CONTENTS
Title
Copyright
1. Carson
2. Marek
3. Carson
4. Marek
5. Carson
6. Carson
7. Marek
8. Carson
9. Marek
10. Carson
11. Carson
12. Marek
13. Carson
14. Marek
15. Carson
16. Marek
17. Carson
18. Marek
19. Carson
20. Marek
21. Carson
22. Marek
23. Carson
24. Carson
25. Marek
26. Carson
27. Marek
28. Carson
29. Marek
30. Carson
31. Marek
32. Marek
33. Carson
34. Marek
SHAREBEAR Newsletter
About the Author
A SIREN
for the BEAR
MEREDITH CLARKE
&
PIA MILAN
A Siren for the Bear (Sarkozy Brothers #1)
Published By Pia Milan
Copyright © 2015 Pia Milan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or events are entirely the work of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials.
Cover art by MH Silver
1. CARSON
"CARSON, YOU'RE UP. THEY'RE WAITING for you." Kat leaned close and whispered so loudly that she might as well not have bothered lowering her voice.
Carson Grant sent a scathing glance to her redheaded friend, simultaneously glad and annoyed that she'd accompanied her. Katriona Brandon could be pushy and demanding when it came to Carson's career. Most times, Carson appreciated it. Just not when she was about to go on stage.
She needed Zen, and Kat, despite her sedate black suit and demure silk shirt, was as far from Zen as sushi was from chocolate cake.
The sound of applause filled the small club, rising from a smattering of lone claps to a resounding wave of expectation the longer it continued.
Carson gave Kat a cool nod, brushed her unruly black curls from her face, and squared her shoulders, abandoning her margarita with a rueful glance. They'd been sitting at their usual table along the back end of Club Serendipity, waiting for Carson's set to come up.
It wasn't as if she was nervous. In her short career, she'd sung at a hundred places, covered nearly a hundred songs, graced a hundred different venues.
She was a performer. Born to it, reveling in it.
Or something like that.
She sighed as she got to her feet and rubbed her hands down her hips, which were a little too curvy for the floor-length black dress. The silky, dark fabric, speckled with silvery dust, and the ridiculously sexy thigh-high slit, did help to make a statement though, despite her generous hips.
Besides, most of the people here knew Carson well enough by now, knew that she was nowhere near the skinny type no matter how many pounds they assumed her videos put on. They came to hear her sing.
And sing she would.
She got to her feet, shifted past Kat, and took a deep breath. They had a full house, standing room only. Adam Fulsom, Serendipity's owner and Carson's biggest supporter, would be over the moon.
It had never stopped amazing her that all she had to do was announce on her social media where she'd be performing, and they came in droves.
She took a deep breath and threaded her way between the tables and up toward the low stage. It was nowhere near a big performance, the club seating a maximum of a hundred people, but it was enough to satisfy the performer in her.
Well, that was supposed to be the case, wasn't it, she thought, as she smiled and greeted people, acknowledging the applause as she neared the stairs to the stage.
Lately, things had changed.
Her recent covers had garnered thousands of likes, and her weekends were always filled singing at open-mike nights, or small clubs across California and its neighboring states. The unpaid performances were fun. The paid gigs were sufficient for Carson to get by.
Still, something seemed off.
The string quartet--Adam liked to make a statement with her backup musicians--struck up the music and her fingers closed over the stem of the microphone.
Using her voice, she enthralled the crowd. So close to her audience, she sang directly to them, enjoying their joy in her voice. Even today, the power of her voice still amazed her. There was something about it that made people stop and listen.
As a little girl, she used to adore her mom's voice, praying every night that she would learn to sing as well as her angelic mother. Who'd have known her talents would far surpass those of the woman who'd given her voice.
For years, her father had told her that music would never be her future. That she ought to be practical, that nobody could ever make a living with music, not in today's cutthroat world.
She'd kept right on loving him, despite his lack of support, thinking all he wanted was to protect her. And then he'd taken everything from her. For that she'd never forgive him.
She was lost in the song, and the set was over way too soon. The time spent lost in the music was too brief, and as the last notes died and the lights came up, reality made a harsh return.
She blinked as the musicians rose to take a bow with her.
Carson smiled and waved and nodded at the applause, and spoke words she couldn't recall later, thanking people for coming as she made her way back to her table.
Up ahead a couple got to their feet so suddenly that she was forced to swerve away from them in order to avoid a head on collision. Her hip bumped into someone's arm and she twisted to apologize, catching a glimpse of deep, dark eyes, and a strong, sensuous jaw.
A frisson of awareness hit her low in her stomach, but she hid it with a smile and called out a casual apology before twisting on her heel to hurry away.
Her skin was flushed as she reached Kat, who looked up at her, a wide, proud grin on her freckled face. She was playing with the little pink stirrer in her martini; she'd always said she was a stirred, not shaken, kinda girl.
