I still don't know what I'm going to do.
I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. To write or not to write, that is the question. I know now that Alexander fled his father and the cairn, and maybe even his nature, when he left Honeycomb Falls. I'm starting to get a sense of why he decided to run for mayor, why he might dedicate himself to public service. The story is right there. Dramatic. Scandalous. A big reveal. The scoop of my career. And yet... I can't bring myself to write it. Can't bring myself to shatter the man who stands at its center, delicious and handsome and mysterious: Alexander Adams.
Finally I sigh and sit back up. Lying around mooning about the man won't change anything. Before I can lose my nerve, I dial his number, and then bite my lower lip. He won't answer. It's going to go to voicemail. He's a super important, busy guy. He's probably flirting with twelve gorgeous -
"Ms. Cole?"
How did I forget about the effect his voice has on me? Low and rumbly, a kind of growly hotness that sends a flush from the nape of my neck down to the area between my legs. Oh, my.
"Mr. Adams." I swallow as I try for a stern voice. "We have to talk."
"I know." He sounds strangely calm.
"You know?" I blink. That I didn't expect.
"Yes, Helen said it might be best."
"Helen? From the Gypsy Cafe?" My voice is getting higher and higher with each question.
He laughs quietly. "The same."
"But... Did she call you?"
"No. I stopped in for coffee."
I can tell he's enjoying this. My mind is like a car that's trapped in a parallel parking spot. It keeps reversing and going forward, but going nowhere. "You're here? In Honeycomb Falls?"
"First time in almost two decades." I can vaguely hear wind over the phone line. "Hasn't changed a bit."
"But. But." This isn't fair. Why can't I ever sound smooth and sophisticated? "I thought you never wanted to come back here. That this was, like, the black hole of your life, the one thing you refused to even think about?"
"It is. It was. But then along came a certain Ms. Cole, looking ravishing and innocent but with claws of her own. I knew you'd come here. I knew you'd start asking questions. And that simply saying no to you wouldn't be enough. We have to talk. So I drove over this morning. Eric - my aide - has put my schedule on hold. Until I've... dealt with you."
"Dealt with me?" I cross my legs and squeeze. "That sounds almost like a threat."
"Oh, no." How can his voice sound so intimate, when all we've done is shared a bottle of wine? "It's not a threat. It's a promise. Before the day is through, we're going to have reached an understanding."
"Oh," I say. "Well." My mind is blank. I feel like just smiling and trying to imagine what that might involve.
"Meet me at the Wise Salmon. They have a nice wine bar. We'll talk there."
"Wise Salmon. Check. OK. I'll be there in half an hour."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Ms. Cole." And then he hangs up.
Oh, my. I fan my face. He's going to deal with me. We're going to reach an understanding. I have so many questions to ask him, but I realize that right now, at this very instant, there's only one thing that truly matters: what am I going to wear?
Half an hour later I'm all tricked out in one of Rachel's outfits. That girl has got style, and thank god she checked in on me as I was about to head out in a dirty shirt and tomorrow's pair of jeans. One decisive emergency intervention later and here I am, wearing a form-fitting purple top with a subtle metallic tint and black paisley patterns worked over it, my arms bare, and black pants that hug my hips and ass yet feel comfortable and flattering. Luckily my black pumps are more than adequate, with my hair hanging down over my shoulders and my now increasingly used overcoat. At this point, I may just have to bite the bullet and keep it.
And, as I enter the cute little restaurant that looks out over the Conway River, I realize it's the same overcoat I've worn every time I've met Alexander. I have a panicked moment as I see him sitting at the heavily polished wooden bar. Has he seen me in it all three times? I duck behind a column and desperately try to remember. No. He didn't see me wear it at the fundraiser. Phew.
Stepping out with new confidence, I see that Alexander's blue eyes are locked on me.
Crap.
Did he just see me dive behind the column? One of his eyebrows is arched in amusement. I will not blush. I will not blush. I raise my chin and stride toward him, as if it's normal for every self-respecting gal to dive behind a column at the sight of a gentleman at the bar.
