Panther's Promise: BBW Panther Shifter Paranormal Romance

by Zoe Chant

  “I just think I’ll enjoy dinner more if we leave before Francine’s laser eyes leave me a pile of dust on the floor,” she admitted with a grimace. “Sorry—I know she’s your friend, but…”

  Francine was still glaring at them both from the other side of the room, making no attempt to hide it. If Grant had been in panther form, his hackles would have gone up.

  “I don’t know what her problem is.” He shrugged. “Knowing Frankie, it could be anything from her stock falling through the floor to someone looking at her the wrong way three days ago.”

  He looked down at Irina. She was tall, for a human woman. The top of her head was level with Grant’s chin, and he imagined what it would be like to hold her closer, her head tucked under his jaw, the soft press of her curves against his body. He wanted to tell her that she had nothing to fear from Francine or from anyone else and that from now on he would do everything in his considerable power to keep her safe and happy.

  And scare her off before you’ve even gone on a single date? Pull yourself together.

  Instead, he lowered his voice. “She likes other people to be miserable when she is. Let’s get out of range.”

  Irina’s eyes shone up at him. “Now you’re talking.”

  We’re good to go, said Lance’s voice in Grant’s head.

  “My car’s right outside,” Grant said out loud, “and I know this great little place downtown. Do you like Italian?”

  “Sounds great,” Irina replied, and looked around. “I should probably say goodbye to—oh, forget it. She’s busy anyway.” She gave a half-hearted wave to a red-headed woman who looked deep in conversation with an older couple farther down the room.

  ***

  It was still freezing cold outside, and this time Grant’s panther registered its displeasure not only for himself, but for Irina, as well.

  Irina stopped dead on the sidewalk. “Oh, shoot. My coat—”

  “—Is either right here, or we’re about to be fleeing a charge of theft as well as Frankie’s wrath,” Grant interrupted as Lance stepped forward, a grey winter coat slung over one arm.

  Irina looked at him uncertainly. “Oh—thanks, um…?”

  “Lance MacInnis. My, uh, personal assistant.”

  “Uh-huh?” Irina’s eyes were wide. “I mean, nice to meet you, Mr. MacInnis. I’m Irina.” She glanced sideways at Grant, and he could almost hear her disbelief. He couldn’t blame her. It was a rare person who would look at the seven-foot, heavily muscled black man and think “Personal Assistant.” Even the spectacles did nothing to make him look like an office jockey.

  Lance shook her hand, angling a crooked grin at Grant. “Someone’s got to stop this guy from tripping over his own feet. A pleasure to meet you.”

  He held the door for Irina, then exchanged a look with Grant across the roof of the car.

  You could have warned me this was a date night. Lance’s voice was serious. What’s the plan, here?

  There’s no plan.

  Well, there needs to be. We’ll discuss this later.

  All right, Mom. Grant snorted and slipped into the back seat. In front, Lance lined up the rear-view mirror.

  “Warm enough for you, ma’am?”

  “It’s lovely, thanks.” The interior of the car was heated to tropical bliss, and Grant watched Irina relax back into her seat. “And—Irina is fine. Please.” She raised her eyebrows at Grant.

  “The only time he calls me ‘sir’ is if I’m in trouble,” Grant said. “So knock it off, Lance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lance replied, deadpan, and Irina giggled. “Where are we headed?”

  “Moss’s place,” Grant replied, leaning back in his seat with a grin. “Let him know I’ll have my usual table, will you?”

  Lance activated the divider that shut off the front of the car from the passenger seats. Grant saw Irina relax as the partition went up.

  Irina glanced sidelong at Grant. “So, how does this work? Is your PA joining us for dinner?”

  Shit. I really should have left him at the gallery, shouldn’t I?

  “He’d better not,” Grant said quickly. Irina’s tone had been light, but it was the brittle sort of light that suggested she wasn’t feeling entirely at ease.

  Grant rubbed his forehead and then held his hand out to her. She took it, folding her fingers around his, and he gave her a crooked smile.

