by Helena Ray
* * * *
“Mr. Norman, Mr. Fischer is here to see you.”
Ulysses idly clicked on another ad, assessing the half-naked woman as unworthy of his advances.
Heaving a sigh of frustration, he reached over and clicked on the speaker. “Send him in, Barbee.”
“You can go in,” he heard the secretary say over the intercom.
“And turn off your mic.”
“Oh! Sorry, Mr. Norm—”
A rustling noise cut off her voice followed by a click. Ulysses shook his head in frustration. If he hadn’t invested several thousand dollars in buying her that nice set of tits, he would have fired her months ago. Although, in her favor, she did suck a mean cock.
“Ulysses, hi.” The tall, thin man cracked open the door and peeked in.
“Skyler, take a seat.” Ulysses waved to one of the leather wingback chairs facing his desk. “I’m so glad you can come in today. I wanted to ask you about…”
He trailed off as a particularly promising ad caught his attention.
Luvs 2 eat cock – w4m – 21.
Perfect.
“About Savage Valley? Yes?”
“Oh, um, yes.” The pursuit of profit was the only thing that could pull his attention away from the task at hand. He cleared his throat before continuing. “It appears that they’re going to fight us on the purchase of Adam’s Point—”
“And neither Savage Convenience nor Savage Hunger will budge.”
“True, very true.” He leaned back in his chair and held his steepled fingers in front of his face. “It’s time to find another weak spot.”
“Ulysses?” Skyler said quietly, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t mind, I think I have an idea that may work.”
Skyler’s ideas were usually impractical, he mused, and often involved elaborate scheming. However, Ulysses’s pursuit of Savage Valley had become an obsession, and he was willing to do anything at this point to secure ownership and domination of the small town.
“Well, we haven’t been able to negotiate a deal with the owners of Savage Hunger—”
“Don’t remind me.”
“—but we may be able to get a foothold with another of the businesses in Savage Valley.”
Did Skyler really think he hadn’t considered the possibility?
“While I respect your initiative, the idea is entirely implausible. The Carsons won’t budge on Savage Valley Bank, and the staff at the Savage Herald are impossible to deal with. We tried buying out the salon and that dreadful secondhand shop for the real estate value, but those owners are flat-out lunatics.”
Skyler hesitated, gnawing on his bottom lip in a show of weakness that infuriated Ulysses. While he respected the man’s business acumen, he often found him entirely tedious on a personal level.
“I–I know we’ve tried to talk with the owners of the Ninth Time, but certain…events have transpired that lead me to believe we could get in…clandestinely.”
“Spit it out, Skyler. What’s the plan?”
“Well, our connections in the IRS have been putting pressure on the Ninth Time and threatening an audit. As a result, there has been talk of a bookkeeping position open at the Ninth Time, presumably to avoid risking trouble with the government.”
Skyler hesitated, but Ulysses liked where this was going.
“Continue,” he said slowly.
“If we could send in someone for the bookkeeping position who understood how advantageous the sale of the Ninth Time would be for NormCorp, perhaps they could convince the Abbotts that they, too, could benefit from the situation.”
“Benefit?” Ulysses hated to think of any of those bigamists in Savage Valley reaping any reward from his seizure of their town. “Why would I be interested in doing anything of benefit for the Abbotts?”
A coy smile played on Skyler’s face, and Ulysses noted his cheeks reddening, a repulsive sign of his weakness. “I didn’t say it would benefit them, and that benefit they perceive needn’t be financial.”
Skyler hesitated, the color in his cheeks intensifying. Luckily, a soft ping sounded from Ulysses’s computer, and he turned his attention to the e-mail that had just arrived in his inbox. His dick hardened as he examined the attachment showing a scantily clad and busty girl. Judging by the quality of the picture, she was probably a professional. Not that Ulysses minded, of course. He’d have Barbee take out some cash funds after…Right. Skyler.
“Pardon me if I don’t understand your meaning, Skyler,” Ulysses began uncomfortably—his prick still pulsed from the e-mail he’d received—“but if the benefit isn’t financial, then what on earth could it be?”
