by Susan Arden
Everyone was so nice. She almost wished hospitality was a field she’d investigated in college. She didn’t imagine people here got the boot for telling the truth. Oh, Jesus. That wasn’t exactly true, what with the service agreement she’d signed in triplicate stating she was bound to the rules of anonymity in place. Mari lifted the tiny cup of aromatic espresso and sipped thoughtfully.
Sonya sauntered into the bar area, dressed in her flapper costume. Tristen and Fin positioned themselves at the bar. Her friend had warned her that the beta wolf enforcers were fixtures at these type of events. They didn’t get involved, but if something went amiss, they stepped in silently and forcefully to remove problems. No one with an ounce of sense—Sonya had sworn—messed with them. Both shifters were marine vets with little tolerance for mayhem. After meeting them, the idea of an out of control shifters brouhaha seemed truly farfetched.
“Seven on the dot. You ready?” Sonya asked.
“God, yes. Where were you?” Mari shuffled the name tags. She glanced at the bar mirror, and pushed back an errant curl.
“Getting ready and making certain upstairs is running smoothly. Your disguise.” Sonya held out a silver jeweled mask.
“I nearly forgot.”
“Good thing we’re a team. The front gate texted me the guests are valet parking, and there’s a steady stream. Some high rollers tonight. Maybe you and your royal gown have a special vibe.”
“What do you mean?” Mari asked, zoning in on Sonya.
“We’re being graced by English royalty tonight. An earl, no less.” Sonya looked around. “I think the name was Exist. Strange, but you know how the English are about titles.”
Mari froze, and her fingers scrabbled, unable to hold onto the mask. It dropped from her hands. “Do you mean Essex?”
Sonya bent down to retrieve the mask. “Isn’t that what I said? Yes. Do you know him?”
“Sonya, the Earl of Essex is—” She didn’t have a chance to finish. Four guests were at the entrance.
“Mari, time to do the first meet-and-greet. Good luck to us.”
“Let’s hope.” She went to tie the mask, and the ribbon pulled free on one side. Mari stared at the ribbon in her fingers. Guess she would go without tonight. She didn’t need a mask. The Earl of Essex could be standing right in front of her and he’d not know her. None of the jet set would. It didn’t matter if the whole Fisher pack came to call; she just wished she’d been forewarned. Conrad Fisher was clueless as to her life and career and she wasn’t looking to make friends or enemies with any of the Fishers. They were hands-off in her reporter world.
Still, she was shaken and unable to comprehend how she’d missed this one freaking detail. His name was not on that list. Probably why the man caused such problems. Rule breaking playboys were all alike. Trouble. A couple approached her, and she set the mask down.
“Good evening,” Mari said picking up the tablet. “Welcome to the Den.”
From the entrance, Mari checked the guests in, giving out name tags and directing them to the buffet and bar. She gave a thumbs-up to Sonya across the room, and her friend smiled back. This work felt natural, as though she belonged somehow. Even though she sat on pins and needles waiting for Mr. Fisher to show up, she relished the banter with the guests. Each time a man approached her, she tried to see past the costume. From what she remembered of him the one time she’d tried to get a statement and she was surrounded by fellow reporters, Conrad was more than tall. He was a skyscraper in height. And handsome, in the boring hoity-toity aristocratic sort of way. She held her nose upward, pretending to smell cauliflower cooking. That was the expression he’d had facing the group reporters she was hidden amongst.
The good earl was a journalist himself. She half snorted. Traveled around and wrote about his journeys. She read one of his pieces about Venice and another when he’d been in Pamplona, running of the bulls. Only to herself would she admit that yes, his photographs were amazing. But, he probably gallivanted about in a limo while everyone else hoofed it on foot. She could just imagine the difficulties he encountered what with luxury hotels and all the luggage he more than likely toted around. Mari hugged her tablet, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe while watching the crowd for a beat. She prayed he wouldn’t show up.