"Hey," he says, and I almost groan at the smoky rumble of his voice. All sorts of images flash through my mind. Like, me being a viola and his fingers plucking my strings, caressing my curves. Or his being a predator stalking me through the tall grass of the savannah, and hearing his growl just before he leaps.
"Stop that," I say before I can help myself.
Alexander pauses, completely surprised. "Stop what?"
I sit on the stool, pretending to be miffed and looking off to the side. "That whole sexy-as-hell voice that I am sure you're doing on purpose. Don't you have a normal voice that you use when you're about to be interrogated?"
Alexander blinks rapidly, coughs, shifts his weight on his stool and frowns. "Ahem." For a moment I think he's going to actually try to use a different voice, but then he laughs. "Wait, what?"
I sigh. "Never mind. I guess I'll just have to suffer through it."
He laughs again, giving up any attempt of directing the conversation. I can tell from the way his eyes are sparkling that he's enjoying himself. I restrain the urge to grin. So am I. Enjoying myself. No man I have ever met has made me want to act this crazy.
"Is my company that hard to bear?"
I shake my head from one side to another. "Not that bad. But you know. I find it ridiculously hard to be professional around you." I turn to look at him. "I don't know why. I mean, we've got some really serious things to talk about. And instead, all I want to do is say things I shouldn't even think of saying."
Alexander's gaze sharpens in a way that makes my tummy tingle and my throat go tight. "What kind of things?"
"Silly things." My voice is a whisper. "Like, how I want to make you smile. Make you laugh."
Somehow I've turned on my stool so that I'm facing him. He's facing me, our knees touching. I've gone from being ridiculous and lightheaded to almost panicked with alarm. The air between us is as tense as a thunderstorm, crackling with the potential for lightning. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him if the building caught fire.
"And why do you want to make me laugh?" His voice has grown quiet. Almost fierce.
"Because." I should stop. I'm at the edge of the cliff. I'm at the point of no return. My journalistic principles are screaming at me to retreat. Yet something deeper and more powerful is in control. Something that's recognizing a primitive kind of magic, and which for once in my life refuses to back down. "Because I see such sadness in you. And that breaks my heart."
Alexander's jaw tightens, and I know it was the wrong thing to say. I know I've ruined everything. Every sound in the restaurant recedes. It's just the two of us sitting here, two individuals who should be formal, antagonistic even, but instead we're being the opposite.
"Well." He looks down, then away.
Impulse seizes me. I reach out and take his hand, placing my own over his larger one where it lies on the bar. His skin is warm, like a sun-heated stone. "I understand, though. I think I do. I'm being a fool. I know I should shut up. But before things go where they have to go, I just want to tell you that I think I understand."
He gives me a sidelong look, the glance of a man peering out of a cell in which he's voluntarily caged himself for years. "And what do you understand?"
"You." Before he can interrupt or laugh, I plow on. "I'm a journalist. I've got these instincts, always have. For a story, for the truth. I can look at a person and know them through and through. I can read a story and tell if it's real or f
abricated. And you. You caught me from the start. Your eyes. Your lips. Your - your everything. I've never met a man more sincere or more... obfuscated."
I shake my head in wonder. The words are pouring out of me, from where I don't know. I haven't even vocalized these things to myself, but now, sitting here with him, it's all coming together. "You're running for mayor, but you're a werelion."
Alexander's hand curls into a fist under my mine and his eyes slide forward again, his whole frame becoming tense. For the first time I'm reminded that I'm sitting next to a feral predator, no matter how fine the suit.
"You're a werelion, yet you deny it. You haven't been back here in forever. You couldn't be more different from your father."
"My father?" His eyes go wide with surprise. "You've met him?"
I laugh bitterly. "I've had the dubious pleasure. I'm surprised he didn't offer me a chance to serve him as a beast of burden."