  “To be honest, I’m not that used to having him around. He’s only been working for me for a few weeks, so we haven’t exactly arranged a protocol for what to do when I’m escaping boring social obligations in the company of beautiful women.”

  “Oh.” Irina’s eyes went wide. “So… this isn’t something you do often?”

  “On the contrary,” said Grant, trying to infuse his voice with enough humor that his dead seriousness didn’t come across too strongly. “In retrospect, it’s embarrassing. We went over plans for every aspect of my life, except—er—dating.”

  Which was one hundred percent true, including the embarrassment. Grant had employed Lance because he was a leopard shifter, the closest thing to a panther shifter he could find. He might be on the books as a “personal assistant,” but the real reason Grant employed him was so he would have someone who could give him insight on his panther and the specific difficulties a wealthy shifter might encounter.

  Once Lance was on the job, they had covered strategies for keeping Grant’s shifter nature secret in everyday life, plans for dealing with attempted kidnappings (Grant wasn’t a huge fan of Lance’s recommended first response, “turn into a massive big cat and bite the shit out of them”), and exercises to keep his panther under control. But Grant had delayed their discussions about what to do if he fell in love.

  And now it was too late. He was hardly going to tell Lance to pull over and have an on-the-go meeting about strategies for handling a sudden crush on the most beautiful woman he’d even met.

  So now, here he was. On a date, with a woman who made him feel as though his whole body was on fire with excitement. With a chaperone in the front seat.

  A chaperone whose aunt was good friends with Grant’s mother.

  Oh, hell.

  Grant bit the inside of his cheek. How would a normal, human man act in this situation?

  He tried to see the situation from Irina’s perspective. If she had heard of him, what would she know? Probably just that he was Grant Diaz, a rich boy grown into a rich man, who spent his twenties tagging along after the heir to the Delacourt fortune and had spent the first few years of his thirties fading out of the public eye.

  So—what were his options? Reveal that he was rich; reveal how rich he was; reveal that most men as wealthy as he was employed at least one bodyguard to keep potential kidnappers off his back, and that he had a secret that let him swap out the bodyguard for a full-time personal assistant, whose main job it was to keep his other secrets safe?

  He could already see that once he started talking, it would be all too easy to let it all spill out. Because he wanted to talk to her, more than anything. Wanted to open his heart to her.

  He had to stop his panther’s instincts from ruining this for him.

  Grant ran his thumb over Irina’s fingers, hoping it wasn’t obvious he was stalling for time. “I—”

  Irina giggled. “Poor Lance! Talk about being a third wheel. It reminds me of the time I accidentally gatecrashed one of Clare’s dates…”

  Her face fell. “Oh, damn. I did it. I ran away again.”

  She spoke quietly, as though half to herself. Grant felt as though he was missing something and squeezed her hand.

  “Anyone who would blame you for running away from Frankie should be left in a room alone with her for five minutes, and see how they feel.”

  “It’s not that, it’s—oh!” Irina looked like she was about to say something else when her coat, which was lying on the seat between them, started to buzz. She jumped and let go of Grant’s hand to rifle through the pockets.

  “Sorry. Sorry! It
’s probably my friend complaining about me leaving the event early, but if it’s work I’ve got to take it—oh. No, it’s my friend.” She stared at the message, blushed, and clapped her hand over the screen.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, she’s just—well, she’s not upset about me leaving, which is good, but…” Irina met Grant’s eyes and squirmed. “She saw us leave together, so now she’s—oh, come on,” she cried out as the phone buzzed again. “We already have a third wheel without Clare buzzing around my phone like an interfering bee, so I am turning this thing off.” She jabbed the button until the noise stopped.

  Grant grinned. “I’m not going to get anywhere asking what she said, am I?”

  Irina glared at him. “Nope.” She narrowed her eyes as the car drew to a stop. “And I think that is your cue to forget all about this. Are we here?”

  Grant peered out the window. Snow—ugh—but, yes, the street outside was familiar. “This is the place.”

