hire out their house in August and go away on holiday.” He grinned. “Alaska would be a better bet right now.”
Leaving them smiling, he turned around as the bus came to a halt in front of the hotel.
A few “oohs” and “ahs” came from the group of people in the bus, all of them staff from Style magazine here to do
the feature and shoot. The main ranch house at Goldclaw was a hotel, specializing in weddings, although none were happening here for another week or two. A few miles off lay their ultimate destination, the Goldclaw vacation ranch, which offered more active activities. They’d drive over there tomorrow.
Rachel felt as if she was coming home. Disconcertingly so, because she’d spent only a week here in her life. But some places just felt like that, as if they were meant to be, as if she could move in tomorrow and just…blend in. Equally disconcerting because Goldclaw was the home to shape-shifters. Tigers, to be precise, although she’d heard of other shape-shifters living here.
She’d even met two of them in more…intimate circumstances. She didn’t know if she wanted to meet them again for, well, reasons. The thought made her nerves prickle.
As they climbed down from the bus that had collected them at the airport, the heat hit her. That was the only way to describe the solid wall of humidity that smacked her in the face like a washcloth in a sauna. Gasping, she set her sights on the hotel entrance, clutched her purse, and grimly headed for it before she passed out.
Behind her, exclamations chorused, but Rachel took no notice of them. If she did, she’d get distracted and then she’d struggle. As she passed through the door to the hotel, a blast of cool air bathed her from head to foot. She couldn’t resist an “ah!” of complete relief.
“It gets better in the afternoons,” an amused voice to her left told her.
Turning her head, Rachel confronted a beautifully dressed man, his caramel skin perfectly enhanced by his pale gray suit. He held out his hand. “I’m Sikander Goldclaw. Welcome to the Goldclaw ranch.” His eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you been here before?”
“I’m Rachel Lombardi.” She took his hand. Sikander was a lovely hunk of a man. His grip was cool and firm. “I came here last year for the wedding, when the previous editor of the magazine got married.”
They’d gotten into the habit of never mentioning Chelsea and Peter by name. Chelsea’s mismanagement and ultimate disgrace had almost closed Style for good. They’d been fortunate to find a new buyer.
She moved closer and lowered her voice, discovering that he smelled delicious, too, citrus cologne with an undercurrent of male. But he didn’t stir her the same way as two of his colleagues had. “We’re not talking about that. But I took a vacation on the ranch afterward.”
He winked, his dark eyes flashing. “Yeah, we don’t talk about that particular wedding much, either. I remember you now. Weren’t you one of the bridesmaids?”
“I was.”
“And a friend of Brooke’s?” Brooke had worked at Style before she’d moved here.
“I wouldn’t go that far, although we’ve been chatting online since. I took her job. At least, I took the job of PA to the CEO. She’s been incredibly helpful, and we’ve kinda struck up an online friendship, you know? I’m really looking forward to hooking up with her and meeting her kids and her—husbands.” She swallowed. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I do that.”
Sikander blinked. “Not at all.” He moved away slightly, fixing a professional smile on his face, ready to meet the next guest.
He was lying of course. Rachel always talked too much when she was nervous, and she found the habit hard to break. At least she was more aware of it now—more aware of the stunned look that came over people’s faces when she started rambling. Like when faced with a gorgeous man who happened to be a shape-shifting tiger. If a man had the surname Goldclaw, it was an even bet that he was a shape-shifter. Their naming conventions were different, based on where they lived rather than their family connections.
She’d taken a lot of care at work, but she still fell into the rabbit hole sometimes. Her boss used the simplest tactic of all, telling her to shut up, and weirdly, she appreciated it because she wasn’t always aware of doing it.
She was learning, though. Her mother said it was about time since she’d reached her mid-twenties still chattering away, but criticism didn’t help much. It just made her more nervous, and then she talked more.
Now she closed her mouth like a trap.
“Hi.” Mason’s warm voice came from behind her, addressing Sikander. “I’m Mason McCall, CEO of Style. Pleased to meet you.”
Sikander shook hands with him with every sign of relief, and Rachel could slink away. Keeping her mouth clamped shut, afraid of what would come out of it if she opened it, she listened to what was going on around her.
People were gazing around, chatting. The photographer, Gary Collier, was taking shots of the hall, his assistant, Kevin, hovering around him as usual. Gary was a damned good photographer, and although she didn’t find him personally attractive, he’d asked her for a date more than once. She might give in yet because he was talented, well-connected, and doing the same thing she wanted to do so badly. He was a creative. Rachel loved taking photographs and writing copy, but she’d have to work hard to get a post at Style.
