The Billionaire Shifter's Secret Baby: (Paranormal Weretiger Secret Baby Romance) (Howls Romance #4) (Billionaire Shifters Club)

by Diana Seere

  Eh. What the hell.

  “Fine,” Lars said with a sigh. “I met a woman.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Nearly three years ago. We were at a costume party.”

  “Let me guess. You went as a tiger.”

  “That joke is never funny.”

  “Neither is the cat joke.”

  “Do you want to hear my story?”

  “Any story involving sex is one I want to hear.”

  Lars took a long drink, then continued. “It was one of those charity balls. You know the kind. We attend because our families write enormous checks to keep the human world happy and off our trails. And because the charities do good. My father needed one of us to go, and so I went. Got my band to play. Why not, right? Might as well up the ‘good patron’ image and have some fun while I was at it.”

  Derry blinked rapidly, nodding slowly. Lars could speak in shorthand with the Stanton men. They got it. Being from one of the old, wealthy shifter families wasn’t quite as bad as being British royalty, but close. A life lived under the microscope wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Sometimes you had to make it fun. Take your enjoyment where you could.

  And shifters walked a fine line. Pretend in the human world while meeting shifter needs.

  “So I went as the Beast from Beauty and the Beast,” Lars explained.

  “Oh, how original,” Derry intoned, his snort punctuating his amusement.

  Lars shrugged. “I’m built for it.” Derry’s arched eyebrow made him laugh. “Not like you, but I’m certainly no church mouse.” All of the Jensen men were tall, Viking blood running through them. Lars was Derry’s height but leaner.

  “Let me guess,” Derry said drolly. “She was Belle.”

  “Clichéd. I know. I played a set with the band. Went for a drink. Saw her. Walked up to her, prepared to have her in a coatroom beneath me, skirts up and deep in her between sets, but that’s not what happened. At all.”

  The warm comfort of sweet memory glowed within him. No, it wasn’t just the beer. Even mental images didn’t do their night together justice. No words he could blurt out to Derry Stanton could convey how Kara had made him feel.

  “You fell for her.”

  “I did.” Lars expected judgment, and before Derry had met his fiancée, Jess, he would have been roundly taunted for letting one woman bring him to his knees.

  All he heard in Derry’s voice was profound understanding.

  Morgan appeared with a new beer as Lars finished his last swallow. The cold foam of the fresh pint broke through the haze of memory, so tangible, so palpable he could almost feel Kara’s heartbeat in every inch of his skin.

  Impossible.

  “And?”

  “And I never learned her name. Silly, I know. She wore a small mask. Had a different hairstyle. The ball was held at a grand oceanside hotel where I had a beach bungalow at the resort. We made love under a blanket of stars. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone.”

  “Did she leave a glass slipper? Escape in a pumpkin?”

  “No,” Lars said seriously, too caught up in his own twisted emotions to take the bait. “I wish. She left me with nothing. Nothing but a ragged hole in my chest where my heart was supposed to be.”

  “She’s the scent on you? Right now?” Derry inhaled again. “It’s a woman I do not know.”

  Lars felt jealousy rush through his veins as if his blood had turned green. “Good.”

  “I didn’t mean—my good man—I…” Derry shut up quickly. Even he couldn’t defend his old manwhore ways.

  “She’s here,” Lars confessed. “I ran into her in the elevator. She works at the Plat now. I met her in California and chased her for months, with no trace of her anywhere. And now I’m here in Boston because of this crazy Tomas mess and bam!—here she is.”

  “Careful of those Plat waitresses,” Derry said, not bothering to hide his mischievous grin. “One minute you’re sleeping with three women in a limo, and the next minute you’re kissing one under the mistletoe and bam! Gatorade all over your face and you’re feeling The Beat.”

  Lars looked pointedly at Derry’s scotch in his hand. “What was that string of words supposed to mean? Have you had too much to drink?”

  “Never mind. It means that if she’s your One, your fated mate, you’ll know.”