  5

  IRINA

  Irina dragged her eyes away from Grant long enough to look out the window. She didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but all that meant was that it wasn’t one of the half-dozen blocks she raced up and down each week to get to her various waitressing jobs. Here, the building facades were all worn stonework, with iron scrollwork in front of the windows. The only sign that they were parked outside a restaurant was a small plaque on the otherwise unassuming wooden door.

  Irina was reaching for the door handle when Grant sprang out of the car and raced around to her side. He pulled open the door with a flourish and held out his hand to her.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, eyes gleaming.

  “You know I am,” Irina replied, thankful her stomach hadn’t actually rumbled while they were in the car. Grant helped her out of the car. As he shut the door behind her, she turned back.

  “Wait—isn’t Lance…?”

  “He has some spreadsheets to work on.” Grant grinned wickedly. “I hope you don’t think I’ll need a PA to help me wine and dine a beautiful woman?”

  This time, she could feel the blush flood across her cheeks. Her face felt so hot, she imagined the flurrying snowflakes vaporizing inches from her skin.

  “I should hope not,” she said primly.

  Grant laughed, a full-throated sound that made Irina’s knees weak. Then he stopped, and his gaze became strangely distant for a moment. “Lance has got the rest of the evening off, actually.”

  “Oh, really.” Irina did her best to sound cool, but knew she was grinning like a loon. “You’re not just giving him the boot halfway through the evening?”

  “Really.” Grant made a show of checking his watch. “This is completely routine. No personal assistance required after eight-oh-five on a Friday evening. It’s in his contract,” he said gravely, leading her inside.

  The restaurant was—well, if she didn’t know it was a restaurant, she wouldn’t have guessed it was one. It looked more like a beautifully preserved early twentieth-century family home.

  But not quite. Oh, she could tell what they were trying to do, making guests feel cozy and comfortable with a side of “how Nana’s house used to be.” Kitchen-y, but not kitsch. Except Irina had yet to meet anyone’s grandma who hung her pans and garlic plaits in the front hall, rather than tucked away in the actual kitchen.

  Irina stifled a giggle as she imagined how her Gran would have reacted to someone hanging garlic beside the coat-hooks.

  Her amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared. It was four years since her Gran had died, but Irina still felt lost at the thought that the woman who raised her was gone.

  “Is everything all right?” Grant’s eyes almost seemed to glow in the low light inside the restaurant. Irina smiled back at him; she was surprised to find she’d stopped smiling to start with.

  “I’m fine. This place is so cute!” she enthused. “And it smells amazing in here.”

  “Wait until you taste the food,” Grant told her.

  Irina decided she liked the place. The delicious smells of food definitely helped. But it wasn’t the sort of place she had imagined a man like Grant bringing her to. From what she could see, the restaurant was homey, intimate, and small.

  Irina had secretly thought that Grant seemed too large even for his car, lounging in the seat like a cat fitting itself into a favored shoebox. But that was nothing compared to seeing him navigate the spindly chairs and tables here.

  Irina held her breath, expecting something to go crashing down at any moment. But Grant was surprisingly graceful for a man built on such powerful lines. Every time she thought they were headed for a bull-in-a-china-shop situation, he slipped through without disturbing so much as a doily.

  “Grant! Jeez, you don’t give much notice, do you?” A grinning man with light brown skin bounded out of a door at the back of the narrow dining room, bringing clouds of steam with him. Irina got a mouth-watering whiff of savory smells before the door swung shut behind him.

  Grant put his hand on Irina’s lower back, and she was so hungry by then that she couldn’t honestly say whether that or the smell from the kitchens was more enticing.

  “Irina, may I introduce Moss Taylor. Moss, this is Irina.”

  Strike that rubbish about the kitchen smells being more enticing. As Moss approached, Grant’s arm slid further around her waist, his fingers spread wide as though he was trying to touch as much of her as possible. The gesture was strangely protective, and it sent a flood of heat through her. Grant had shed his suit jacket as they came in, and the silk shirt he was wearing under it was so fine she could almost see his biceps through it. And she could definitely feel them.