Skyler cleared his throat, and then his blue eyes met Ulysses’s.
“Sexual.”
“Now I want to hear more.”
“From what I learned during my stay, neither Clayton nor Jack Abbott has had a consistent partner at any point in the recent past.” Skyler rose and began pacing back and forth as he spoke. The flames from the fireplace in the vast cavern of Ulysses’s office silhouetted the man with a dancing orange glow. “Jack is known for being rather outgoing and flirtatious with customers in the shop, but from what I understand, he’s not the one who runs the business.”
“Oh?”
“Clayton makes all of the decisions.” Skyler walked forward and placed both his hands on the table, leaning uncomfortably close to the point where Ulysses could smell the man’s expensive cologne. Although, if he was to have no boundaries concerning personal space, Ulysses guessed it was fortunate he had good taste.
“Here’s what I was thinking,” Skyler continued. “If we could send in a tempting candidate for the bookkeeping position, we could not only get a handle on the Ninth Time financially, we could win the Abbotts over to our side.”
“We just have to send the right seductress.” Another e-mail arrived in Ulysses’s inbox, but he could do little to acknowledge it. Too many thoughts filled his mind as he began to envision how the whole thing would unfold.
Skyler cleared his throat as he returned to his seat in the leather wingback. “I was thinking perhaps one of the women in the secretarial pool might be of service here. We could easily have credentials made up for—”
“Nonsense.” Ulysses had just the seductress in mind for the job. “Jocelyn will do it.” Ah, yes, the prized thoroughbred in his stable. He knew firsthand that no financially minded woman could wrap a man around her little finger like his Jocelyn. When she began as an intern at NormCorp, Ulysses had immediately recognized her potential. Ever since, they had traveled the world together, she a sterling trophy and complement to his wit, far more enjoyable a companion than the dreadful bitch he’d had to marry.
“Jocelyn? Jocelyn Smythe?” Skyler choked out. “I–I mean she’s obviously quite qualified—”
“Quite qualified? She has an MBA from Harvard. There’s not a more qualified candidate for the position in the state.”
“But won’t they suspect something?” Skyler countered. “Ivy League MBAs are hardly in abundance in rural Colorado.”
The man did have a point there, but Ulysses refused to be deterred. “That’s but a minor detail. Between Jocelyn’s good looks, the supposed desperation of Clayton Abbott, and the convenient trust small-town hicks give newcomers, no one will suspect a thing.”
Skyler’s mouth flopped open, giving him the repulsive appearance of a robotic singing fish. Finally, he shut the damn thing and nodded. “Shall I make the arrangements then, sir?”
“Let me handle Ms. Smythe,” Ulysses said, relishing the moment he could feel her toned ass beneath his hands. “Do you still have the keys to the apartment in Savage Valley?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Clear it of your possessions and hand the keys over to Barbee when you come in tomorrow. It will look more convincing if Jocelyn has a real place to live.”
“That’s all good and well, but I still have—”
Ulysses’s
hard look silenced Skyler. The man had always disliked Jocelyn, and his reservations about her qualification—or rather overqualification—were wearing on Ulysses’s nerves. Whatever issues the sycophant had, he’d have to learn to live with them. He had no intention on delaying the sexual reward Jocelyn would undoubtedly bestow upon him.
“You will need to stick around to keep up appearances, won’t you?” Ulysses sighed and glanced at his inbox. Although he couldn’t wait to tangle his fingers in Jocelyn’s long, blonde hair as she sucked his cock, he would regret not pursuing his latest Internet-acquired exploits. “Book a room at that dreadfully cheesy singles resort. What is it? The Woody Hall?”
“The Woodland Den. But really, it’s quite—”
“Skyler.” Ulysses gave the man his hardest glare, hoping it would silence any objections. “It’s for the good of the company. You do care about the good of the company, don’t you?”
