Hollywood Bear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance

by Chant, Zoe

  “I’m not the one who has to keep an open mind. See ya.” She hung up and shut the door.

  Two long days followed. The first involved endless rehearsals of the fight choreography. The second day was taken up with a dozen takes without the main stars, then a dozen more with them. At the very end of the day, a new PA appeared as Shelley followed the extras off the set to turn in their costumes and get a well-earned dinner.

  “Shelley Willis?”

  “That’s me.”

  “They want to scout locations for the bike chase tomorrow, dawn,” he said. “They’d like you and the other stunt rider to go along.”

  “They want me to vet possible sites?” Shelley asked.

  The PA nodded.

  She told him she’d be ready, inwardly exulting. She was going to get to ride after all! For that, she’d take any number of “you’re a cockroach” glares from His Majesty.

  ***

  All day, Mick had tried not to be distracted by Shelley’s leather-hugging curves. She even made the spiked hair and black lipstick look dynamite as she socked, kicked, flipped, tucked and rolled through the takes.

  Later that night, when he watched the dailies, everyone else in the room commented about the great angles, the terrific energy, and how the stars looked. But Mick’s eyes stayed on the woman in black leather.

  Lust, that’s all it was, he tried telling his human mind. Lust was the cheapest commodity in Hollywood. Enjoy the view, move on. But his bear knew different.

  The truth he would never share with anyone?

  From the first time he had laid eyes on her, his bear had growled, Mate.

  Mike didn’t really believe in mates. During his dad’s rare, brief visits, he had taken his son aside to tell him that shifting, mates, and the old stories were stupid legends from the ignorant olden days. Modern people paid no attention to such things.

  Mick was ambivalent about a lot of it, but one thing he was convinced of was that relationships were much easier when they were kept short and light. Two hideous marriages—the first as a kid fresh out of the service, and the second following a drunken weekend after his first wrap party when he’d woken up next to a wife he didn’t remember marrying—had underscored that conviction.

  He hadn’t been drunk or inexperienced when Oona came along, but he’d been overseas on a grueling schedule. She had been so sweet, so lost, he couldn’t find any way to say no. Then came the big wedding, her big movie premiere, and her first big success. By the time he suspected that she had been playing a role all along, she was already looking for her next storybook romance with someone who’d won more Oscars.

  So now short and light was his guiding principle, and he intended to keep it that way. He was simply going to spend a beautiful spring morning in the hills watching a fine-looking professional handle a professional bike. Pure art appreciation.

  Nothing could be simpler.

  The next morning his mood was good when he strode toward the parking lot where the bikes waited. The sound of voices rose easily on the still morning air.

  “ . . . really going to wear those boots on a scouting run?”

  “Hey, these are the only boots I brought. I’d thought this was a two day gig.” It was her voice—he knew it before he saw her.

  As voices go, it was ordinary, not too high or too low, not the clear tones of a singer, but the sound wired straight to his brain.

  Mine, said his bear, rousing inside him. Mate.

  Oh, shit. Usually Mick had never had any problems keeping his bear locked firmly inside him. He stopped and leaned against a trailer, fists clenched as he fought his bear down.

  His grandfather had said when he turned sixteen, “You’ll know her when you find her. There won’t be anyone else.”

  But that was fairy tale talk. Love at first sight—utter nonsense. Lust at first sight, sure. He’d never exchanged a word with Shelley Willis. For all he knew she could be worse than his first two mistakes put together.

  Shut up, bear. Hibernate. I’ll let you out for a long woodsy ramble when the picture is over.

  “ . . . so they gave them to me. First time I was ever thrilled to wear size elevens,” she was saying cheerfully.

  Everybody else laughed.

  Mick slowed his breathing. He forced his locked muscles to relax.

  ‘The Russian Bear’ was just a nickname, given him during his stint in the U.S. Army Signal Corps because of his size. No one would ever know how true it was. He could handle his bear—keep the bear locked down tight.