The room rapidly filled with all sorts of costumed bodies. Mostly gentlemen in suits with masks, while the women were the ones in all sorts of unusual getups. Another wave of guests arrived. This time it was much smoother, once she’d grown accustomed to the sequence of what to do first. After check-in, Mari informed the guests of the abbreviated list of speed dating rules and tidbits, then handed out name tags.
Sonya filled punch glasses at the buffet. The bar buzzed with talk. Silverware clinked against the china. And various groupings of guests were established at tables along the bar area, and in one corner. Tonight the private rooms along the wall were closed and locked.
The steady arrival of people required she be at the entrance as well as keep an eye on when to text the chef on duty that another chafing dish was needed. Sonya brought her a plate of food. She took a few bites. Too nervous to enjoy eating, Mari set the plate down, and reached for her tablet instead.
“According to the guest list, almost everyone is here,” Mari said, observing several well-known people.
“Great. Why don’t you get a cocktail? Remember, no loose lips.” Sonya pretended to lock her mouth with an imaginary key, then she picked up Mari’s plate.
“Seriously, I would never betray the Den’s trust.” Mari realized somewhere along the way that evening, she liked being a part of the club. A lot.
“I know. It’s just a compulsion of mine because I realize how important this place is for people like us.”
“Before tonight, I’d never imagined shifters required a private place to unwind. The male mojo energy is palpable.”
“And palatable. Spikes my appetite. Truthfully, I didn’t remember this recipe tasting this good.” Sonya motioned with the tip of her fork over the pasta.”
“Oh, it’s the truffles and clarified butter. The chef told me his secret trick that makes them savory. But in your case, it might also be the rum punch. I can tell you already sampled it, didn’t you?”
“Guilty your honor. Just a thought. You have a way of wrangling secrets from people. You might want to think about that one.”
“It’s a job hazard. But I’m not tipsy, so no worries.” Mari snickered at Sonya’s slightly askew headband and reached for her rum punch. She took a sip and flinched. “No wonder you’re laidback while I’m sweating bullets.”
“Did something go wrong? Was someone rude?”
“No. I was joking. Stop, I’m going to have a glass as soon as you think we’ve hit a lull.”
Sonya laughed. “Oh, definitely. We’re lulling right now. Drink time.” Sonya’s name was called softly as it had been by staff throughout the event. She and Mari shrugged simultaneously. “Darn, just when I said the coast was clear. You go, and I’ll catch up.”
Mari had almost turned to leave her post at the door when a blurry movement beyond her peripheral vision called her attention. Looking down the hall, she gasped at the sight of a tall man leaning over, his large palm flat against the wall next to one of the many black and white photographs framed and hung within the passage. He came without a mask. The only other person here besides herself without one. She studied his strong profile, composed of a straight nose and solid square chin. Slowly, she let her gaze travel over his shoulders and down his arms. The way his muscles flexed in his arms made it near impossible to stop staring. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the jamb, taking in the freeze-frame her mind had snapped. And she remembered why she was so taken. In front of her stood Conrad Fisher. The Earl of Essex.
Her eyes traveled roamed over his powerful physique, enjoying the shadows cast over his skin. A work of art in how the light captured the dips and grooves of his torso, the hollows of his face, and even the way his black polo shi
rt was pulled snug over his incredible shoulders. Jesus H. Christ, she wished she could whip out her cell and snap a pic of this Greek statue come to life. Talk about a man candy contest. He’d win, shirt off, hands down. He moved to the next photograph. Stopped and gazed. Time didn’t seem to be a concern. He was more interested in the photographs adorning the walls than getting to the date party destination.
Mari’s brows drew together as she focused on his progress, or lack thereof. Really, he resembled a pinball ricocheting from one wall to the other each time he encountered another framed picture. Fisher stared at one of the photographs taken in Tibet. High up in the Himalayas where Shawn and Quinn had visited years ago. During her time in the Den, she’d marveled at the black and white widespread vistas from cliffs and shadowed temples and sacred gardens featured in the shots.
