Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance)

by Sophie Chevalier

  “I also expect you to purchase a new peanut plant for my home garden.” He had a home garden? “One of fine extraction. You also need to direct my grocery delivery service in what foods to send this week. I expect you to plan the meals in doing so—I don’t have time. I have no allergies.

  “One of the daughters of a senior partner at our firm, Davidson, is graduating from Duke. Write a congratulatory note; I’ll sign it when I get home.” He stood. “Did you get all that?”

  Inside, she was terrified; outwardly, she managed a calm smile. “Yes.” Maid service! Berlin! China visa! Peanuts! Groceries! Congrats on Duke!

  “Good.” He seemed satisfied. “I’ll be home around nine-thirty. I anticipate all the things I’ve requested will be done.” Nine-thirty… ten hours. It didn’t seem like enough.

  “They will be.”

  “Excellent. Walk with me to the door, Ginger.”

  She stood and followed him back to the apartment’s door. He shrugged on a well-made coat and favored her with a smile.

  “Please, feel free to show yourself around. You can order meals; mention my name when it comes to the bill. I’ll pay them this evening.”

  She half-smiled, the nerves starting to disrupt her show of calm. His eyes went right through her—they were so bright, so gold-and-brown; totally irresistible.

  “I’ll see you this evening.”

  He had to collect himself in the elevator.

  Ginger was so lovely, so intoxicating. Her scent dizzied him—enticed him—aroused him. He’d thought he could handle it, but no—he couldn’t. He’d have to buy her some perfume if he retained her as his assistant. Something strong, to cover her natural fragrance. Hopefully he’d hidden from her the effect she had on him.

  Even now, closing his eyes, all he could see was her beautiful face, her thick, coppery hair, her pretty little body. His imagination suggested obscene things: what it would be like to strip her tasteful dress off, pare her bra away—inhale the achingly sweet, feminine scent of her skin—kiss that skin—nip her creamy breasts, bite her soft, tender neck, bite it hard—

  His eyes snapped open. Bite her?

  He was fantasizing about biting her?

  That wouldn’t do. He would have to buy her that perfume. For both their sakes.

  Chapter 4

  As soon as he was gone, she hopped around, yanking off her heels, and then went racing into his home office. It was a beautifully appointed room with a commanding view of the city and the mountains; she imagined it would be luminously sunny on a clear day. She scrabbled for a pad on the double-pedestal desk and found one. Grabbing a pen from a cup next to a bear-shaped paperweight, she wrote down everything he wanted before she forgot it.

  It certainly seemed like a lot.

  She stared at the list. It was quiet, almost eerily quiet, in his apartment; she sighed.

  “He said to look around,” she murmured to herself finally. “I’ll just start with that.” It would center her. All her life, she’d liked to investigate her surroundings. Naturally nosy, her mother called her.

  She set down the legal pad, ran a hand through her hair—Laila had fussed at her to leave it down again, with nothing but a halo braid—and then wandered out of the office, back into the hall.

  Even the hall was nice. It was lined with high-quality art prints: she recognized Remington’s The Bear at Bay (Roping a Grizzly), a couple of John Muir’s Yosemite photos, and Bierstadt’s Grizzly Bears. Did he have a bear fixation or something?

  Well, who was she to judge? She’d always liked tigers.

  She investigated the other rooms off the hall. One was a kind of home library, large and handsome, but most of the books seemed to cover matters of the law—boring. Another was a well-appointed den, with a faint scent of tobacco lingering on the attractive leather chairs. The last was a little bathroom, minimalist and gleaming.

  Then she was back in the living room. For a long moment, she stared out the huge windows onto the toothy outline of the city; then she moved on, exploring the apartment’s other wing.

  On that side, off a second hall (hung with more Muir prints), there was a broad, glass-enclosed balcony, with a filtered pool inlaid in a floor of Tuscan stone. This was the home garden he’d mentioned—but the plants he had chosen to grow were, in her opinion, very strange.

