Dragon's Successor (BBW/Dragon Shifter Romance) (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 2)

by Isadora Montrose

  As soon as he had a full report on the graduate student, he would see about enticing her. She was just the indulgence he needed after a celibate year of mourning. In the meantime, there were a thousand business details to occupy his time. He was immeasurably rich, but a dragon lord’s hoard could never be too large.

  * * *

  Kayla came bustling into the crowded graduate student lounge just before eight-thirty. She was nearly always in a hurry and this morning was no different. She had hours of editing ahead of her, before she dashed off to the lab for her scheduled four hours. And after that she had another shift at the Black Swan.

  When your scholarship barely stretched to paying your tuition, and your research work was essentially unpaid, and your paid job ran until the wee hours, it took a fair amount of hustle to keep up the pace. But Kayla didn’t mind. She felt blessed that she — a sheep station, hill country girl — had made it all the way to grad school at the most prestigious university in New Zealand.

  Kayla was a full-breasted, round-hipped young woman with a perpetually tangled mop of black ringlets and a pleasant expression on her plump face. Her golden skin tones and tight black curls suggested she had some Maori blood. But Kayla didn’t actually know anything specific about her heritage as she had been adopted as an infant. Her adoptive parents had died without telling her anything. Aunt Audrey and Uncle Chester who had taken her in after her parents’ death, either didn’t know, or weren’t saying. All her tentative questions had been met with accusations of ingratitude or blank stares.

  At twenty-two, Kayla Cooper was by some years the youngest person in the University of Auckland Marine Biology doctoral program. In fact, their youngest-ever doctoral candidate. Today, she had once again thrown on the ragged cut-off shorts and stained tee-shirt that was the uniform of the research assistants who spent their lives scurrying between the biology lab, their ocean research sites, and the carrels where they wrote it all up. Grown up clothes were for teaching in. Not that Kayla had many of those.

  She nodded a shy, wordless acknowledgment to the two people who glanced up as she entered and headed straight for her desk. She had been lucky enough to get one right beside the window so she had a view of the tiny patch of emerald grass outside the building and daylight to read by. She peeked at the view from the fifth floor, took her backpack off, retrieved her laptop, and briskly set up for another day of proofreading.

  She was in the final month of her doctoral thesis and her dissertation had to be polished and submitted by the end of the week. Revisions would be sent to the three members of her supervisory committee as soon as that was done. The date set for her defense was fast approaching. This week’s task was to incorporate all of her advisor’s most recent comments into this final version. This morning she had set herself a goal of two hundred pages and she immediately shut out the room to focus on her document.

  A short, thin woman with sharp features slunk across the room to lean on Kayla’s desk. Kayla looked up with her usual cheerful smile. Her face fell when she saw Stephanie Dodson’s scowl. Kayla loathed confrontation and here was confrontation in spades. Kayla knew she had given Stephanie bad news, and now the other student was going to attack the messenger rather than accept that her work was deficient. She stood up to defend herself, swallowing nervously, and buying time by fidgeting with her glasses.

  “What do you mean my numbers don’t add up?” Stephanie hissed aggressively.

  “Oh, Stephanie,” replied Kayla softly as her stomach churned. “I ran them six ways to Wednesday, and every time they came back with different values. Either your data is mistaken — I mean has entry errors — or the program isn’t working properly. Or your conclusions are invalid. I’m so sorry.” Despite her apologetic tone, she didn’t back down. Her academic integrity was at stake.

  “No one else has found a problem,” Stephanie complained stridently. Other heads came up and stared curiously at the two women.

  Kayla’s face was white but she held true to her convictions. “I checked your numbers, line by line,” she continued, struggling to keep her voice soft but definite. “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I really am. I don’t have time to double check your data entries myself. Your problem could be the software. You could try reloading and see what happens.” She gave the other woman a face-saving excuse for her sloppy work.

  Stephanie looked angrier than ever. “That’s seven years of my life you’re writing off,” she said fiercely. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Kayla she couldn’t help her instant stomachache. She hated conflict. But she couldn’t pretend that Stephanie’s research results didn’t look off. “You should get someone to help you double check your data entries. You have a lot of data points. It would be easy for you to have reversed digits, or omitted some.”