The monolith of a man was much closer, and without knowing why, the fine hairs all over her body rose. From what she could tell without outright gawking, his colossal height made him one imposing shifter. She sniffed the air, bathing her senses in his alpha wolf scent. Conrad wore jeans, which were out of place for the Den, but seated low on his hips, were perfection hugging his tight rear. His shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, pecs, and arms, making her bit her lip.
She tore her gaze away from the contours of his torso at the thud of his footstep, louder this time, and wondered if a motorcycle came with those badass black boots on his feet. The gold watch on his wrist was expensive, but something about him spoke wild, untamed.
He suddenly glanced down the hall in her direction. It was all she could do to man her post. Within the space, not really that far, she felt trapped in having been discovered staring back at him. The second their gazes locked, her heart did a tap dance in her throat, leaving her mute. And staring. Never a great condition conducive to starting a conversation. Conrad held her attention with a pair of glinting eyes that darkened as though his thoughts ran toward mischievous…and his actions into the arena of wicked.
He was the first to speak, breaking their streaming silence. “Reminiscing. Seems like only yesterday we were hiking through the Himalayas.”
She stepped forward, her mind blown away. Was he the actual photojournalist on the hike up the Himalayas? Sonya had mentioned it was some important person. “You were the photographer? They’re incredible. Did you have help?”
“That hard to believe. No, I assure you I do my own work. Actually, it was one of the easier treks I’ve been on.” His deep voice cloistered in a British accent sent chills racing over her skin.
Holy smokes, Conrad Fisher, United Kingdom royalty, was a fearless photographer. Her brain was having difficulty computing the facts. No wonder he played the game of the rich and gorgeous. Some of the images required whoever was crazy enough to be snapping them to position himself on the edge of a precipice at times. A spider monkey would have been an apt photographer in her mind, considering some of those shots, not some Adonis with a transfixing grin who gave her chest a mule kick. His dark good looks made her momentarily forget spoken language.
Suddenly her mouth went dry. Dear God, the things she’d conceptualized about him. When he lifted an eyebrow at her lack of response, her fingers found the wood of the doorframe. She gripped it to keep from falling at his feet. He combed his fingers through dark out of control hair that brushed his shoulders. His trimmed beard accentuated his chiseled facial features, framing his full lips. For a second, she actually considered whether he was even there for the speed dating party or if he had a room waiting upstairs. Panoramic images of his naked body filled her mind, and she shivered. The man was built for endurance. Textbook for hot, sweaty, shifter screaming, full throttle S-E-X.
Her face flushed at the scorching, rambling images her brain fathomed. Good thing tall, dark, and lickable didn’t have free access to her naughty imaginary trek, or she’d be more embarrassed. Conrad came over to her. He towered above her as his penetrating gaze scanned her face, surreptitiously inhaling as though sniffing out her secrets. The act made the skin all over her body riot hotter. This was beyond a regular wolf greeting, or her imagination was playing serious tricks on her.
“Hello?” Her inflection spiked upward, making her one-word proclamation come out sounding like a question.
Chuckling, Conrad consumed her with his amused scrutiny. “You’re a little thing, but spunky.”
Peering up at him, she had the desire to fling something back at him. Anything. “You’re remarkably tall. I bet most people come across as small in one way or another in your presence.” No. Did she actually just say that?
“Speak your mind much?” The man smirked. “Were you sent out to the hall for causing a raucous, or were you trying to escape? A woman like you doesn’t seem suited to singles events. Tempting the lonely hearts club tonight?”
“Are you joking?” The teasing tone of his voice pricked her to the bone and signaled alarm sirens in her head. Her wolf instincts surfaced, where flight won out over fight. Abort blared loudly along her nerve endings. She pressed back against the wall, willing herself to disappear.
“Not exactly how I want to come across to a woman like you.”
His nearness tied a knot in her tongue. “I take it you’re here for the party?” she choked out.
“Is there any other reason for a visit tonight?”
Oh, Jesus. His question was either a flagrant joke or…he didn’t know about upstairs. Her brain finally reconnected. “The restaurant. Some people wander down here out of curiosity.”
“I won’t lie. You’ve got me a little more than intrigued. Have you been out here for long?” He lifted his gaze, peering over her head into the bar, then refocused on her.