  It was almost like his fascination with bears had spilled over to his gardening. She’d made money as a camp counselor outside Tacoma in high school, and she recognized a lot of the plants as typical bear browse. There were shrubs heavy with bearberry, cranberry, and blueberry; there was cow parsnip, sweet clover, thistle, fireweed, and dandelion; and there was a sheaf of soybean, peanuts, and peaked sunflowers. He was right about the peanuts—they needed replacing. She fingered a leaf, and it broke off, brittle, under her gentle fingers.

  I’ll get him a good cutting. Better than this.

  She brushed the sedge growing in the pool—Healthy stuff—and went on to the rest of the home.

  There was a guest bedroom—she could tell it was a guest bedroom, it was so devoid of knickknacks, so scentless—comfortable but impersonal, with another lovely view, this time of the bay. She opened its closet, nosily, but found nothing: just hangers. The room also had an en suite bathroom, small but pristine, with a spotless mirror. There was a ceramic bear by the sink, full of redwood-smelling patchouli.

  She found a sort of study, smaller than the library and full of normal, readable books on various subjects. There seemed to be a lot dedicated to ecology and forestry, but that wasn’t too weird: it was the Pacific Northwest, after all. There was also a flat-screen TV and a drinks cabinet against the wall. It had some pine-carved bear figures on top, guarding a bottle of Scotch.

  There was one room, next door, that was locked. Home storage, probably.

  And, last on the hall, there was his bedroom.

  She knew it was his bedroom as soon as she touched the warm mahogany door. She could smell him—a sort of masculine scent, deep and delicious. I probably shouldn’t go in.

  But curiosity gnawed at her, insistent. She gripped the door handle, trying to resist it… but, finally, she surrendered.

  What the hell.

  She opened the door and stepped in.

  It was a gorgeous, conservative room. The floor underfoot was a dark, lacquered wood, but there was a white rug under the bed; it looked almost like a pelt, shaggy-furred. The walls were dark, but the head of the bed—a black bed—was pressed up against a wall of sheer glass, the view only slightly obscured by a thin layer of gauzy, frost-colored drapes.

  She crossed the bedroom, slowly; the wood was cool and smooth under her stockinged feet, and the rug was soft. Impulsively, she crawled onto the bed and sat there, enjoying the silky feel of the bedspread. It had to be three hundred count, maybe cotton sateen.

  Across from her, on the other wall, by the door, were a pair of low bookcases with a dark dresser between them, and a framed copy of another Bierstadt, Bears in the Wilderness, hanging overhead. The obsession ran deep.

  Was he raised by bears or something? Jeez.

  Curling up, she lay on the bed for a moment, breathing Dane in, enjoying the sophistication of the room, the richness of the bedding… how did he sleep? Shirtless? Naked? That was a pleasant thought… very pleasant…

  Idly, she ran a hand down her blouse-covered stomach, onto the front of her jacquard skirt. It was easy to imagine him on top of her, here… filling her… his hips working against hers…

  Her panties moistened, and she rubbed herself lazily through the skirt. What would a kiss from him be like? Would it be forceful? Or surprisingly gentle? How would he taste? Filthy daydreams flickered easily through her mind… so filthy…

  She sat up with a start—she’d been on the verge of dozing off. The pillows were soft as melted chocolate, and they’d lulled her almost to sleep. If he found her like that—no fucking telling what he’d do. Have me arrested?


  Scooting off the bed, she investigated his private bathroom briefly—everything was black tile, and there was a facsimile of Hokusai’s Great Wave Off Kanagawa on the wall—and then retreated to the hall, shutting the door again.

  Before she went back to the office and knuckled down, she checked the fridge in the kitchen to see just how bad his food situation was.

  “Honey?” she asked, flabbergasted. “Pine nuts? Deer sausage? That’s it?”

  She had a lot of work to do.

  She was waiting for him by the door when he got home, her coat already on. It was better, she figured, if she showed him she would never be underfoot—so she was ready to leave the second he snapped his fingers.

  “Ginger.” He looked a little tired as he closed the door, but his gold-and-brown eyes were as discerning as ever. “How was your day?”