  But to make certain, though the dawn light had barely lifted, he slipped on his sunglasses. Then he took in a slow breath, pushed himself away from the aluminum trailer wall, and rounded the last corner.

  Madison, his location manager, a spare woman in her late forties, and Jorge, the stunt double for his male star, had been talking to Shelley. The three broke off their conversation to look his way.

  There she was, in normal clothes, her shoulder-length brown hair ruffled around her face, a smile fading on her gorgeous mouth.

  Mick hated directors who kept everyone waiting around as if they were more important than God. “Ready to roll?”

  Madison stepped up to Mick and murmured, “The weather report says a fifty percent chance of a thunderstorm.”

  Mick shrugged. “You know what that means in Southern California.”

  “Half-empty glass,” she said, chuckling. “Just checking if you were okay with it.”

  “And even if it does come, we’re more likely to see it break over the other side of the valley.”

  “True.” Madison shrugged and headed for her jeep, camera slung over her shoulder.

  Jorge followed her, and Mick found himself walking next to Shelley. His heart drummed like a teenager on his first date as he breathed in her clean scent, catching a hint of tea tree shampoo. From behind the safety of his sunglasses he let his eyes roam over the extravagant curves inside her snug cotton hoodie jacket, and those tight jeans covering shapely legs as long as sin.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a KTM 400 I can loan you, instead of those old bikes we keep for the crew to beat up. Can you handle one?”

  Far from looking intimidated, she grinned, the corners of her delightfully curved mouth deepening.

  “My oldest brother has a couple of KTM bikes,” she said. God, she had a sexy voice. “I’ve ridden them. We’re doing endurance riding for this gig?”

  “That’s the idea. There’s some scenic possibilities off the usual trails.” Mick stopped by his personal trail bike, a Husky 610.

  He couldn’t help taking a fast glance to see her reaction. She stared in obvious delight at the big bike, her lips puckered softly as if she were about to whistle. He wondered how those lips would feel closing around his . . . He turned away quickly, heat shooting straight to points south. Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea.

  Yeah, like he was going to call it off.

  An hour later, the three bikes rode up the dusty trail of a canyon, scrub pine rising on either side. On the paved road above them, Madison followed in the jeep, pausing now and then to shoot quick videos of them circling around in possible locations.

  The weather was warmish, in the low eighties. The ground was firm, muddy only at the bottom of gulches and arroyos. It had rained last month. This was when Southern California was at its best, green and fresh, with wildflowers dotting the hillsides.

  Mick was content to hang back, letting the other two lead the way. He gave no indication that he knew every slope and valley in these mountains; his attention was solely on the incredibly hot sight of Shelley expertly handling a badass motocross bike.

  They started in rocky hills, dotted by scrubby black oak and low shrubs. Then they rode higher. The temperature lowered to the perfect low seventies as they entered hidden valleys thick with aromatic cedar and several types of pine.

  Twice they stopped at forks on the trail. Both times Mick influenced Madison’s choice of direction by gazing off in
the direction he wanted. The others picked up the cues. Soon they reached his goal, a cliff with a magnificent view of the Coachella Valley.

  Madison pulled up the jeep, and squinted off to the west. “Mick, that fifty percent chance of rain is beginning to look like a cup half full, if you know what I mean. I’m going to put up the top.” She jerked her thumb at the Jeep.

  Jorge said, “I don’t mind a little rain, but these tires are not made for mud.”

  “How about you two check out that trail to the left there,” Mick suggested. “It’s wide enough for the jeep. We’ll stick with this one.” He indicated a tree-shadowed hollow below, with a path barely wide enough to walk single file. It would be a challenge for bikes, but he’d done it before. “Compare notes at the bottom and then head on back.”

  He didn’t miss the look of mute surprise Shelley cast his way.

  “Or would you rather ride with them?” he asked.

  She glanced at that shadowy hollow diving straight down the mountain and laughed. “No way.”

  She tucked her brown curls up and pulled on her helmet.

  “I’ll go first,” Mick said. “We can take it as slow as you like.”