"You killed it, babe."
2. MAREK
THE WOMAN IS A SIREN.
Marek Sarkozy shifted in his seat and reached for the brandy, trying to calm the growing tightness in his groin. The rich golden liquid burned as it slid down his throat, but it didn't help one bit.
He set the glass back on the white tablecloth and looked back up at the girl on the stage, tugging his tie away from his neck and unbuttoning his shirt. The damn thing had been strangling him all evening.
Singers, or vocal artists, or whatever the PC code name was, had never appeared as more than just a blip on his radar. Seen one, you've seen them all. And he'd seen way too many in his time.
But when Carson Grant had stepped onto the stage, Marek's ability to breathe had ceased to exist. The dark silk encasing her curves shimmered as she walked, her hips swaying as she'd glided past him, mere inches from his arm
.
The dress, demure from behind despite the low cut to the back, gave a whole new meaning to sexy when she'd stepped up onto the low dais. A thigh-high slit revealed a delectable expanse of creamy skin, however fleeting the view.
He'd seen her videos before, listened to her voice enough to know the depth and breadth of her talent. It was why he was here, after all. Her talent. So her physical presence should not have had such an effect on Marek.
But it did.
When she opened her mouth and began to weave her magic around him, she managed to stir more than just his attention.
The notes and the lyrics worked their magic, sending goosebumps across his skin, making him rock hard in places that had no business reacting to her.
Marek shifted in his seat, stiffening the muscles in his thighs, willing away the straining pressure in his groin. He narrowed his eyes, studied her, drawing a shutter over his rampant emotions. He was good at hiding his true self from people.
Even better at hiding how he felt.
It was par for the course. Life as a Sarkozy had always meant life on the fringes of society. Even as CEO of the family-owned security empire, Marek had to be careful of his choices. Add his species into the mix, and girls like Carson the Siren spelled trouble in big, dangerous, must-be-avoided packages.
The deal with her was just business.
Carson Grant was the right person for the job and the last thing he needed was to fuck it up.
He shook his head, tightening his jaw as his gaze slid from the curve of her breasts to hips that called out to be caressed. Her vocal talent made her the right person for the job, but her voice combined with the rest of that curvaceous package made her the worst person alive for the job.
Still, he had little choice in the matter. They were down to the wire, and the decision had been made. He was beginning to wonder if it was all worth it. What had begun as an effort to redirect the energies of a bunch of randy shifters had now become a major source of organizational and emotional problems.
But right now, all he could do was damage control. They needed her. So they would have her.
Carson's set ended far too soon, and Marek threw back the last bit of the brandy, enjoying the burn as it trailed a path to his stomach. She passed him on her way to her table at the back, her hip brushing sensuously against his arm as she tried to avoid bumping into a couple who'd gotten to their feet at the last minute.
The contact was explosive. For Marek at least. She glanced back as she continued on her journey, barely laying eyes on him as she threw an apology his way.
Marek stared after her, but the couple blocked his line of sight for a few seconds. He pushed to his feet and strode after her.
And he smiled. The view of her curvaceous ass was unimpeded.
Stop it, Marek. You can't have her. Ever. This is where it ends. Get her on board, and get the hell out of here.
Marek tightened his jaw and pushed the force of his attraction down as far as he could, steeling his emotions as he approached her.
The band was waiting.
3. CARSON
SHE WAS A FOOT FROM the table when a warm hand closed over her upper arm. Goosebumps covered her skin, not unlike the trill of awareness she'd experienced moments ago.
The sleeveless evening dress was the only appropriate garment she owned for a club like Serendipity. Classy and sexy at the same time. Her bare arms had never been a problem. Not until now.
Carson stared down at the fingers wrapped around her bicep. Tanned, large sexy hands.
As her gaze travelled up the hand and followed it along the muscled arm, to the face of its owner, she was strangely glad to find that the face attached to the hand matched that of the man she'd bumped into.
She was tall, which had always been a disadvantage from her. Add all those damned curves and she had no chance against all the skinny model types that usually got away with the hot guys.
So it wasn't often that she had to stare up into the eyes of a man. And even less often did that man happened to be drop dead gorgeous.
Her stomach tightened, heat flooding her veins, and she remembered belatedly to breathe. Honey-gold eyes held her entranced, her breasts tingling in response to him.
She took a soft breath, uncertain now that she recognized the expression in those eyes. They were cold, almost unfeeling, as he ran his gaze over her, lingering for that much longer as he took in her curves.
When he was done, he looked back up at her eyes, the tension between them simmering long enough that she bit her bottom lip as nervous weight settled in her stomach.
Despite his cool demeanor, his hand hadn't yet left her arm. She swallowed hard and gave his fingers a pointed look.