  “Fine,” I have to choose something to call him, “Mr. MacAlister.”

  “Dane is fine.” He pulled off his coat and hung it up. Her pulse jumped—Dane. I get to call him Dane. “What’s my flight?”

  “First class on Emirates 243. Sea-Tac to Tegel Airport. Nonstop.”

  “Where am I staying?”

  “Executive Suite at the Ritz-Carlton Berlin. And I’ve contracted Imperial Car Service. Your records show you’ve used them before.”

  “I have.” He was paying closer attention now. “My visa?”

  “I sent the application to the embassy.”

  “Cleaning?”

  “I engaged Exec Maid Service, Seattle. They’ll send a couple of trained housecleaners tomorrow.”

  Now he was just letting her go on, unprompted.

  “I ordered a new peanut cutting from Green Queen Nursery. They’re located in Pierce County—Puyallup—but I thought it was worth the transport fee for the quality. The plant is coming with documentation of its cultivar pedigree.

  “I also wrote a congratulatory note for the Davidson girl, using your stationery, and left it on your desk. If you sign it, I can post it tomorrow; or you can give it to Mr. Davidson directly, if you prefer.

  “And I’ve ordered your groceries for the next week. All major food groups. I wrote up a meal list”—she held it up for him—“for the most efficient use of them.”

  He took it, glanced at it, and looked back up at her. There was a pause.

  “Acceptable, Ginger.”

  It didn’t seem like effusive praise—but his voice was warm, and his expression was pleased. It was enough. She could feel herself flushing with pride—that damn Irish glow.

  “I’m glad you think so, sir.”

  “Dane,” he corrected her.

  “Dane.” His name felt strangely right in her mouth. She wanted to say it again: Dane. Dane. Dane.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight, this time.”

  “Of course.” She tried and failed not to smile, but he gave her an indulgent look as she did. She was on for a second day. She could do this. “Good night.”

  “Not quite.”

  No? She blinked, a little confused. “Did you need something el—”

  “Go to Mario’s. Downtown. I’ve opened an account for you. There’s a personal shopper ready to assist you.”

  She stared at him. She knew Mario’s, of course. It was one of the most expensive boutiques in the city.

  “It’s… it’s nine thirty, they’re not—open, they—”

  “They’re expecting you,” he answered calmly.

  “I—I couldn’t—accept—”

  “You can, and I expect you to, Ginger. You represent me now. You need to dress correctly for the role—and you need to do that without borrowing from Miss Mujamdar every day. Oh, yes, I knew.”

  Ginger blushed taffy-pink.

  “Go on.” He gestured her off. “Tomorrow, I want to see you in Versace.”

  Chapter 5

  Winter descended on Seattle. Mostly that meant cold, ferocious rain, but it also meant sleet and sometimes snow. Fog settled on the bay and never seemed to lift.

  “You really want Fisher at this dinner?” Ackerman, one of Dane’s partners, asked.

  “I do, because I want to retain Getty Images as a client.”

  It wasn’t strictly her job—Dane emphasized and re-emphasized that she wasn’t a domestic—but Ginger brought them both coffee. They were sitting in Dane’s living room, and rain was spattering violently against the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. There was no view today—just soupy murk. She’d gotten used to all the moods of the city from this height, to every possible vista.

  “Thank you, Ginger,” Dane said, taking his cup of Rwanda Blue blend. “And I want Kormen there.”

  “Really? Kormen? But he’s not at Zillow anymore.”

  “He’ll land on his feet. Let’s keep the association alive.”

  “It’s your dinner.”

  “Not really. Nominally. It’s the firm’s.”

  Ginger took away the empty plate of snacks she’d brought out when Ackerman arrived—he was a slim man, balding, but he put away food like a lion. She’d refill it with rosemary crackers, truffle cheese, and lox; there was no need to change the spreading knife, though, so she’d bring the same one back out.

