Catching the Cat Burglar: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 3)

by Cassie Wright

  It's a battered old monster, big enough for my favorite books and clothing, and the only constant in my life. I reach down into it and draw out my battered copy of James Joyce's Ulysses. Inside are a dedication from Sam and my only photograph of her. It shows her grinning, wearing her favorite black leather jacket, her blonde hair mussed at the end of a night out in Montreal. I gaze down into her wild smile, and feel old. She'll always be twenty-one, while I drift away from her, growing ever older, turning into a different person. One day I'll look at this photograph and feel nothing. That day, however, hasn't arrived yet.

  I drop the photograph and purse my lips. I'm due to meet Joanna in half an hour. I picture the fiery redhead, and can't help but smile. The memory of how large her eyes grew when she realized who I was is priceless. She's the first woman I've asked out since Sam passed. I still don't quite know why I did. What caused me to break my pattern.

  That's not true. I do know. She's an intriguing contradiction. She presents herself as a proper librarian, but beneath there roils a passionate soul. A woman who wants more from life, who isn't satisfied to sit back and sink into a routine. She wants excitement. She wants adventure. I can sense that yearning. I can feel her hunger for more. She's not content with a quiet life.

  I rise to my feet smoothly, thinking about her ripe, luscious body. I rumble with appreciation. I want to trace her dangerous curves with my hands, the swell of her hips, the curvature of her perfect behind. I want to hold her large breasts in the palms of my hands. The way that gray pencil skirt hugged her hips and thighs was absolutely distracting. And her hair. Like falling curls of orange flame, framing her heart-shaped face. I cross my arms and heave a sigh, leaning back against the doorframe. High cheekbones, and eyes that are alive with intelligence and curiosity. Oh yes. I know why I asked her out. She's the first woman to really remind me of Sam, of Sam's fiery nature and quick-fire wit, and yet she's sufficiently different that she remains her own person.

  I stare out the window into the deepening dusk, my mind playing with images of Joanna like a kitten with a ball of yarn, and then push off the wall and head into the shower.

  Tonight is going to be interesting for a variety of reasons. The question is: just how large a part of it will Joanna prove to be?

  Chapter 5

  I have to be honest: I'm very nervous when I pull up in front of the Wise Salmon. I spent the afternoon duct-taping the tears in my Mazda's canvas roof, and the memories of that serial killer wolf being out there made me uneasy in my mountain home for the very first time. Normally I love the memories of family and history that fill my house, tucked away as it is in the mountain woods, but tonight, as the woods outside my window grew dark, as I played my music extra loud and drank a glass of wine to help get myself in the right frame of mind, I couldn't help but recall those murderous eyes peering in at me through the car window.

  And to think: that monster is out there right now, in the dusk, hidden and hunting. I double-checked all the locks on my doors and windows, but I knew that if it wanted to, it could tear its way inside. What window could stop a werewolf? So I took my dad's old shotgun and loaded it and laid it across my bed as I picked out outfits. Excitement at seeing Chase mixed with the fear of the dark, and when I finally ran out to my Mazda and jumped behind the wheel, my nerves were all kinds of jangly and on edge.

  The drive down went without a hitch. I drove slowly, carefully, my brights on so that I was ready for anything. If I saw that wolf, I was going to plow right into it. It might be tough, I thought, but let's just see how it handles a head-on collision with a car.

  Nothing happened, however, and I finally pull up in front of the Salmon with a sigh of relief. Chase is standing outside, and he looks so good I slam on the brakes a little too hard, causing my car to jolt to a stop. I blink, and pull my carefully curled hair out of my face. He's wearing a black dinner jacket over a white dress shirt, open at the neck, with a pair of dark jeans completing the look. It's simple and incredibly effective: his hair gleams, freshly washed, though I can tell he hasn't shaved off the stubble. I'm glad. That stubble stops him from looking too perfectly put together, and shoves him right into the sinfully-hot-attack-him-now category.

  He's leaning against one of the columns outside the Salmon before he steps over to open my door. Again, he does that ridiculous thing with taking my hand and helping me out, as if I'm a delicate lady, a movie star, and my heart flutters at his confident touch.