"Ha," says Alexander, but there's no humor in his voice. "That must have taken some work. My father doesn't take visitors."
I give a nonchalant shrug. "I didn't give him much of a choice. But I saw what kind of man he is. And I think - I think you're trying to define yourself by being his opposite."
Alexander sits up straight, rearing back almost like an offended horse shying up onto its hind legs. "Who are you? How do you know this?"
"I told you." I feel apologetic. "I'm a reporter. I've got a sense for story. For people. For the truth."
Alexander shakes his head, and for the first time I can see his control slipping. It's too much. He stands and walks toward the door.
I stare after him, mind blank, and then leap to my feet. I hurry out after him. He's striding across the bridge of flowers, looking glorious in the afternoon sun, his golden hair burning like a halo in some classical painting. I actually run after him, feet pounding on the bridge's gravel path between the banks of bushes, and grab him by the arm.
Alexander whirls with such ferocity that I actually cower back, sure that he's going to attack. His eyes are blank, but then he passes his hand over his face.
"Look," I say, with no idea what I'm going to say next. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're doing. Tell me if I'm wrong if I'm wrong. But if I'm right..." I try to catch his eyes, but he's staring at the ground. "If I'm right, then tell me why. Tell me what's going on. Because there's a wave coming. A tsunami of press coverage that's going to tear your background apart and shove it all into the limelight."
I realize I'm begging. Pleading with him. I know how much exposure is coming. How much damage this might do not just to him, but to shifter-human relations. This is my one chance to make a difference. To save this man from the pain that's coming his way. And I realize that I really want to. I want to help him, more than I can express.
"I-I didn't expect you to understand so much." His voice is husky. Alexander takes a deep breath, almost a shuddering one, and then finally looks at me. His gaze is bleak.
"I didn't either." I feel small and vulnerable before his gaze. Like I've forced myself into a private space uninvited. "But I think I do. Which is why you need to talk to me."
"OK." He nods, once, twice, with increasing conviction. "OK. I'll talk. But not out here."
"Where, then? The bar?"
"No. Come with me." And with that, he turns and begins striding back across the bridge.
I hurry to follow. "Where to?"
"My apartment," he says, not looking back.
"You have a place here? I thought -"
Alexander gives me a look over his shoulder that I can't decipher. Bitter amusement? Defeat? Wry acceptance? "I knew that I'd come back one day. That I might never truly escape. No matter how hard I fought. Come."
And so I follow.
Chapter 9
I don't know what to expect, but somehow his place defies my imaginings yet seems more perfect than anything I could conceive. I'd envisioned some kind of ostentatious penthouse, impossible as that might be in this small town, or a mansion, but instead Alexander's place is a brick-walled loft in a converted building across from the Conway Studios, right by the river. The wood floor is the color of honey, and a black iron chandelier hangs from the high ceiling way overhead. A corner of the loft is a minimalist kitchen, and black iron stairs like a fire escape rise up to a small second floor that must house his bed and little more, and which opens to look down on the ground floor.
It's gorgeous, perfect, small yet airy. Sunlight pours like molten gold through the high windows as the sun dips toward the western mountains. An L-shaped brown leather couch faces a fireplace, a thick white rug like a polar bear skin beneath it.
There's nothing else here. No dining table. No framed pictures. No knick-knacks, none of the stuff that people collect as they go through life. And yet, the few elements that are here speak to who Alexander is. The sunlight. The open space. The brown leather couches. The fireplace, old coals in the grate. Simple. Light. Warm.
The door swings behind me and Alexander moves to the kitchen where he opens a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Not turning to me, he unscrews the cap, pours two fingers into a glass, and then looks over at me, one eyebrow raised. I shake my head, and he screws the cap back on and then turns, glass in hand, to lean against the counter and stare at me.
I drift into the center of the room and pause by one of the couches, tracing its contours with the tips of my fingers. The couch looks and feels delicious. Sleeping on it must be a pleasure. It's large enough that I could stretch out and still not be cramped. Then again, I'm not very tall.