He heaved a deep sigh, another show of weakness that began to wilt Ulysses’s cock, although a fleeting thought of Jocelyn chased the flaccidity away. “All right. I’ll have the keys for you tomorrow.”
“Good.” He leaned over and spoke into the intercom. “Barbee? Have Jocelyn come up right away.”
“Yes, Mr. Norman. Right away.” The intercom continued its obnoxious crinkling.
“The middle button, Barbee.”
“What, Mr. Norman?”
“The middle button. It turns off the microphone.”
“Oh! Tha—”
God, what idiots surrounded Ulysses at all times. Luckily, though, one of his monkeys had managed finally managed a line of Shakespeare. He couldn’t wait to launch Skyler’s plan into action and finally get a foothold in Savage Valley’s commercial real estate.
More importantly, the plan afforded him an opportunity to screw over those lecherous bigamists that made him curse his hometown.
Chapter 3
Clay pulled his beat-up Volvo station wagon into the wide dirt expanse in front of Bo’s house. He knew it was eleven o’clock at night, but he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even think until he had an answer to the question that had eclipsed all other rational thought. He bounded up the steps to the brown, wooden house and banged on the door. Damn it, why didn’t the Shoshone shaman have a fucking doorbell?
After thirty seconds without an answer, he knocked again, this time harder, and shouted Bo’s name. Finally, a light flicked on in the house, and a croaking voice shouted, “All right, all right already! Geez.”
The porch light flickered to life, the deadbolt snapped, and the door opened, revealing Bo in a robe and slippers, his long, black hair, streaked with silver, rolling down his back. The low light accentuated the wrinkles on his face, but his dark eyes still sparkled with mischief.
“Clay, don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to see you. But do you realize it’s nearly midnight?”
“It’s eleven,” Clay grunted. “And I’m afraid I have some pressing business.”
“Come in, come in,” Bo said with a yawn. “You want a beer or something?”
Clay nodded as he walked into the small foyer and then left to the living room. He sat on the long, dilapidated couch, the one he’d occupied in some capacity every few months for his entire life. Bo returned from the kitchen carrying two bottles. Clay thanked him as he popped open the bottle with his teeth and took a long swig of the beer.
“So tell me what’s so pressing, man,” Bo said as he lowered himself into his La-Z-Boy. “You boys aren’t having trouble with the bears again, are you?”
Clay laughed and shook his head. “No, there hasn’t been any of that since our generation took over the pack, remember?”
“Yeah, only the Sullivan boys prodding them into fights.”
While Clay would have loved to spend the evening listing Ira Sullivan’s many flaws, his mind couldn’t concentrate on anything besides Anya for more than a few minutes. He had to know, and he had to know now.
“It’s about…” How could he put this so that Bo would understand? “It’s a…mate…thing.”
Bo’s eyes lit up at this, and he kicked down the footstool so he could lean closer. “You boys found your mate? Oh, man, and the Popes only mated a few weeks ago!”
“Well, I…” Damn it, why couldn’t he be better with words? “I haven’t talked to Jack yet. He’s been shifted since around dinnertime.”
Bo shook his head and made a clucking time. “That boy sure has it hard. I imagine having to listen to Roarke Cash talk to himself all day must be real tough.”
“It was a bad day today. He was having trouble keeping out the thoughts even when he was with the customers.”
“You know,” Bo said slowly, “you really need to think about him in the mating. He’s gonna have a lot easier a time once he gets that burst of strength from his mate.”
“I know.” God, how Clay knew. Since his brother’s problem escalated when their generation became dominant, the legends had echoed through his mind, always admonishing that only mating would give Jack the power to control his gift.
“So you found your mate? It’s cause for celebration!” Bo took a drag of his beer, his brow furrowed in thought. “Now let’s see, who’s come to town recently? Was it one of the other mates’ friends? Or maybe someone staying at the Woodland?”
Clay felt himself trembling as he finally strung together the words to tell Bo why he had made his late-night visit.
“Or someone working at the Woodland.” His eyes met with Bo’s, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “Do you remember Rita’s granddaughter? Gerard Copely’s girl?”
