I Married a Dragon: Para-Mates, Book 2

by Beverly Rae

  Burn, baby, burn…

  Para-Mates, Book 2

  Chrissy Taylor doesn’t believe in a lot of things. Her life, and her career as a supernatural myth-buster, are ruled by logic and skepticism. Love at first sight? Forget it—until she’s swept off her feet by Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious.

  The next thing she knows, she’s done the most illogical thing imaginable: run off to Vegas for a quickie marriage. And Mr. TD&M’s insatiable hunger for her body is starting to feel suspiciously like an attempt to make her the one thing she fears most. Pregnant.

  Even though Kaine sets Chrissy’s world on fire—literally—she can’t resist embarking on her toughest debunking mission yet. She must unearth the truth about her new husband before desire consumes the last of her reason.

  Kaine Delcaluca is withholding the fact that he’s a dragon, but time is of the essence. He desperately needs an heir to save his dynasty. Plus, he has an even bigger problem. The Scepter of Fire, the only weapon powerful enough to kill a dragon, has gone missing. If he fails to find it—and knock up his new bride—within the next few days, his people are doomed…

  Warning: Sizzles with graphic language, set-the-sheets-on-fire sex, and snarky personal assistant machines.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  I Married a Dragon

  Copyright © 2010 by Beverly Rae

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-957-1

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth

  Cover by Natalie Winters

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  I Married a Dragon

  Beverly Rae

  Dedication

  Dedicated to all the red-hot lovers and the women who love them.

  Knights in Shining Armor and Other Mythical Characters

  I married a dragon.

  There. I said it. I finally got the words out.

  Let’s face it. It’s not exactly the kind of statement anyone thinks they’ll ever make. In fact, “I married a dragon” would fly high on the list of the World’s Most Incredible Statements, along with such implausible declarations as “I bit the nose off a grizzly bear” or “I use the Hope diamond for a doorstop”.

  If you can’t believe that an intelligent thirty-five-year-old woman can find herself married to a fire-breathing dragon without knowing who, or rather what, she married, then you aren’t alone. I still find it difficult to believe and I’m the woman. It’s even more unbelievable when you consider how I make my living.

  You see, I expose the paranormal hocus-pocus of our world.

  Yep, you got it. I’m a real-life paranormal investigator and debunker of all things scary that go bump in the night. Do you hear strange noises in your house? Call me. I’ll find bats—the non-vampire type—in your attic. Are Grammy’s favorite knickknacks moving from the curio cabinet and to the kitchen counter when nobody’s at home? I’ll nab the neighbor’s teen while he’s doing a little B&E, playing his not-so-funny poltergeist joke again. Got a psychic charging you big bucks to contact Uncle Marty and get him to spill his ghostly guts on where he hid his lottery winnings? Better keep your job. You’ll need it once I show you Madame Sheneeka’s arrest record for running a not-so-supernatural scam.

  Yeah, I know. Some people do believe in werewolves, demons and other creatures of folklore and mythology. Shoot, even my best friend from college is a believer. We used to get embroiled in heated discussions about the possible existence of supernatural beings Jenn called Otherworlders. At the time, I thought she was eccentric and, yes, maybe skirting the fringes of wacko.

  Now I guess I owe her an apology.

  Ah, yes. I can almost see your bemused smile. Dragons don’t exist. Therefore, I must be telling one whopper of a story. But don’t break out the laugh track too fast. Sure, I understand your reluctance to accept what I’m saying. But trust me, when my hubby morphs to full fire-breathing size, it’s hard to miss the guy.

  I bet you’re wondering how I couldn’t see my future husband for what he was. Well, let’s just say when in his human form, the man could give a movie star a run for the ladies. Women and men stop and give him a double take. So how does someone find a dragon, much less marry one? The truth of the matter is that I didn’t find him. In fact, he’d been searching for me. That’s right. My handsome draggy-poo found me.

  Before I knew it, I became Christina Taylor-Delcaluca. Delcaluca is an ancient name running through several generations of—wait for it—dragons. But who knew? I’d assumed (and you know what happens when you assume) Delcaluca was an old Italian name. Not a name associated with the Dragon Dynasty. (I’ll get into the dynasty part later on in my story.)

  I grew up in Atlanta, with two loving parents who believed that every mystery had a logical explanation and they passed their practical attitudes on to me. After spending a whole lot of time in endless low-paying jobs, I decided to put my drilled-in skepticism to good use by disproving the stories of poltergeists, malevolent spirits, boogie monsters and whatever other creatures poor delusional people believed in. I started a struggling business called Debunkers, Inc. Hey, the money still sucks, but at least I’m doing what I enjoy: dragging the frights of the night out into the light of the day. So you can understand why I didn’t realize what my lover was when we first met, can’t you? My mind simply wouldn’t accept the fact that dragons and other supernatural beings existed.

  I met my smokin’-hot (pun intended) hubby at my friend Thad Pittman’s over-the-top birthday bash on Lake Lanier. Thad—pronounced Tad for reasons known only to him—Pittman is one of my best friends. Too bad he’s gay or I’d have considered hauling his handsome bod into bed. Anyway, I was at his party when I decided I needed a breather from the wild antics of his less inhibited friends.

