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 spatteri
ng 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?”
She was struggling not to tremble. She could think of few things she wanted more. “Yes.”
“Your service to me has been phenomenal,” he said seriously. “I hope you know how much I appreciate your talents.”
He must, or he wouldn’t have invested so much money in her wardrobe, or be paying her so outrageously well. Still, hearing him say it filled her heart with honey. It meant a lot to get praise from him, because his standards were so high. “Thank you, Dane. I appreciate all your generosity.”
“It’s earned.” There was a twinkle in his eye; the elevator doors opened, and they walked up to the concrete lip where she always waited for a valet to drive her car. “All of it.”
Was he up to something? She’d seen that look a few times, always before he surprised her with something—extravagant, something…
A slick, bass purr echoed through the garage, and her head snapped around as a car drove up.
It was a car. Not her car. It wasn’t her car. Couldn’t be her car. Unless—
“Consider this a bonus,” Dane said, smiling.
She almost choked holding in a scream. It was a Jaguar XK—a jet-black coupe with a slick, gorgeous, aerodynamic shape. The windows were privacy-tinted; the cab shimmered; the sound of its idling engine was velveteen, impossibly smooth.
The valet got out, handed her the keys, and disappeared. She stood there like someone struck by lightning.
“Get in!” Dane urged. “Go on. Sit.”
Mindwiped, she slid into the driver’s seat and, automatically, gripped the steering wheel. It felt incredible in her hands. Dane leaned on the car’s roof, the better to point features out to her.
“Soft-grain leather. Bowers and Wilkins surround sound. Heated and cooled seats; heated windshield. Three hundred and eighty-five horsepower. Instant throttle response—zero to sixty in five seconds. Rear camera. Dashboard computer.”
Stupidly, she ran a hand over the glossy wood paneling of the dashboard.
“Drive this to the airport. It can handle the weather.”
“But… what about…” She blinked at him. “What about my Nissan?”
“It’s still here. You can pick it up later, if you really want it. Or feel free to sell it right out of this lot. I’m sure you can make those arrangements without my help.”
“Dane—I can’t… I can’t just… I can’t accept this.” It had to be worth ninety thousand, at least. “The cost—”
“Peanuts to me. Enjoy it.” He slammed the driver’s side door; she rolled down the window, feeling they weren’t f
inished.
“Dane—”
“Good help, however, is priceless.” He winked at her, and her insides melted. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Oh—not tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll be at my cabin this weekend.”
His cabin. It wasn’t until the last couple of weeks that he’d started spending the weekends there. She knew precious little about it, except that it was on Vancouver Island and a sacrosanct no-work zone. He’d told her not to call him if he was at the cabin unless there was “a hundred-alarm fire” at the firm.
“Alright.” She still felt gobsmacked. “Monday.”
He waved, in that composed, nonchalant way he had, and then headed back for the elevator. With a shock, she realized it was already 3:20.
“Crap!” Lalita! I can’t be late! She accepted control of the car and turned it, to circle out of the garage. It was like driving wine. A smoother vehicle she’d never experienced.
Thanks, Dane. Holy shit. How had she ever gotten this lucky?
Lalita was a beautiful woman in her early forties, dignified in public—but only in public. In the privacy of Laila and Ginger’s apartment, over a home-cooked dinner of gobhi mussallum and saag paneer, with Indaba Chenin Blanc flowing freely, she was uninhibited and loud and the life of the party.
“I hear your new boss is very hot, Ginger,” she teased. Unlike Laila, she had a noticeable North Indian accent.
“He’s not—he’s not really my new boss anymore,” Ginger stuttered, wrong-footed, while the other women giggled. “I mean, I’ve been working for him for almost three months, and… OK, yes. Alright. He is very hot.”
“Look at her blush!” Lalita laughed. “You’d think she was working for Shahruhk. Tell me about him, Ginger. Does he treat you well? No ass-grabbing?”
“Lalita!” Ginger gasped.
“He bought her a car,” Laila put in, sipping wine and looking very entertained.
“A car?” Lalita shouted; she lost volume control when she was buzzed, just like her little sister. “What car? What kind of car?”
“A Jaguaaaaar,” Laila faux-whispered, trying to bite back a smile.
“A Jaguar!?”
“I mean—yes, alright, it’s a Jaguar. I didn’t ask for it,” Ginger blustered.
Alphas of Storm Isle (Complete Boxed Set: Books 1-5): Werebear Shifter Menage Romance Page 3