  I think I already do.

  Chapter 4

  Kara finished her first evening and then worked a few hours over the lunch shift the next day, every moment expecting to see Lars appear over her shoulder, at her table, in the elevator where he pulled her into his arms, slid a hand behind her neck, and drew her up to his mouth for a long, sweet kiss.

  She didn’t see him. But apparently, he did contact Eva, who had told Kara that he would be sending the car to her house later that evening.

  “Not my house.” Kara had gasped. “He can’t know where I live.” If he saw Jamie…

  “It’s hopeless. He’ll sniff you out one way or another. This way he feels in control and not suspicious. If you insist on meeting him here, he’ll know you have something to hide.” Eva had patted her on the shoulder. “I told him you’d meet him downstairs.”

  And so Kara had finished her shift and gone home before dinner, only half-aware of her surroundings, caught up in memories of That Night.

  When he’d been in costume as the Beast, she’d been powerfully drawn to him, almost against her will. Surrounded by wealthy socialites, media stars, and celebrities, she’d been afraid of him, but because she was masked, wearing a beautiful gown a friend had lent her, and loaded with liquid courage, she was able to reply when he’d walked up to her.

  “Release my father,” she’d declared, pretending to be Belle.

  He’d paused only a second, glaring at her down his bulbous fake nose before hooking an enormous hand around her waist and drawing her to the dance floor.

  Magic. Hearts beating as one, drowning in each other’s eyes, all of it. The other guests gave them room and clapped, seeing the chemistry, the moment in time, the fairy tale. And then Beauty and Beast danced another song, and another, until he led her to the edge of the floor and then out a pair of doors to a stone balcony overlooking the garden. Again, like a fairy tale, except this one was in Malibu. The garden gave way to a cliff and then sand and the salty, wild waves of the Pacific.

  “Tell me your name,” he’d said.

  “Tell me yours,” she’d teased. Because at that moment she still hadn’t figured out who he was, not having arrived in time to see him play with the band, although she knew, of course, that he was a shifter. How wonderful to meet one of her own kind here among the Hollywood royalty. She hoped he was like her, an interloper, a party crasher, an exile.

  “I asked you first,” he’d said.

  “You didn’t ask,” she’d replied. “You demanded.”

  He’d pressed her against the stone railing, his hips hard against hers, his desire obvious. “I’m about to demand a lot more,” he said, growling in her ear. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’re taking your time about it.”

  Now, remembering, Kara felt embarrassed at herself. She’d been playing a game. She’d been caught up in a dream. Never before or since had she acted like that.

  “If you don’t want me to take you,” he’d said, his voice strained, “you’d better tell me now. And then leave me. I’m not myself. I want… I want you more than anyone, more than anything, and I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” She’d slid her hands up his neck and tunneled them through his hair, the thick blond locks visible behind the mask.

  “You’re a tiger,” he’d whispered, dragging his teeth across the pulse in her throat. “I can smell you.” And then he’d inhaled her scent like an inverse roar, lifted her into his arms, and carried her down the steps to the beach below.

  There had been a bungalow. It had been after sunset, cold outside from the evening chill but warm insi
de, sheltered in his arms.

  When he’d taken off the mask and she’d realized whose beautiful, large, muscled, naked body she was straddling, it had been too late to run away.

  As if she ever would have said no to him.

  But could she now?

  Kara got off the bus in a daze, suddenly reminded of the present day. Boston. Years later. Her baby at home, waiting for her.

  Their baby.

  She would say no to him now because she had a reason to. Because she had to.

  Another few blocks and she was entering the apartment she was determined to make a home. “Hi, it’s me!” she called out, hearing the TV playing and Jamie’s shouting and laughing from the other room. There were only two rooms other than the kitchen, but it was enough for now. Nana had the bedroom, she and Jamie had the living room. Most people in the world did with far less—just as she had for most of her life. She did wish she could give Jamie his own room, though, with murals of lizards and trucks and spaceships on the walls, and kid-sized furniture embroidered with his initials, a bed shaped like a race car, and…

  There was a lot she wanted to give him.