"So." I turn to him. The momentum I had from before has dissipated, and now I feel awkward. "You were going to tell me about your past?"
Alexander sips his drink, eyes gleaming over the edge of his glass, and doesn't respond.
I swallow, trying hard to not make it a gulp. I have the urge to fidget and adjust my clothing. Yet I can't look away.
"Um. Do you want me to ask questions?" Still no answer. I'm starting to get really nervous now. I lick my dry lips, my throat having turned to sandpaper, and something in his eyes seems to quicken.
"Why are you here?" His voice is almost dangerously soft.
"Why? Because - because I have a story to -"
"No." His voice cuts me off with complete confidence. He sets his glass down and begins to walk toward me. My heart does a back flip, and I almost trip as I stumble back. "Why are you here?"
"What?" My mind is racing. "I told you, I have a story to write. My editor -"
"No, Myra." It's the first time he's used my first name. "I look in your eyes and I see more than a story. I can smell you, and your scent burns with need. I can hear your heart racing. Tell me. Why are you here?"
My tongue is a block of wood. He's stalking toward me, a lion with no rush, approaching prey so mesmerized it doesn't know it should run. "I - I want to give you a chance to tell -"
Then he's right there in front of me, an inch separating his broad chest from mine. My skin feels flushed, and I can't tear my eyes away from his face. His body. My panties are wet, and I stand stock still. If I move, I'll grab him by his golden hair, rake my nails across the golden fuzz that burns across his jaw.
"Tell me." His voice weakens my knees and my will. He looms over me. I've never met a man this demanding, this authoritative, this powerful. "Why are you here?"
I can't breathe. Why am I here? Why did I risk my life confronting his father? Why did I call him? Why did I dress up to go to that restaurant?
I know why. And looking up into his eyes, I can see he knows too. "Because." My voice is less than a whisper. "Because I want to help you."
Alexander lifts his hand to my hair, slides his fingers into my curls, and clenches his hand slowly into a fist. I gasp, though it doesn't hurt. He's got me under his control. He's so strong. He leans forward and I smell him, his masculine scent, clean and wild. His nose almost touches my cheek, and I can't move, I can't even turn my eyes to him. I stand there shivering as he draws in
my smell, moving his face down my cheek, down my neck, causing goose bumps to rise up everywhere. Oh, dear lord, oh, save me from temptation, stop my hands, don't let me moan, don't let me collapse into him -
"Tell me," he growls. "Why do you want to help me?"
"Oh," I groan. There is no lying. No hiding anymore. Not from him. Not from myself. "I want you." My whole body wants him. Craves him. "Since I saw you. Standing alone. I wanted you. To understand you. To be with you. To love you."
He growls again, the sound stirring my core, and his hand pulls my head back, raising my face to his as he straightens. His eyes are burning, inhuman. This man is a lion. This man is dangerous. This man has me at his mercy.
"Are you sure?"
And finally I see. He's holding himself back. Barely, like a man hanging above an abyss, gripping a ledge with just his fingertips.
"Yes," I whisper, my need for him growing into a storm that throbs beneath my skin.
Alexander drops his head, and his lips press against mine. I lean into him, my whole body melting against his hard frame, and his tongue slides into my mouth, dominating me, his hand in my hair pressing me to him, another hand moving to the small of my back.
My passion flares up like a forest fire. I haven't made love to a man in years. And this man is unlike any other I've ever met. I want him in every way, any way, inside me, now. I moan into his kiss, succumbing to how good he is with his tongue. My nipples are aching under my top, aching to the point of being almost painful. Is this what kissing could be? I feel dizzy, lightheaded, like I can't feel the ground beneath my feet. I move my hands over his body, and oh, yes, he's as firm and muscled and ripped as Rachel promised.
And his cock. It's rigid under his pants, thick and hard and rubbing against my belly. My lust pools in my core, and I kiss him with even greater fervor.
A Lion After My Own Heart: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 5) Page 6