  Normally I'm the first one to tell myself I look good, usually giving myself an approving wink in the mirror just before I head out into the world, but Chase is so ridiculously, almost annoyingly good looking that I'm nervous about my outfit. When was the last time I second-guessed myself? Triple-guessed myself? My bed back home is covered in discarded outfits. I finally settled on an teal, open-shouldered sweater that sets off my hair, and black slacks. Given that it's winter in Western Mass, I eschewed all my sandals, high heels and other fine footwear, and opted for sensible black shoes. My hair is curled, I've applied a little lip gloss and eye shadow, and am at what I hope is my absolute curvy best.

  "Good evening," says Chase, giving me a smile that starts a fire between my legs. He leans in and kisses my cheek, and I almost trip. That moment of close proximity gave me a hint of his subtle scent, that delicious and masculine aroma that makes me want to press my nose into his neck.

  I collect myself and smile. "Hello. I hope I didn't keep you waiting?"

  God, I can't read him at all. Is he smiling because he's amused, or happy to see me? "Not at all." He hesitates, and that moment of indecision somehow makes him even more attractive. "Would it be unprofessional of me to say you look stunning?"

  "Yes," I say, affecting a detached tone of voice even while my heart leaps and I stride past him. I reach the door and look over my bare shoulder at him. "But you may say it anyway."

  Chase laughs, and I love that I made him laugh, love the sound of his laughter. Good lord, how hard am I falling for this guy? He steps up and places his palm on the door, ready to open it. Before he does, however, he stares me right in the eyes. "Well, you looking fucking gorgeous, Joanna."

  I inhale sharply and feel my knees go weak. It's how he said it. Serious, super intense. Not flirting. No trace of humor. The intensity between us goes right off the charts, and I can't breathe. "I bet you say that to all the librarians," I hear myself say.

  He chuckles and pushes open the door. "Not all of them."

  I step into the Salmon, glad to have a moment to collect myself as the hostess leads us to the table Chase reserved. White Christmas lights glimmer here and there, and the air is rich with fascinating and delicious aromas. Soft music plays in the background, and most of the tables are already taken, people having no doubt driven from all over the county to dine here tonight.

  Chase pulls out my chair, and I sink into it thinking, I could get used to this treatment. He rounds the table, sits, and then smiles at me. I smile back, but feel a moment of panic. How am I going to keep up with this guy? He keeps knocking me off balance without looking like he's even trying, effortless and smooth. I find my excitement growing at the prospect.

  "So," I begin, before he can say anything else that pulls the rug out from under me. "What made you take the position at the library? Part time, in a small rural town... It doesn't seem like something you would be interested in."

  Chase leans back. "Oh? And what, in your professional opinion, would I be into?"

  I twirl my empty wine glass by the stem. "Oh, you know. Racing sports cars, gambling, stealing state secrets from enemy countries... you know. That kind of stuff."

  He chuckles. "Are you saying that life as the head librarian here in Honeycomb Falls isn't going to be that exciting?"

  I lower my chin and pretend to look at him over the tops of non-existent glasses. "You do know what being a librarian entails, don't you?"

  "Sure." He flashes a smile at the waitress as she steps up, and for a ridiculous moment I feel a pang
of disappointment that he's directed his attention elsewhere. Utterly ridiculous! He points out an item from the wine list, then turns back to me. "Namely, it's introduced me to you."

  "Ha! Are you saying that word of my beauty brought you to Honeycomb Falls?"

  "No." He sounds almost remorseful. "But." I can almost see the sparks flying between us. "It should have."

  There. He's done it again. I have no idea what to say. How does he keep leading me into this box canyon where my only adequate response is to blush?

  I'm saved by the return of the waitress, who shows Chase the wine bottle. He nods his approval, and she uncorks it and pours a couple of fingers into his glass. He swirls it once, twice, then raises the glass to his nose and inhales. His eyes are locked on me, even when he sips. He only looks away to nod once to the girl, who then pours a glass for each of us, leaves the bottle, and steps away.

  Chase raises his glass. "A toast. To being unprofessional, and all the delights it may bring."