  “Welcome back, Mommy,” Nana said. That was what Nana always called Kara, although she was at least sixty years older, maybe more. She also insisted that Kara (and everyone else) call her Nana instead of her real name, which she refused to admit was Bertha Lucretia Nowakowski. (Kara saw it on her bank statement.) An impoverished shifter like Kara, Nana had been making her living as a servant for her entire life, usually caring for children but also working as housekeeper, cook, and elder companion to wealthier shifters. Her last employer had fired her when she’d been too old to work as hard as he’d wanted. Even by shifter standards, Nana was ancient, many decades older than she appeared. Now she and Kara looked out for each other. “We’ve had a nice day, haven’t we, Jamie baby?”

  “Mama!” Jamie ran—with the long, loping grace of a cat—into Kara’s arms. “Appo joose!”

  “No juice, sorry kiddo.” It was bad for his teeth, the pediatrician at the clinic had warned, and a tiger shifter would need every one.

  In protest, he wriggled out of her arms and jumped onto the sofa.

  “I’m going out again tonight,” Kara told them both. “Dinner with a friend.”

  Nana gave her a narrow-eyed stare. She was a sharp old lady. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” Kara said firmly. “Very.”

  “Then we’ll see you before midnight,” Nana said.

  Kara paused only a moment. “Of course you will.”

  “Humph.” Nana reclined on the sofa next to Jamie and gestured at the kitchen. “He had macaroni and cheese for a late snack and skipped his afternoon nap, so I think he’ll go down early.”

  “I’ll give him a bath. Would you like to get clean, little guy?” Kara cooed.

  Nana laughed. “Lucky he’s a tiger like you, loves the water. I can’t tell you how impossible it is to get a lion shifter toddler into the bath. Needs a father to hold him down and spray him with a hose.”

  Nana herself was a bear shifter and loved the water. She was also blessed with the height and girth of the breed and was probably able to wrestle any child into water by herself, even a lion with all his permanent teeth.

  “Bath! Whoo-hoo!” Jamie punched the air with his fists and tore off his clothes. “Nakie tie! Nakie tie!” That was toddler for naked time. The boy could not keep his clothes on.

  “Just like his father,” Kara muttered.

  Nana perked up. “Is that so? Now what makes you mention him all of a sudden?”

  “No reason at all.” Kara picked up her naked toddler and brought him to their tiny bathroom for his favorite thing in the whole world.

  Other than his mommy, of course.

  She gave him extra bubble bath and every one of his water toys, giving him more attention than usual, swimming in love as he swam in the shallow water.

  My baby, she thought. I can’t let them ever take my baby.

  Lars stared in dawning horror at his smartphone map app.

  “She lives… there?” He barely knew Boston, but even he had heard about the small, crime-ridden neighborhood where the GPS told him Kara lived. Headlines nationwide screamed about a string of women kidnapped and held as breeding factories for some sort of survivalist cult.

  Dear God. That wasn’t why she’d disappeared nearly three years ago, was it?

  He snorted, the sound less about humor and more about his own disturbed mind. Of course not. But knowing she lived in a neighborhood so close to such evil filled him with a rush of protective adrenaline.

  He had to see her. Now.

  “This can’t be.” He looked at the chauffeur, one Eva had called for him, a no-name who seemed wet behind the ears and eager to please. “I’ll need you to take me.”

  “No, sir, please,” protested the man, a young human male with a wisp of beard and panicked brown eyes. “I can do the job. I’ll go directly to her door and walk her out to the limo myself.” He patted a gun holster beneath his jacket.

  Lars silenced him with a glare. By the time they were out of the parking garage and headed toward her apartment, he was in the back seat, already busy reading emails, scrolling to find the important one.

  His inbox was a file full of fail.

  Band bookings. A trust fund form that required a signature. Pictures of naked body parts sent from fans who managed to find his private email address. A message from his father, Ragnar, informing him of a Swedish royalty event seven months from now that Lars would be expected to attend.