  Irina pulled herself together enough to hold out one hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Moss waved apologetically. “No shaking, sorry, love. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.” He gave Grant an appraising look, then nodded towards a staircase at one side of the room. “Your table’s ready. Settle yourself in, Grant man.”

  Irina blinked as Moss disappeared in another puff of delectable steam. This time, her stomach gave a plaintive gurgle. Grant laughed.

  “Come on. I’ll show you up.”

  Upstairs, a short corridor led to a candle-lit courtyard. Green vines climbed up the stone walls that lined the four sides of the courtyard, and Irina was amazed to see potted plants with small flowers growing in them.

  And it was warm.

  “Wait—are we outside? Where’s the snow?”

  She looked up. Several stories up, the glint of glass gave away the courtyard’s secret. Not a courtyard: a conservatory. If she squinted, she could just make out small drifts of snow at the very edges of the glass roof.

  “Moss put in some sort of complicated heating and ventilation system that keeps it from getting too humid and damp in here,” Grant explained as he led her to the only table in the conservatory, his warm hand on the small of her back. “And it keeps the snow from building up too much and coming in through the roof.”

  “I’m not sure whether I feel more secure knowing that, or not knowing that was even a possibility,” Irina mused. “Oh—thanks!”

  Grant had pulled a chair out for her and was waiting expectantly. She sat down, intensely aware of the tall, muscular man standing at her back.

  His hands were still resting on the back of her chair. When she leaned back, her shoulders brushed against his fingers.

  Irina licked her lips. If he kept his hands there—no, not held still—if he let his hands drift down, ghosting over her arms, around her stomach, while his mouth brushed against the back of her neck…

  “Comfortable?”

  “Um. Yes. Thank you.” Irina banished the daydream with a brisk shake of her head. Grant sat down opposite her, moving as gracefully as ever. Irina met his eyes, remembered her vision, and quickly looked away.

  “Do we order, or…?” she asked, trying to deflect attention before her blush returned.

  Grant shook his head. �
��Moss doesn’t believe in letting people choose what they eat. Allergies notwithstanding, of course.” He looked stricken. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you?”

  “Nope, no allergies. If it’s food, I’ll eat it,” she said, laughing.

  “Well, don’t feel bad about sending anything back to the kitchen, regardless. If Moss’s psychic food-matching skills are on the blink, he’d prefer to know, rather than have someone not enjoy one of his meals.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Irina, knowing there was no way in hell she was going to send any dish back to the kitchen in a place like this. Hell, she’d spent most of the last summer eating beans and rice… and the last few days before pay day eating just rice, no beans. Anything would be better than that.

  From her experience with clearing tables at nicer restaurants, Irina was expecting a sommelier to approach them with the night’s wine list, but it was Moss who flung himself through the courtyard doors, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  She must have looked confused because Moss winked at her and explained, “Got the girls to do prep while I go over the drinks with you. On the house if they mess it up.”

  Irina felt a light brush on her fingers and looked down to see that Grant’s hand had stolen across the table to take hers. His eyes burned into hers then flicked back to Moss.

  “You let them back into the kitchen? I thought they were dead to you after that drama last spring.”

  Moss shrugged. “Washing dishes and chopping produce is a good way to come back from the dead in this business. So! Tonight’s wine list. I’ve got a few options for each of the dishes, depending on how you feel…”

  He rattled off what sounded like a hundred options, from vineyards around the world. Irina hadn’t even head of some of the varieties, and soon her head was spinning. With Grant sending burning glances her way, and the gentle touch of his fingers against hers, she was finding it hard to concentrate on the chef’s detailed and enthusiastic descriptions of the various wines on offer.

  She let Grant order and enjoyed listening to him spar with Moss in what was clearly a long-standing feud about wine choices. Irina told herself she would pay more attention when the actual meals came out—if nothing else, because Clare was sure to grill her about every aspect of the evening—but even before the appetizers arrived she knew that was unlikely to happen.