She felt herself coming undone from the heat pooling in his eyes. Sonya’s advice echoed in her head: When in doubt, fake it.
Mari fought to keep her gaze level with his. A shifter like this guy routinely unraveled women on a daily basis. This wasn’t personal. It was his persona. All masculine seduction rolled up in a hot package.
“My name is Mari and I’m in charge of the body.” She immediately shuddered. “I mean, door.” Mari extended her hand to him, doing a jackass job of pretending to be cool and collected.
“Sensational,” he murmured.
“Nice to meet you.” Forcing herself to stand taller, she lifted her chin a notch, and slung her shoulders back. Grasping his large hand, she felt an electrical shock stronger than a short-circuited defibrillator.
“Mari,” he repeated. His pupils dilated. He must have felt her jolt. “Pleasure. Conrad Fisher. I’m a guest. A friend is here tonight and put me on the list. Louis Clermont.”
Slowly and seductively his gaze slid from her face, traveling down her neck and landing on her chest. She swallowed hard, aware of the low cut of her décolletage. His warm breath swept over the tops of her exposed breasts, and she refrained from covering herself under his lingering perusal of her body.
Hotter and hotter she felt her skin blaze. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked over the table where her tablet lay and busied herself looking for his name on the guest list. No wonder she hadn’t seen it. Mr. Clermont had listed him as an unnamed guest. “Mr. Fisher. I have you right here.”
The reconnection of their gazes was an immediate thunderbolt to her senses. Conrad’s smile stretched a little broader. His dark gaze—steady and sure. Evidence that along with photography, the man had on-the-job experience in social endeavors. Again, the pinch of familiarity bubbled up from the recesses of her memory.
Mari doubted a woman in his sights ever said no to any of his invitations. Coffee to whatever. Speed dating would be akin to shooting fish in a barrel, and Conrad Fisher should come with a warning sign or disclaimer pinned right next to his name.
“Here, you’ll need a name tag for your chest—shirt!” Jeez, could she be any more transparent?
She fumbled with her clipboard, pulling out a name tag. Her faux pas had a strength, beckoning her to take a closer look at his
incredible pecs as he bent over the table and wrote his name. Her gaze skimmed the outline of his striking torso that filled out his shirt in muscular peaks and valleys. His scintillating scent wreaked havoc on her she-wolf senses. A drug that had her drooling and her canines sharpening. What in God’s name had come over her? Something playful in Conrad’s commanding nature sparked a flame under her skin. Just as Sonya had said, edgy alpha shifters were a total turn on.
She met his powerful gaze. “Would you like a drink or a glass of punch? Special rum recipe.”
His pupils dilated slightly as his stare intensified. “I will if you join me.”
“Roll out the red carpet,” a booming voice erupted in back of her. “The Earl of Essex. Damn, Conrad did you get lost on purpose? Travel around the globe in a beeline, and one party has you detouring.”
Slinking lower in her stacked heels, she moved aside, expecting Conrad to leave and join his friend. She hugged her clipboard, and forced a smile to remain plastered on her face.
“Louis, don’t exaggerate.” Conrad didn’t move an inch. He stayed firmly planted next to her. Did she really hear him just sigh? He turned to face her. “Are you coming inside?”
“God yes. Stop loitering in the hallway. I’ve found someone I want you to meet,” Mr. Clermont said.
The sound of his friend’s voice snapped her out of her pheromone induced haze. Conrad was a man with dangerous levels of sex appeal. She’d better get her game on fast. This was why she manned a door instead of following a lead or investigating her next story.
Mari refused to come further undone by one smooth talking alpha shifter. She forced herself to sound unaffected. “Ah, yes. I think you’re the last to arrive. We’re almost set to begin. Please, there’s food and, as I mentioned, drinks. Enjoy yourself, Earl.”
“Don’t.” His face turned a shade of serious, far different from what she’d seen. Her she-wolf instincts reacted to the pitch of Conrad’s voice. Instead of cowering, an electrical charge unfurled inside her, prompting her desire to push back.