  More creative fan nudity. One woman had taken a picture of him and Photoshopped her nude body so that she rode him while he played. Clever, but one slip of a drumstick…

  “Aha!” he gasped with pleasure, the grin involuntary as he read the message from his assistant marked “CONFIDENTIAL.”

  Sir, this report is incomplete. It’s taken from public record in California. Our private records search will be completed shortly. However, per your request, we are sending the information as it comes in.

  He downloaded the PDF and read, eyes narrowing as he took in the dossier on Kara Jablonski.

  Twenty-four. Tiger shifter. Came from a family whose name he did not recognize. Born in Arizona but raised in California. She’d finished high school and taken some community college. A handful of color photos showed her in dance garb, teaching small children in a light-filled studio with honey-colored floors and large windows.

  Her smile was radiant.

  A list of all her former addresses, a crime report showing two speeding tickets from six years ago. A mention that the California treasury held $19.11 in unclaimed money for overpayment on a cable bill from a few years ago.

  That was it. Even internet searches brought up very little about her. Who lived a life so… obscure? So out of the spotlight? In a world where social media drove everyone to create a “personal brand” and turn pictures of dinner into travelogues, her sparse online history was refreshing.

  And it abruptly ended nearly three years ago.

  Right around That Night.

  She’d lived in the LA area, in a corner of Pasadena that certainly wasn’t along the Rose Bowl parade route. So little information was available on her. Both parents dead. Both parents shifters. Until a few months ago, he’d have assumed both parents were shifters—of course—because centuries of shifter history had told their world that only two shifters could reproduce and create a shifter.

  He tensed as the driver took a hard left, his throat thick with anger. Tomas Nagy—one of their own in the shifter world—had taken valuable shifter genetics research and turned it into a weapon against the rest of their kind.

  And Kara was part of their world too.

  The limousine stopped in front of a three-story building with porches on the front of each floor. The decking sagged, each floor worse than the next. Checking the surroundings, he emerged from the car only to find Kara rushing out the front door, breathl
ess and before him in seconds, racing to him.

  Oh, what a visual feast. Swapping flats for high heels, Kara’s long legs looked like they went on forever as she ran to him, calves taut and stretched, a glimpse of sweet, silky thigh making his blood pump harder. She was sophisticated and awkward, defiant and willing, a paradox of wonder all wrapped up in a succulent, sexy package.

  Fate worked in mysterious ways.

  “Hi,” she rasped, pulling a thin gray shawl about her shoulders, a creamy expanse of toned skin making his mouth go dry. Still in the same black dress she’d worn at the Plat, she’d changed her shoes to high heels and added simple silver jewelry. Red lipstick, a bit of thick black eyeliner, and a sweet, spicy scent that made him want to bury his face in her forever.

  “Hello. You didn’t have to rush. I was going to meet you at your—”

  Wheels screeched on pavement a few streets away, the sound of metal and screams muffled in the distance.

  “Let’s go,” he said tersely, ushering her into the car, giving her apartment building one last, unsettling look as he pressed the palm of his hand against her soft back, right where the shawl’s edge met the dress’s zipper. She was so warm, the smooth fabric drawing him in.

  As he climbed in beside her and slid across the supple tan leather seats, he thought: tonight is her last night living in this hovel. I’ll see to it.

  He’d move her out of here in mere hours.

  As they drove away, her scent filled the small space, making him lose all capacity for thought. His fingers twitched against his thighs, desperate to touch her, but she was skittish. Her top teeth sank into the flesh of her full lower lip, smearing her lipstick, as she nervously bit down.

  She gave him a shy smile, cheeks plumping like apples. The front of her dress dropped low, showing off cleavage, a small café au lait birthmark right on the edge of the valley between her supple breasts.

  Just as he remembered. It had branded his dreams for two years.

  Ah, God. This was torture.

  “Thanks for picking me up.”