  I stood on a boat dock a few yards away from another dock where a group of partiers were toasting Thad with Dom Perignon champagne. Although he didn’t make much money as an actor or a playwright, he always had cash in hand. In fact, he often joked about the pot of gold hidden away in his basement.

  In typical Thad style, he’d decided the best way to break the drought in Atlanta was to offer a sacrifice to the Rain Gods. The sacrifice, of course, wasn’t the champagne. I mean, the man’s not stupid, just sometimes certifiable. No, the sacrifice consisted of Thad and the others pouring bottled water onto the dry edges of the lake. They did this while imploring the Water Witch and other imagined deities to bring in the clouds, which, of course, was sung to the tune of “Bring In the Clowns”. Fortunately for me and anyone else within hearing distance, the singing transitioned from off-key harmonics to overly dramatic prayers aimed at the cloudless sky.

  “Rain, baby, rain!” Thad raised his arm in the air, then turned the water bottle over, letting the liquid pour into the parched ground surrounding the dock. Several years of drought conditions had left many of the boat docks high and dry. Thad’s friends did the same, echoing him by adding their own pleas.

&
nbsp; “Let it rain, Cloud King!”

  “Shake, rumble and roll, Oh, Great Thunder Lord!”

  “Powerful Lightning Wizard, we call on you to make it rain!”

  “Flood me, Downpour Diva!”

  “Oh, brother.” I forced myself to stay on my dock and not rush over to stop them. All I saw was a group of intoxicated people wasting perfectly good bottled water. (Yeah, I know. Sometimes I can be a real killjoy.) But after finishing my latest assignment—debunking yet another supposedly haunted house—Thad had ordered me, with a firm and not-so-subtle command, to not mix my business with his pleasure. Since it was his birthday, I did my best to honor his wishes, although a big part of me wanted nothing more than to go home to my tiny overpriced studio apartment, curl up with a good autobiography and scarf down a pint of Ben and Jerry’s newest flavor.

  Thad waved to me, calling me over to join the fun, but I shook my head. I took another sip of my champagne and moved farther out on the dock, going almost all the way to the edge before I could see any water through the gaps between the boards. I took off my shoes, settled down on the edge and let my feet dangle in the water. With a heavy sigh, I took another drink and looked up at the moon. In a rare fanciful mood, I let my mind wander and tried to imagine a real man staring back at me. I sighed again. My love life was as dry as the Georgia ground. Sheesh, when I start fantasizing about the man up there, it’s time to get laid. Waay past time.

  I gulped down the last drops of my drink and closed my eyes, listening to Thad and his buddies stumbling up the sloped hillside to his rented lake house. I should rejoin the party. Instead of hopping up and rushing off to do my BFF duty, I rested my back against the wood and searched the clear skies for any sign that Thad’s sacrifices had worked. Yeah, like that’ll happen.

  A splashing sound interrupted my contemplation and I turned my head to gaze over the smooth surface of the lake. Another splash, sounding closer, brought me to a sitting position to scan the glassy water closer. My mind was already working on the most logical explanation.

  Probably just a fish. I frowned at the water. Then why didn’t I see any ripples? Unless it had been a very small fish. But then the sound wouldn’t have been so loud. Giving the lake another look, I decided to let it pass. I was supposed to be off duty, anyway. Telling myself to follow Thad’s order to relax, I leaned back down on the dock and tried to chill.

  A dark form, shrieking loud enough to pop my eardrums, flew over the corner piling and aimed straight for me. One red eye glared at me from the middle of a grotesquely-formed head, and razor-sharp fangs flashed in the moonlight. All of this happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react. Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to.

  A figure dressed in black jumped between the thing and me. I gasped, frozen to the spot as my hero reached out a large hand covered in some kind of golden leathery material and grabbed the watery beast. Stunned, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, hoping that when I opened them again, I’d realize my eyes had been playing tricks on me. Did I drink that much?

  Another shriek filled the air, only this time terror mixed with ferociousness in the sound. A crack had me opening my eyes to see my hero, his back turned toward me, flinging a limp and obviously dead thing away from us.

  The man must’ve played major league baseball or shot the put—put the shot?—in the Olympics, because the attacking fish-thingy soared through the air, going the impossible distance to the middle of the lake. My mouth dropped open and I was powerless to close it. No one could throw anything that far. Not even an Olympian. Several seconds later, the thing hit the water and disappeared into the black depths.

  “Omigod!”

  The man whirled to face me and I knew at that exact moment one of two things had happened. Either (1) I’d swilled a shitload of champagne or (2) I needed more relaxation than even Thad knew. Why? Because for a second, I would’ve sworn the face of my champion had changed from a man to something else. Something not quite human.

  Fear and surprise had me closing my eyes again. Releasing pent-up anxiety, I repeated an impromptu mantra three times. I am not drunk. I am not drunk. I am not drunk. Maybe I should’ve said I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. Either way, I didn’t look forward to opening my eyes and finding out which condition I was in.