  I clink my glass with his, a sense of excitement and arousal expanding within me. Before I can stop myself, I say, "Just how unprofessional are we talking here?"

  Chase pauses, glass at his lips. "Very." Then he drinks, smiling as he does so. He is so damn hot. With his shirt collar open, I can see the upper ridges of his pecs. He's got some crazy definition going on, lean and hard-bodied. I want to unbutton that shirt. I want to explore the hard expanse of his muscles, their contours. I want to strip him and lick him from head to toe. The dirty things I could do to him. The dirty things I know he could do to me. Shit. Talk about unprofessional!

  I take a sip from my wine, and almost moan. It's rich, velvety, an amazing Pinot Noir that dances seductively across my palate like an Aurora Borealis of heavenly goodness.

  "So," says Chase, setting his glass down. "You never told me what you'd leave the library for. Do you have something lined up?"

  Oh, good. Relatively safe conversation. A chance to collect myself. I nod, sitting forward. "I've been volunteering for the Honeycomb Falls Police Department for six months now. We only have two full-time officers alongside the chief, so a half dozen volunteers like me help keep an eye on things."

  Chase looks genuinely surprised. "You're a volunteer police officer?"

  I scowl at him. "What? Why is that so hard to imagine?"

  He grins. "Actually, it makes total sense. I can picture it now. At some point fining kids for late book returns and patrolling the stacks to ensure orderly behavior just wasn't enough. You needed more. You needed a gun."

  "I do not need a gun, thank you very much. There's almost no violent crime in Honeycomb Falls. At all. And even if there was, I wouldn't shoot anybody." I pause. "Though now there's this wolf in town. A very dangerous shifter. The chief said he's a wanted killer."

  "I heard," said Chase, face becoming sober. "A warning played on the radio this afternoon, and there are warning flyers posted around town."

  "That guy I would need a gun for." I shiver. "But let's not talk about that."

  "Agreed." He leans forward, and for a moment I think he's going to take my hand. "Tell me more about why you want to be a police officer."

  I've got butterflies in my stomach. Am I really sitting here with this impossibly hot and wonderfully enigmatic and flirtatious man? Is he genuinely curious about me? I look into his eyes, and see that yes, he really, really is. "My father was a police officer in New York. We moved here when he retired, almost twenty years ago. He never talks much about his time on the force, but I know it shaped who he was. He's a strong, dignified man. He takes pride in his service. He takes pride in having helped his community. And I've always admired him for that. For dedicating his life to helping people. Making them safe. Protecting them."

  Chase nods, listening closely, but betraying no reaction. "Are your parents still around?"

  "No." I laugh fondly. "The winters here were too brutal. They both moved down to Florida five years ago. I visit them when I can. Sometimes they come up for the spring or the fall. What about you? Do you have family?"

  He flashes me a smile. "Who doesn't? I think our waitress is getting impatient. Are you ready to order?"

  I haven't even glanced at the menu. I pick it up, sipping a little more wine, and then realize that thus far Chase has evaded every question I've asked him. I've learned absolutely nothing about him. I glance at him over the top of my menu. What's he hiding?

  We order, and the conversation flows. Chase reveals himself to be consistently sharp, humorous, and yet I never quite manage to pierce that veil of mystery he hides behind. I do manage to learn that he's originally from Seattle, that his family is still out there, and that his favorite authors are mostly early 20th century modernists. He has a surprising passion for books, surprising perhaps because nothing about him seems bookish, and we spend most of the dinner talking about our favorite novels, quoting favorite lines. Chase tells me a hilarious anecdote about a dinner where Joyce actually met the French author Marcel Proust, and they failed spectacularly at spending some time alone.

  Dessert is a small, incredibly dense dark chocolate mousse, and we share it, the wine having warmed me deliciously, the light of the candles making Chase look even more delicious than the dessert. I feel alive, radiantly so, flushed with happiness and a constant, low-level arousal and desire. I find myself smiling for no particular reason, and love that Chase does the same, our smiles occasionally turning into grins whenever our gazes meet. We eat the dessert in silence, relishing the exquisite richness, and finally set our silver spoons down and lean back to consider each other.