“Gerard Copely’s girl? No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Not every day you get the daughter of one of the best damn coaches the American hockey team’s ever seen mating into your pride, but his daughter…” Bo’s eyes lit as Anya animated even the aging shaman. “Anya! Oh, she was always the cutest little awkward teenager, all caught up in her drawings at the diner and…” Bo’s jaw dropped open, and Clay nodded slowly. “You think she’s your mate.”
“I felt it, Bo, I really did.” Clay closed his eyes, and all of it rushed back. The sensations overtook him, but they were not in human form. They were the sights and smells and primal pulls of his lion form. Anya. Beautiful, precious Anya with her porcelain skin and her chocolate hair, so far from the awkward child he had known before.
“All right, all right, no need to get all sweaty there.” Bo’s words sliced through his leonine image. Clay realized he was panting and his sweaty grip had tightened around his beer.
“S–Sorry,” he said as he pushed a few damp strands of hair from his forehead. Did Anya really affect him that much?
“It’s okay. Geez, I guess you’re right about your body reacting to Anya as your mate.” Bo set the beer down beside his chair and closed his hands in his lap. “But I don’t know if she is your mate. You’ve heard the mating legend from me. I know you have. And I’m guessing that you boys have felt it from the Cashes and the Popes on the hunt.”
“That’s how I knew.”
Bo opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He appeared to consider his words and then proceeded slowly. “For as long as the Savage Valley pride has existed, their mates have come from all over the world. It was designed this way, to bring new blood and new strength to the Valley. It’s why your mother”—he nodded at Clay—“was so important to the Valley back in the seventies and eighties. Not only did she give so much love and joy to the town, your fathers became so much stronger because they mated her. Her worldview and her experiences were a big part of what gave them that strength.”
Memories of sitting on his mother’s lap, watching her paint yet another mountain landscape, poured into his mind along with a wave of sadness. “My mother was an amazing woman.”
“That she was, son. That she was.” Bo laughed, clearly lost in a memory. “Everyone in this town could go on about your mother for hours, but that’s not what you’r
e here to talk about.” He cleared his throat and continued. “All this is why I’m skeptical about whether or not Anya is your mate. Yes, you reacted to her the way a mountain lion reacts to his mate, but you’ve seen her before, and her family’s from the Valley.”
“I promise you, I didn’t feel the same way about her then that I do now.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. But that’s the part that’s got me…” Bo trailed off, and his attention went to the bookshelf to the right of the enormous TV in his living room. “Just a second.”
He rose and reached up to one of the top shelves of the bookshelf. After a few low curses and some commotion, he pulled out a rectangular, flat, cardboard box. Bo sat next to Clay on the couch and set the box on the coffee table. Carefully, he peeled back the lid to the box, revealing a pile of old, yellowing documents, their edges worn from years of use.
“What are those?”
“Family trees,” Bo muttered as he continued fingering through the pages. “With the caveat in the curse about all the pride brothers taking the same woman and with the females born to lion-shifters not shifting, someone’s gotta keep track of your famil—Aha!”
Bo pulled one of the crumbling papers from the stack and carefully unfolded it on the table. It was a complex spiderweb of names and dates in everything from nearly faded light-brown ink to what was obviously ballpoint pen. Clay’s eyes came to rest on the calligraphic script at the top of the page, and after a moment, he made out the name “Pope” through the swooping text.
“Here.” Bo pointed to a date nearer the top of the page, and Clay leaned forward to decipher the faded script.
“Amelia Sullivan, born in 1887, died in 1928,” Clay read and then looked up at Bo. “Sullivan? The Sullivans and the Popes are related?”
“Indeed they are,” Bo said with a chuckle. “I had forgotten about that. But I remember the old legend that my father told me about when his father was the shaman. Back at the turn of the century, all the pride families hung around together, like you boys. The Popes had known Amelia all their lives—they were all only a few years older—but they had never felt anything but friendly feelings.