  Although Kayla believed that neither of those things would explain Stephanie’s wonky results. Whether this was a case of academic fraud, or of wishful thinking, Kayla had too much respect for science in general, and marine biology in particular, to be party to sloppy work. On this issue, she had to stick to her guns.

  Stephanie gave up. “Just keep your nose out of my thesis,” she hissed warningly as she stormed off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kayla sat down again inwardly quaking. She had only agreed to proofread Stephanie’s spreadsheet as a favor to Prof. Whitcomb. She hadn’t expected to find that Stephanie’s numbers did not bear out the conclusions she had reached. Although she suspected that Professor Whitcomb had thought there was something peculiar about the other doctoral student’s results.

  This was always happening. Whitcomb would suggest to other students that they ask for Kayla’s help. And if she found fault, they blamed her. It wasn’t as though she had wanted to find that Stephanie had falsified her results. It was hard enough being the youngest PhD candidate in the department, without getting a reputation for back stabbing. But even though she evaluated other students’ work honestly, her refusal to overlook gaps or shaky results was earning her just such a name. But if it came down to being thought a bitch or betraying her calling, she knew she would pick science every time.

  She could not remember when she had decided to study the ocean. It seemed that her interest in marine life had always been a part of her. Even when her mother and father had died, and she had to move from Christchurch and the coast to her aunt and uncle’s sheep station Ara Ma in the hill country, she had continued to read everything she could get her hands on. When she had been accepted to the University of Wellington at sixteen, she had known from the get go that she would study marine biology.

  School work came easily to her. Completing her Bachelor of Science degree in three years, and her Masters in one had been a doddle. Getting her doctorate in three had been only a tad harder. A combination of hard work and a touch of luck had made it possible. She had been fortunate to have her adviser choose a subject for her that meant she could legitimately use data compiled by other researchers in his lab. She had been able to assemble enough data to back up her unique conclusions in under two years.

  Unfortunately, dealing with other people was beyond hard. As soon as Stephanie left, Kayla returned gladly to the task of reformatting her statistics and tried to get her churning stomach to settle down. There was nothing she could do to alter the fact of Stephanie’s poor work. And she had to give priority to getting her thesis as perfect as possible.

  Twenty minutes later, David Foster whose tutorial she had taken yesterday, came over, pulled out a chair and joined her. “How did the tutorial go?” he asked jauntily. “I got three new specimens yesterday,” he bragged.

  Kayla raised her dark brows and opened her big hazel eyes wide behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “Three? Alive?” she asked. Dave’s research was on a vanishingly rare octopus.

  “Yup. They are habituating in Tank 12 as we speak. Did my class behave for you?”

  Kayla looked at her skinny colleague and nodded. “Congrats! Yup, your students were great. They
made me look good. Whitcomb brought a donor to audit the seminar.” She rolled her hazel eyes and her long lashes made lush semicircles on her rosy cheeks.

  “Damn. Not Voros?” Dave’s thin frame was vibrating as he waited for her answer.

  “Yup. Mr. Roland Voros — President of Transkona Inc. Why?”

  “Whitcomb has him all lined up to sponsor my reef creation project off Ngaire. But he wasn’t supposed to show up yesterday. Now what am I going to do?” Dave’s whole body slumped.

  “He had a tour of the lab and he seemed pleased,” Kayla said encouragingly.

  “What did he say?”

  “Pleasant nothings. We are doing vital work. Didn’t commit himself to squat, but I had to run off before he was through with his tour,” Kayla explained. “But he didn’t look bored and he didn’t say it was a waste of time,” she comforted Dave.

  He sighed. “Damned with faint praise. Thanks for yesterday anyway. Kay, you’re a doll.” Dave leapt up and grabbed his huge backpack. “I’ve gotta go see Whitcomb. I’ll bet he’s pissed at me.”

  “You owe me two hours of proofreading,” Kayla told his back.

  Dave turned. “Two hours! You are a hard woman. When?”