By the time she looked back up at him, she'd taken another slow and even breath, but it did nothing for her, because when she met his eyes again, he still managed to take her breath away.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She straightened her spine. "Can I help you?"
The fact that he was six feet of pure sex god didn't mean he wasn't a pervert or a creep. If he didn't remove his hand soon, Carson wouldn't hesitate to call Adam to toss his hot ass out of the club.
But he did let her go, albeit very reluctantly. As his fingers slid across her skin she had to suppress a shudder that roiled through her, sending a wave of heat to pool within her core.
No surprise when she felt bereft of his touch as he let go of her and shifted away.
"Are you Carson Grant?" he asked, his voice a low baritone that she could just imagine growling naughty things in her ear.
She blinked away images of silken sheets and the stranger's naked flesh and raised her eyebrows.
How could he not know, when Adam had announced it very loudly not too long ago. She forced herself to nod and smile. A testament to a good upbringing.
Maybe he was just being polite.
She held out her hand. "Yes, I'm Carson." It didn't hurt to be professional, either. "And you are?"
"My name is Marek Sarkozy," he said, taking her hand. The touch made her want to shiver. "I have a business proposition for you."
Oh boy.
She steeled herself against the awareness of him, against the desire to tug her hand free, and pursed her lips. His business proposition probably wasn't exactly what she was thinking.
She studied his expression, wondering if he was messing with her. She didn't have men propositioning her everyday, business or otherwise. She forced a smile onto her face, swearing that she would not hesitate to kick him in the balls if he turned out to be a pimp.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, and she heard Kat's clothes rustling as she fidgeted. She could hear Adam announcing the next performer for the evening. The warmth of his palm against hers reminded her that he was still holding onto her hand, the heat of his skin still coursing through her body from just that contact.
She cleared her throat and removed her hand as politely as possible. "Sounds interesting. Care to elaborate?"
His expression was unreadable as she waved him to a seat at their table and slid quickly into her chair. She couldn't trust her legs to keep her up any longer and was grateful for the support of the chair.
Her margarita still sat on the table, probably warm now, but she curled her fingers around the long stem for want of something to do. Sarkozy gave Kat a dark look, which she returned with a bright smile. There was a strange edge to her expression as she studied his face, and Carson frowned at her.
But Kat just got to her feet, giving Carson a pointed stare. "I have to go, er, powder my nose?"
Smooth, Kat. Very smooth.
She watched as Kat moved away from the table, waving her hand in front of her face before she disappeared in the direction go the bar.
So Kat also thinks the guy is hot. Fabulous.
"So how can I help you, Mr. Sarkozy?"
The name rolled off her lips. Unusual. It suited him. He wasn't the usual type, not with those broad shoulders, tha
t massive chest. His physique implied power, something latent, brewing.
Carson blinked, trying to regain control of her thoughts. Business thoughts.
He leaned his elbows on the table, shadows hiding along his sharp jaw, resting on his sensuous mouth. She had to force herself to concentrate when he finally began to speak.
"We need a lead singer for our band. We'd like to offer you the position."
Her eyes widened a fraction, but she kept her spine stiff. "May I ask which band?"
She wasn't into heavy metal, or hard rock. Anything else she'd consider.
"Ursus Major."
"Oh," she said softly.
She'd heard of them. Indie. Big. But oddly reclusive. Not much was known about the members personally, and the only time you'd see pictures online of them was if someone snapped a shot on their cell phones at a live performance.
She'd heard their stuff before. Nice, soft rock. Some romantic, some bordering on hard rock, but easy enough for her to enjoy.
Carson cleared her throat. "Okay. Is this a permanent gig?" The man wasn't very forthcoming for someone offering a position to a potential employee. He really needed to up his managerial skills.
He shook his head. "Natashia, our lead vocal, is having some health issues. She's too ill right now. And we have a Western seaboard tour coming up in a few weeks."
"So the job is just for the upcoming tour?" Carson asked, wondering if it was worth getting on board just for a single tour.
"At the moment, yes." He nodded, his golden eyes eerily cool.
Honeyed ice.
Then he nodded as he reached into his pocket and pulled a thick envelope free. Her eyes traveled: hand to chest, chest to the open button at his throat, the tie that had been loosened, the sprinkling of dark hair at the base of his throat. The breath caught in her lungs and she felt her heart thud painfully against her ribs.
Get a grip, it's hair on a man's chest for crying out loud.
When he slapped the white envelope on the dark fabric of the tablecloth, she almost jumped.
"It's all in the contract, along with a generous salary including benefits. Plus royalty share on any songs we produce until the contract ends. As well as royalty share on any albums we issue on the tour. We may need to re-record some of our current sounds with you singing the lead, but from what I've heard of your abilities you are capable enough."
A Siren for the Bear (Sarkozy Brothers Book 1) Page 1