  ***

  Shelley would have thought she was dreaming if she hadn’t been astride the most awesome endurance bike she’d ever ridden, flashing through magnificent scenery. They headed down the narrow trail in a beautiful, breathtaking ride.

  Yeah. Magnificent scenery. She could just hear Jan’s long drawl, “Ri-i-i-i-ght, you were totally into the scenery. Su-u-u-u-re.”

  Okay, so the scenery was a magnificent backdrop for the even more magnificent sight of a big, well-built man on an equally big, well-built motorcycle.

  Under anyone else that Husky would look like a hog, or even a tank, but the Russian Bear mastered it like it had been designed for him. He and the bike handled the rough trail expertly, giving her an unimpeded view of long, muscular thighs, and hard, sculpted arms. He skillfully maneuvered the bike at high speeds. She watched the shift of his hips and the play of muscles across his back as he leaned into a tight turn, and imagined those hips driving into her . . .

  She nearly ran off the trail. Shit! Pay attention!

  She straightened her bike. But five minutes later she caught herself on another turn looking over at at his broad chest, and the tuft of hair at the top of the V in his shirt. He didn’t even wear a bike jacket. Those curls looked so soft…

  She wanted to bury her fingers in that hair.

  She wanted to bury her lips in that hair . . .

  Stop that!

  The truth was, the fiery, revving engine between her legs, the exhilarating speed that gave the illusion of the world turning under her, the feel of the wind buffeting her body, the constant demand of skill—these always turned her on. And when you factored in Mick the Russian Bear Volkov roaring down the road, well, she was really turned on.

  “You okay?” he called at the top of a hairpin turn. Even his voice scorched her, a rough low rumble.

  Shelley’s throat dried, and all she managed was a nod: she was doing just fine. Really fine.

  For several exhilarating minutes, Shelley bumped over the rough trail behind the 610 as she kept sneaking peeks at him.

  Just one more. No, this is the last, I swear.

  And then he cast a look back at her. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the darkened visor of his helmet, but the shadows around his sexy mouth, the challenging tilt of his head, thrilled through her nerves. Was he really checking to see if she was handling this trail like some newbie with training wheels?

  You want to see some stunt riding? she thought.

  Ahead, she spotted a rocky scree above a sharp turn. She revved the bike, shifted, and shot up a rock, leaping over the turn he’d slowed to take and landed perfectly. With a laughing glance behind her she blew down the trail, leaving him in her dust.

  She had about a minute to chortle. Then as the path bent to the right, a shadow flashed over an enormous fallen log inside the path, the 610 whomped to the ground in front of her with a scattering of mud, and Mick pulled ahead.

  “Okay,” Shelley muttered, grinning. “Game on.”

  ***

  His plan had been to separate her from the others so he could enjoy the sight of her on a performance bike. Maybe he’d show her a couple of his favorite trails, if she were up for it. He hadn’t bet on the storm that had started boiling up overhead.

  She flew past him like the KTM had grown wings, throwing a glance of laughing challenge behind her that arrowed straight to his groin.

  He gunned the engine, spotted his move, and made the leap. 300 pounds of hot, responsive engine between his legs reverberated through bones and teeth as he accelerated into the wind.

  Behind him, then neck and neck, and then ahead of him, Shelley gave him a run for his money. He’d thought she was amazing whirling through the choreographed bar fight, but he hadn’t seen sheer poetry until he saw her astride that hybrid trail bike, her lips parted in a grin.

  Halfway down the mountain the storm struck. She didn’t even slow as mud kicked up from his tires, splattering her. Shelley spotted a narrow gap between two gnarled trees a split second before he did—he’d been watching her instead of the trail.

  Thump! He was eating her dirt. Then a sudden, pounding rain scrubbed their faces below their helmets.

  Both ignored the storm until lightning struck nearby. Then they pulled up under the shelter of a pine just before a tumbling brown stream.