  "Working with you, Ms. Kilmarten, is going to be trouble." His voice is low, almost lazy, but there's a seductive glow in his eyes that makes me want to sit up straight and wriggle in my seat.

  "Oh? I believe of the two of us I'm the model citizen. If there's going to be any trouble, it'll be your doing."

  He cocks his head to one side so that the candle flame hovers between us. "That's fine. I'm more than willing to make trouble."

  I've grown more confident over the course of the meal. He won't find me so easy to throw off. "You do realize that I might soon be a police officer. It'll be my professional responsibility to arrest you."

  He narrows his eyes with amusement. "I thought we agreed to be unprofessional."

  I arch an eyebrow. "Only as long as it amuses me. Handcuffing you might be more fun."

  "Oh?" A spark of interest lights his eyes. "And just what would you do to me then?"

  Oh, mother of all dirty thoughts. On this subject I could expound at length. Describe positions, sweet torments. Oh, what I could do to him if I had him naked and handcuffed to my bed. "You'll have to wait and find out."

  He reaches out and takes my hand. My blood runs hot and my breath catches. "I'd better start causing trouble now, then."

  The restaurant fades away, leaving just the two of us. He's only taken me by the hand, but I feel so aware of him, his body, his skin, his touch, that I might as well be naked in front of his eyes. Exposed. Vulnerable. My every dirty thought written large across my face.

  "If you do," I whisper, "I won't be held responsible for my actions."

  He leans forward, fingers interlacing with mine. "Good." His voice is a low, sexy rumble. "I want you to see you at your most uninhibited."

  My heartbeat is deafening in my ears. I swallow hard to try to clear the dryness in my throat. Alarm bells are going off in my mind. Warning klaxons flashing red. We're fast approaching a point of no return. I have to work with this man, a faint voice tells me. He's my boss. For at least two more weeks. So as much as it kills me, as much as I want to keep pushing the envelope, I pull my hand free of his and smile regretfully at him.

  "You'll have to wait, then. Two more weeks." The sounds of the restaurant come filtering back, the clink of knives on plates, the lowered voices around us, the faint music from hidden speakers. "Only then will I be given the state-appointed authority to arrest you."

  I see a flash of
disappointment in his jade eyes, but it's subsumed by the smoldering intensity of his heightened interest. "Two weeks," he says, "is a very long time."

  I laugh weakly and pick up my wine glass. "I'm sure you'll survive."

  Chase smiles and shakes his head, then signals for the check. I sit back. I'm all tingly, energized and exhausted both, worn out by the intensity of my emotions and my need, and only more attracted to this stranger, this impossibly hot man, this Chase Xavier who in just one day has turned my whole life upside down.

  Chapter 6

  By night, Honeycomb Falls is a completely different village. Gone are the tourists come to inspect the bridge of flowers or the hikers hanging outside Mindy's General Store. The tables outside Helen's Gypsy Cafe are empty, and no cars rumble over the truss bridge. The antique street lamps emit a soft orange glow, and if you look at the streets just right with half-closed eyes, you can almost imagine that you're all alone, that all the wonderful people that make this village a magical place have disappeared.

  I step out of the police station, tug at my uniform to try to make it a little more forgiving of my curves, and zip up my leather jacket. It's like a World War II bomber jacket, with a fur collar and everything. I don't know who owned it before me, but they left it soft and broken in, delicious and snug in this bitter cold.

  The buzz from the two glasses of wine has faded, but not the hum of excitement that dinner with Chase infused in my body. I feel dangerous, alive, sharp and ready for action. Preferably it would involve Chase's sculpted body, but for tonight I'll settle for catching the cat burglar. I've got only a few days left before the chief passes me over. I have to make each one count.

  I step down onto the sidewalk, and a little shape separates from the shadows and comes bounding over to me. "Woof!"

  I stop. "Groofy. I thought we had a deal."

  He wags his little broken tail so hard it shakes his rear back and forth. Then he rises up onto his back legs and stands with both forepaws folded, mouth open, grinning at me. "See this? For some reason standing on my back legs gets all kinds of people to give me things. Now, why is that? Maybe because it makes me look more like a human?"