  “Tomorrow. I have to show the final draft of my thesis to Whitcomb at the end of the week.”

  Dave groaned. “Okay.” He darted for the door.

  When the timer she had set on her computer went off three hours later, Kayla stood up and stretched. She collected her coffee mug and the wrapper from her sandwich and took them into the kitchenette. She had no clear recollection of eating lunch, but plainly she had. She fished her rumpled lab coat out of her pack and buttoned it over her shabby outfit of tee-shirt and shorts. Time to run Whitcomb’s samples.

  * * *

  Voros’ cell rang as he was once again thinking about Whitcomb’s curvy, little assistant. He pulled the mobile from his pocket and smiled at the text from his friend Hugo Sarkany. Sarkany was skiing in Switzerland at the Schloss Sarkany and had been urging him to join him there. This text was just a reminder that they were scheduled to video conference in ten minutes.

  Hugo Sarkany the heir to the eighth Lord Sarkany, was Roland’s opposite. He was as dark as Roland was fair. His golden skin and gold eyes suggested a misleading warmth. Roland’s own Nordic good looks concealed his passionate nature behind an icy facade. He and Hugo had shared many youthful pleasures, but now that Roland had inherited his barony and had the responsibilities to go with his new title, he had less time for such entertainments. Hugo was still only his great-grandfather’s lieutenant and his life was as carefree as it had ever been.

  “Hail, Lord Voros,” Hugo said formally to his boyhood friend.

  “How does the heir of Sarkany?” asked Roland equally formally. But he grinned back at Hugo.

  “I’m well. I have recovered from your investiture. Just.” Hugo smirked at the other dragon shifter. Roland’s investiture ceremonies had taken place on the Island of Dreki only the month before and had lasted three days. Three raucous days despite their solemnity.

  “And Ivan?”

  “My brother has a vast tolerance for ceremonial drinking.”

  “I admit some of our Finnish rituals are not for the weak,” taunted Roland.

  “Cousin, if you think that draining the Dragon’s Cup is an adequate test of your capacity to rule, I won’t object. It’s just that it seems a little tricky for you to pass around that bottomless beaker to your friends.”

  Roland laugh boomed. “Ah, but the point is that the beaker can only be drained by the true lord of Dreki. Only he knows the words that stop the flow of beer.”

  “I think you left that part out when Lindorm passed that dammed goblet down the table,” Hugo objected. “I never saw so many drunken dragons in one room.”

  “It’s all part of our Finnish hospitality,” said Roland with a lordly movement of his hand. “You burn the alcohol off in the sauna afterwards.”

  “Before plunging naked into the Baltic Sea! I thank you again, my friend, for your hospitality.” Hugo chuckled and then sobered. “But I did not call to reminisce about you trying to kill your assembled friends and relations, but to ask if you had yet declared your Mate Hunt.”

  “I have not,” Roland said dismissively. He again waved an imperious hand. “You too?” he inquired coldly.

  “I don’t know who else has asked you,” Hugo said seriously, “But my grandsire is concerned about your house. He worries that your heir is Gunther Dreki of Iceland — or his infant son.”

  Roland inclined his gleaming blond head politely, but his green eyes were glacial. “My respects to your honored grandfather,” he said through his teeth. He drew a deep breath. “But I am still young, and I have time and enough to marry and produce an heir. Gunther no more wants to be Lord of Dreki and Tarakona than you do. He is content to be Lord Dreki of Iceland and will be my Right Arm until such time as I have a grown son to fill that role.”

  “You’re offended.” Hugo made a face. “I’m sorry, Ro,” he said carefully. “I think the Eldest of our House had a premonition or something. He made a formal request that I speak to you about your mate.”

  Despite Hugo’s placating words Roland looked haughtily at his friend. His lips firmed but he suppressed his temper. “I will announce a Mate Hunt when I am ready,” he said flatly.

  “I get it,” said Hugo on a sigh. “I am the heir of Count Sarkany and I don’t want a mate either. I can’t imagine having to settle for just one woman for the rest of what will surely be a very long life.”