  He debated about ten seconds, until another lightning strike. Thunder split the air so loud it sounded like it was fifty feet overhead. When at last it rumbled away, he shouted, “I know a place we can wait it out.”

  ***

  He knew a place?

  She gestured to him to lead on. He turned his bike straight into the woods. Then began a wild slalom down the mountainside, engines wailing as they jolted and flew over the rocky terrain. Another flash nearby was followed by skull-rattling thunder. The rain turned to hail, stinging her throat and her wrists between her short gloves and the sodden cotton zip jacket meant for warm spring weather. She shivered.

  They slowed, then stopped under a corrugated awning attached to a small log cabin. They left their bikes under the awning. Then she followed him into the cabin. It was one room with a cement floor strewn with pine needles, dirt, and bits of gravel. But at least it was dry.

  A rough table sat in the middle, with a single chair. A lantern sat on the table, along with a half-burned candle and a box of matches. On the wall opposite the door was a fireplace made of boulders. A neat stack of firewood stood next to it; in the fireplace, sticks had already been laid, with newspaper under ready to be lit. The only other furniture was a trunk shoved against the wall between two windows covered only by screens, their shutters wide open. Overhead, the hail roared on the roof.

  They set their gloves in their helmets and set those on the table, then each went to a window and pulled the warped shutters to close out the storm. Mick went to the table and flicked the lantern’s on button. Dead battery. He carefully lit a match and touched it to the candle. Then he used that to light the newsprint in the fireplace.

  While he was absorbed in this operation, her eyes were drawn like magnets to the way his shirt clung to every contour of his body. But when he looked up, she became aware she was staring—became aware of herself in her cold, soggy cotton hoodie. It slapped against her, as heavy as if it had soaked in every molecule of water that had fallen on her. She unzipped it and glanced around for a hook. Finding none, she hung it over the back of the single chair.

  When she looked up, the fire had begun to catch, sending long streamers of flame reaching upward. She turned from that to Mick and caught his gaze running down her body. Busted! She smothered a laugh, remembering how she’d been checking him out just as thoroughly two seconds before.

  For once the Russian Bear wasn’t glaring. His smile sent tiny zaps of electricity straight down her nerv
es to pool like liquid fire in her core.

  “You know a place?” She put her hands on her hips. As she shifted, her wet T-shirt slapped against her skin. She shuddered and pulled it away as she said, “So this location scouting run was for . . . what?”

  “I know every inch of these mountains,” he admitted, and she heard a hint of Russian accent in his deep voice. Then his voice dropped to ocean floor level, intensifying that pool of heat deep inside her, “I wanted to see you on a bike.”

  She had to laugh at his honesty. “Did you like what you saw?”

  The growl rumbled in his chest. “Oh, yes.”

  Wow. He was so impossible sexy. She laughed again, looking away and down, trying to gather her wits. There was only one chair. Outside, hail roared down.

  “Sorry about the storm.” He jerked his chin toward the ceiling. She noticed he hadn’t shaved that morning; the candle light shone pale gold on the bristles covering the clean, strong line of his jaw. “Didn’t think it would hit us.”

  “I didn’t either,” she admitted. “And the weird thing is, I saw blue sky over to the east while we were riding under the downpour. It’s probably eighty and balmy twenty miles away.”

  “When we get storm cells up here, they tend to spiral,” he said. And then his voice reached the center of the Earth as he said softly, “There’s a way we could warm up.”

  “Is there,” she breathed. This was so crazy, like a dream. Except she was so turned on—one of those dreams. Heady with anticipation, she knew she was going to ride it out.

  A step, a breath, and his hands cupped her face and took her mouth possessively. Wickedly. Oh, yes. She spread her fingers over his shoulders as the heat leaped higher inside her. Hungry and hot, she dueled him as she had on the trail, trading him kiss for kiss. He broke for air first, and she nipped his lip between her teeth.

  He groaned and stepped back, breathing as hard as she was. A couple yards away the fire crackled with promise, but she would swear that the heat she felt in the chilly space rolled off him. Or maybe it was hers.