  The rational me, however, knew I had to. Holding my breath, I peeked and found myself staring into the most gorgeous green eyes I’d ever seen. He’d moved closer and was kneeling beside me. His face—a chiseled movie-star face even Thad would envy—was so close I could’ve nibbled on his lips. And oh, how I wanted to do just that! Among other parts of him, of course. You know. Just a nibble or two.

  Thankfully, my eyes were functioning quite well. With a quick glimpse at the rest of his body, I registered the black pants and black silk shirt he wore. The V formed by the open collar of his shirt highlighted a hard chest and a small sideways figure eight tattoo at the base of his throat. I wondered briefly why he’d chosen to tat his throat, but that was the least of his allure. His air of sophistication mixed with a natural casualness reminded me of a James Bond type. He definitely did not look like the average renter at the lake. Although he didn’t wear a tie or a belt, an expensive gold watch adorned his wrist and two rings, one on each hand, sparkled under the moonlight. A lot of men can’t get away with wearing diamonds, but this guy sure could. Hell, he could’ve gotten away with anything. And I do mean anything (wink, wink).

  An after-five stubble formed a U from one ear, around his chin, and up to the other. Still, I knew he would look rugged even clean-shaven. Dark hair, curling a bit at the ends, framed his tanned face. I could never get enough of staring at him even if I stayed with him for a thousand years. Wow, where did that thought come from?

  Swallowing, I forced my brain train to hop onto the rationality track again. But the brain train would only creep at minimum speed. I waited, letting the train chug along until, at last, it gained enough momentum. I gulped again and attempted to open my mouth to speak—at exactly the same moment he ran his tongue over his upper lip. The train ground to a screeching halt with the conductor hopping out of the engine to inspect the roadblock derailing my thoughts. Unfortunately for me, one of the cars broke free, jumped the track and careened toward the depot called my mouth.

  “Ahwkern.”

  One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched upward.

  “Ehhhh…bwa…errr. Ugh.”

  Humor twinkled in those brilliant green eyes. He tilted his head at me. “Are you trying to speak?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you able to speak?”

  Holy crap. Barry White move over. His voice was the voice to end all voices. If every woman in the world could hear the deep, rich timbre coming out of his mouth, they’d slap duct tape over other men’s pie holes. I doubted I’d ever want another man to speak to me after hearing this guy. And all I wanted at that moment was to hear him speak again. I didn’t care what he said just as long as he said it to me. Too bad I still had my runaway brain train to contend with.

  Come on, Chrissy! Don’t let this chance pass. I’d never found myself face to face with a real, live god-like male before and I couldn’t blow this opportunity. I cleared my throat, shook my head to remove that mental roadblock and tried again, hoping I could convince him that I wasn’t the Speechless Wonder. “Wow. That was quite a throw.”

  Yeah, I know. It wasn’t the cleverest remark anyone had ever made, but, hey, at least he could understand me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I cringed inside and promised I’d enroll in an impromptu public speaking class the very next day.

  The tips of his mouth curved upward and I reached out to touch them. (Seriously! I actually reached out to touch them.) Obviously, the village idiot had jumped on the caboose and been promoted to conductor.

  But here’s the really good part. Instead of jerking away or scowling at me, he took my hand and pressed his lips to the center of my palm. The action from any other ma
n would have seemed corny, but not this guy. He was definitely the coolest of the cool.

  Of course, I reacted in my own cool and collected fashion—not. Instead of playing Cinderella to his Prince Charming and acting all classy and charming, I stopped breathing. I swear I did. I physically held my breath. Then, as if I couldn’t act like more of a dumbass, I giggled.

  Omigod. Please let me die right now. I just giggled at the man. And not a tickling, sweet-sounding ingénue-type laugh, mind you. Oh, no. I had to let loose with an all-out-there, teeny-bopper crush titter. Had I no shame left? Amazingly, however, he didn’t appear to notice.

  “Are you all right?”

  Thank goodness I’d dressed for the party in nice slacks and a flattering blouse instead of wearing my usual lake wear of tattered jean shorts and faded halter top. I nodded and hoped playing the silent and semi-cute damsel-in-distress would be my best option. At least until my mind started performing at its usually high-functioning level.

  Still holding my hand, he helped me to my feet, glossing over my total awestruck stupidity. Feeling something wet at the corner of my lips, I clamped my mouth shut. Did I almost drool?

  “I’m sorry, but did you hear me? Are you all right?”

  His concerned gaze stuck with mine, holding both my attention and my heart. “Uh, yeah.” Damn it, Chrissy, you can do better than that. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. Thanks to you.” At last, the entire brain train was back on course and moving down the track toward Cognitive Ability Land. I glanced down at my hand in his, wanting to take full pleasure of the remaining time he would hold it. He was bound to let go soon. I mean, that’s the saying, right? All good things must come to a finish? Damn those stupid sayings.

  Instead, he took my other hand. Pleased by this unexpected development, I looked into his handsome face and found him studying me. Yet instead of matching his gaze again, I lost my nerve and turned toward the lake. “What was that thing, anyway?”