Now she studied him, the angles he took to shoot the place, and realized he was posing. He’d delete all the happy snaps. He was doing it to impress. Not that the hall wasn’t worth photographing, but that wasn’t their target. Gary glanced at Rachel, grinned, and winked. She grinned back. She liked him—she just didn’t want him.
She hadn’t wanted anyone since she saw CJ and Sam last year, two of the shape-shifting tigers. But she couldn’t have them. They’d made that perfectly clear. One day she’d get over them, but it wasn’t happening yet. She’d probably see them this visit, and maybe that was all she needed to break the spell she seemed to be under. How could a holiday crush get out of hand so badly? At least, it had for her. She doubted they’d given her another thought once she’d left.
Sighing, she hoisted her purse, which was really more of a weekender, and made her way to the desk where the rest of the people from the bus gathered.
Finally her turn came. The man behind the reception desk glanced at the list and handed her a pair of keycards. “You’re on the fifth.”
“The penthouse floor?” She remembered that, even though she hadn’t spent long here. Only to watch the chief editor of Style marry her friend Brooke’s ex-boyfriend.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the keycards. “It’s not a penthouse, though. It’s one of the suites next to one. Your boss gets the penthouse. You’ll like it.”
Oh wow, she had a suite? That was great news, although she guessed that Mason wanted her close for work. He never stopped. He’d left his other assistant back in New York, but he was in contact with her constantly, so even she didn’t have any rest. Not that he didn’t have good reason. Chelsea Noble had left the magazine in one hell of a mess. Her image had run the place for years, but behind the scenes, she’d been skimming and stealing all along.
Rachel grabbed her bag and headed for the elevators. These were quaint, having been installed when the house was a private residence, but there was also a larger elevator for the people who preferred modern comforts farther back along the hallway. Rachel preferred the quaint ones, cramped by modern standards but luxurious, with gilt and brass trims and tinted mirrors lining the upper half of the interior. The buttons were cool against her fingers, and because she’d waited until the end, she had the cab to herself.
Leaning against the wood panels, staring at her reflection in the mirror opposite, she sighed with relief to find herself alone.
She didn’t accept she had a suite until she’d pushed the keycard into the slot and seen the green light come on. She went inside, smiling as she twirled, taking in the sofa, small kitchen area and wet bar, together with a large TV on the wall. Then she saw the bag, a garish affair from one of the most daring designers around. Her heart sank. She wasn’t to have the suite to herself. “Hi!” she called out.
“Hi!” came a voice from the bedroom. Dana.
She’d have preferred an ordinary room and some solitude to sharing. Rachel explored, opening the doors to see if there was another bedroom. Nope, this was a o
ne-bedroom suite, with a sofa bed in the main room that was obviously hers. At least the suite had an extra bathroom, although with only a shower.
Dana worked as liaison between the models and photographers and the magazine. Two models were arriving tomorrow, to pose on the shoot. So they’d be taking the other suites available. There was only one penthouse apartment, and Mason was using that as his office and center of operations. A vision came to her of women pushing sticks with little planes on them over a map. She was fond of old war movies, and she’d always liked those parts. They were cool centers of operation.
So blonde, perfect Dana was to be her roomie for the week. Shoots didn’t always take this long, but Mason wanted to scope the place out, or so he said, perhaps make a regular arrangement with them—if the price was right. Mason would spend his time here wining and dining everybody he needed to in order to get what he wanted. No doubt Dana would be an asset there, too.
The one evening gown Rachel had brought would get a hell of a workout. It was black and simple, and she’d dress it up with accessories when she needed to. She couldn’t compete with the designer masterpieces that came through the office doors, so she didn’t even try. These days every item was checked in and checked out carefully. In the old days, what Chelsea couldn’t sell or wear herself she’d throw to the office workers, to be pounced on and fought for like lions over a piece of meat.
That was just one way Chelsea had kept her staff in order. Mason didn’t bother with those tactics and insisted on careful accounting of everything that came into the magazine.
Sighing, Rachel unpacked into the small closet that she’d discovered. Her larger case had arrived. It stood in the middle of the room, its shabby reality reminding her she had a long way to go before she could relax for the evening. She’d better take a shower because Mason would probably want to discuss his timetable as soon as he’d finished initial explorations.