  Behind the kitchen island, she checked her skirt for coffee spots—it was a silk-lined, caramel-colored Gucci piece with a front pleat, and, thankfully, it was clean. She filled up the appetizer plate again, brought it out to the coffee table, and set it down. Immediately, Ackerman was loading up crackers with lox.

  “Ginger, sit,” Dane said.

  Obediently, she sat next to him. She loved being close to him—loved his smoked-wood smell, his body heat. Loved being close enough to admire the hot, liquid gold of his eyes.

  “Tell Kent about some of the arrangements you’ve made for the dinner.”

  From memory, she rattled off the vital specs: “Herban Feast is catering. Fifteen guests. Appetizers will be smoked salmon tartines and sweet potato crab cakes. The entrée will be sweet-pepper-and-quinoa salad, spiced cod fillet, and caramelized vegetables. Dessert will be stewed ginger pears or mango sherbet.”

  “Sounds great,” Ackerman said honestly, his mouth full of cracker. “Invitations?”

  “Embossed stationery. Sent out last month.” She’d done it herself.

  A crunch as he broke a cracker in half. “And you’re going to have it at the Woodmark, Dane?”

  “Ginger rented the space.”

  “Classy,” Ackerman admitted. “It’s a good choice. They’ll be impressed with that.”

  “They’ll find it acceptable, anyway,” Dane said, sipping his coffee. “There’s no impressing some people.”

  “Like you?” Ackerman suggested. “I’ve never heard you sing any praises.”

  “I can be impressed. Ginger impresses me, for example.”

  Ginger flushed with pleasure, but kept her eyes lasered modestly on the coffee table.

  “Well, I guess it’s true that you appreciate efficiency,” Ackerman said, glancing at her. “And proficiency.”

  Her flush deepened.

  “Ginger,” Dane said suddenly, speaking directly to her, “you could have poured yourself some coffee.” He was always encouraging her to eat his food and drink his drink—My home is your home and all that.

  “Oh—no,” she said, flipping her wrist to check the time. It was ticking away on the shiny, delicate-banded Ballon Bleu he’d bought her last month for Christmas. “It’s almost three. I actually have to get going.” She glanced at Dane. “Laila’s sister.”

  “That’s right. When was her plane getting in?”

  “Five.”

  “Alright. Yes, you’d better go now if you want to get to Sea-Tac in time.”

  “Is there anything I can do, here, before I leave?” She was always reachable by phone, but some things could only be done in his home.

  “No,” he said, watching her with a curious intensity; she mastered a shiver. “I’ll go down to
the garage with you. Kent, would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

  Ackerman shrugged, casually. He didn’t mind.

  Dane called the elevator while Ginger slipped into her Donna Karan jacket. It came, and he waited for her to step in first. Then they descended.

  “Are you looking forward to having her sister visit?”

  “Yeah. Lalita’s a lot of fun. She’s older than us, she has kids, but she’s crazy.”

  “Hm.” He smiled, slightly; then it was gone. “Of course, they’ll both be out looking at apartments most of the time, won’t they?”

  That was true. Lalita was here in large part to help Laila choose a more permanent home; she was an experienced realtor back in Chicago. “Yeah.”

  “Do you know where you’ll be moving yet? When the lease expires?”

  Which it would, in two weeks. “I’ve looked into a few places…”

  “Too busy taking care of me to take care of yourself?” he asked perceptively.

  She laughed that off, a little awkwardly. “Don’t worry about me! I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I will be.”

  “You know, Ginger,” he said, and she sensed he was changing tacks, “I missed you in L.A.”

  Had he?—Missed her? How? She peered at him.

  “Next time I travel, I’d like you to come with me. Everything runs as smooth as butter when you’re there to orchestrate it. I need someone with that kind of organizational ability to be with me at all times. Here, downcoast, overseas—anywhere I end up.”

  His next trip was to San Francisco, in three weeks; after that, it was Zurich. “You want me to—come to San Fran with you? And—?”

  “And Zurich.” She was drowning in his preternatural eyes. “And New York, and London, and Tokyo—and everywhere else on the calendar. Will you do that?”