  “Exactly. When have you ever met a woman who didn’t bore you within a month?” asked Roland.

  “Never.”

  “Precisely my problem,” declared Roland. “And do you think that the innocent virgin we each require will be the one female in all the globe to sate our appetites for the full span of our years?”

  “So they say,” Hugo reminded his friend.

  “My father never spoke of my mother without a gusty sigh,” Roland confided. “But the old man had not one but a legion of mistresses after her death.” He snapped his fingers scornfully. “So much for a life bond.”

  Hugo shrugged. “It’s hard to say. My grandsire truly mourns my great-grandmother. And my parents were devoted. But I must say my own inclinations are different. If only we could find exciting, fascinating women to marry. Because the very idea of virgins is a major turn off.”

  “Indeed. I know that when I choose my bride, I must ensure that she is untouched, else I’ll have no firelings, but the prospect does not appeal. We need dragonesses born — as in the days of old.”

  “Only a virgin can be turned, you know that, Ro,” said Hugo regretfully. “And I’ve never met a dragoness born, and I don’t think I know of any widows who aren’t as ancient as dust.”

  “No more do I,” Roland said gloomily. “So it’s a virgin bride for both of us. But not yet, please. Not yet.”

  “Were you as surprised as me at the election of Vadim of Montenegro as High Marshal?” Hugo changed the subject.

  “More probably. I assumed that Lord Lindorm would be our next High Marshal.”

  “My grandfather says that Lindorm declined the nomination and there was no other clear leader. And then out of nowhere, we had Vadim.” Hugo shook his head in disbelief. “A Russian — and by all accounts a KGB thug — as High Marshal of the Grand Council. It boggles the mind.”

  Roland shrugged nonchalantly. “The Grand Council is a relic of a by-gone time,” he said unconcerned. “It barely matters who conducts our ceremonies. If Vadim wants the bother and time-suck involved in being Marshal, he can have it. I have many more important calls on my time.”

  “I hope you’re right, coz. Because we are stuck with him for at least five years.”

  “I have no time to waste on anachronistic dragon politics,” Roland replied disdainfully.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Did you get Whitcomb’s memo?” Dave Foster asked, sliding onto
the threadbare grad lounge couch beside Kayla.

  “I did!” Kayla’s hands did an exuberant happy dance to match the gleeful expression on her face. “I did the math and gave my boss my notice that same evening. No more waitressing for me.”

  “It is good, isn’t it?” Dave chuckled. “I can’t believe someone actually gave Whitcomb a grant to pay his assistants. Who ever heard of paying grad students?” He laughed ironically.

  “I know,” Kayla said enthusiastically. “I was getting so little before that my hourly worked out to less than two dollars per. It’s almost twenty now. My pillow and I are getting reacquainted. I slept ten hours last night. I’m a new woman!”

  “Sleep is overrated,” joked Dave. “Everyone knows grad students only use it to have crazy, sexual fantasies.”

  Kayla turned quite pink. Her dreams had been full of Roland Voros the sexy CEO of Transkona who she thought might be behind the Marine Biology Lab’s sudden generosity. But there was no need to make either her private fantasies about the hard-bodied magnate or her speculations public. And even less need to divulge her secret internet research on him.

  She had been spinning wild sexual fantasies about the tall, handsome man for over a week, even though she knew that was foolishness. Rich guys who could endow entire departments didn’t waste their time with plain, plump and penniless grad students. Especially not ones who were much younger than them. Not when they had the money to attract really glamorous, sophisticated females. Not when they were gorgeous themselves.

  Kayla didn’t date much. When you were always the youngest person in your class by some years, when you were always the smartest person in the room by some distance, when you were zaftig in a size zero world, you didn’t get asked out often. Even at grad school she was a weird bird.

  Most of the other PhD candidates were looking thirty in the face. She was twenty-two. A doctoral thesis was usually a seven-year commitment. She was going to wrap hers up in three. To say that the male students she met found her intimidating — to the point of being an active turnoff — was an understatement. All through high school, all through undergrad, she had been too young and too emotionally out of step to ever have a boyfriend.