A Very Alpha Christmas

by Anthology

  He didn’t even stand up. The asshole. Instead, Mr. West looked at her with an infuriating calm. “You’re legally blind, Ms. Booksmore. You can see with glasses, but not far. So you probably can’t drive. ”

  “How did you – never mind. Yes. So what?”

  “You live over a mile away, and while your father could bring you here sometimes, he might not always be able to.”

  “I can walk.”

  “That’s not an option. I’m not going to have my cleaner freeze to death because she lost her glasses in a snowdrift. ”

  Bel started to protest, but he stalled her with a knowing lowered glance. “I need you here, working, on time. And the best way for that to happen is for you to stay here.”

  Bel knew there was something fishy about his logic, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. Part of her worried that if she did, it would mean she’d have to refuse his offer. She couldn’t afford that.

  Mr. West pushed out the stump-shaped stool Bel had been sitting on. “Sit.”

  Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his, Bel grumpily obeyed. “Don’t we need a lawyer for any of this to be official?”

  “My brother Rex has those. But I don’t really like them much, so I thought we’d settle the terms here first and then send them off his way.”

  “Well, don’t you at least need paper, then?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin, the first boyish, light-hearted expression she had seen on his sturdy face. “I have a very good memory.”

  “As long as you send the final version to me for approval and signature,” Bel said.

  He nodded.

  ”I’ll stay here, but only when it snows or is below freezing.” Bel went to take another sip of her hot chocolate, but when she did, she saw all that was left was a lonely marshmallow at the bottom of the cup. She stared at it for a moment, inexplicably angry at it, at him, at all of this nonsense, before setting the cup back down. “And I can only work four hours a day. I have to have time to write.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Bel bit back a ‘Really?’

  “But you’ll come in Monday through Saturday.”

  “Not if I’m sleeping here, too. Through Wednesday.”

  “Thursday.”

  “Deal.”

  “And you’ll take dinners with me so we can talk about your progress.”

  Bel had never heard the word dinner sound so ominous before. Maybe it was because he was looking at her like she was going to be the main course.

  “A couple of times a week,” she hedged.

  He smiled at her indulgently, as if it was cute that she thought she was going to get away with that. “You’re only going to be working four hours a day. I think you can manage dinner too.”

  Bel flicked at the handle of her mug, and it pinged musically. Wanting to provoke him, she asked, “What if I have a date?”

  “What if you do?” the man said breezily.

  Bel made the mistake of looking up and was quickly confronted by his burning stare. She pursed her lips. “Should I bring him over here?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.” He was making a point of not looking away from her. A good old-fashioned staring contest. And not one she’d ever win.

  Bel returned her focus to the grain of the wood in the table and began tracing its circles with her fingertips. “Well, sometimes dates, you know, want to have dinner.”

  “You can have dinners on your own when you’re not staying over.”

  “And what about sleeping?” She increased the pressure of her finger on the table, and an ache shot up her index to her wrist, distracting her from the awkwardness.

  “You’ll have the bedroom on the second floor.”

  Bel tried her best not to wince. She was a strong, big, beautiful woman, damn it. She was not going to be ordered around by some demeaning jackass. “What if I have a boyfriend? I doubt he’ll want only three nights per—“

  The man’s patience snapped. He pushed out of his chair, slamming both of his palms on the table so hard Bel’s mug jumped. ”I know exactly what boyfriends want to do.” He leaned over the table, bridging what Bel thought was a safe distance in seconds. His green eyes flashed gold. ”But your father owes me a great deal of money, and I need your help here. So I think you can put your dating life on hold. Can you do that?”

  Bel frowned, hiding her hands under the table so he wouldn’t see them shake.

  The truth was that of course she could put her dating life on hold. She didn’t have one, and hadn’t in six years. Most men seemed actively repulsed by her. Not just because she was bigger; she had seen guys date girls twice her size before. It was more than that. Like she had warning pheromones.

  But Mr. West didn’t need to know that.

  He certainly didn’t need to know that he was the first man who seemed to be so affected by her, if his heavy breathing and strange fits of rage were anything to go by. But then again, maybe he was just bipolar and she was reading into things. Which reminded her…

  ”I’ll stay here on two conditions,” Bel said, and was proud that she didn’t stutter.

  ”Name them.”

  “First, you have got to stop throwing things.” Bel inclined her head toward her hot chocolate, which had tilted dangerously askew after his tantrum. “I won’t put myself in a situation where I’m worried I’m going to get a mug to the head.”

  “I would never —“

  “And second, if I’m going to put my dating life on hold, you have to promise you won’t hit on me. I understand that you need my time and that this winter has been pretty terrible, but I’m not going to ruin my social life just because you think it might give you a chance at getting in my pants.”

  That shut him up. Bel really wished it hadn’t. A harried denial would’ve been preferable. Damn, what if he really did want her?

  Bel crossed her legs as if that could smother the heat growing between her thighs. If he did desire her, and not just as some kind of twisted revenge trip against her father, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to say no.

  Mr. West smiled and leaned back slowly, conceding the territory of the table to her. But if it was a gesture of retreat, why did she feel like he was the one who had won?

  “I’m not going” – God, how could he flirt so heavily while remaining so expressionless? – “to hit on you.”

  “Good.” Bel’s hands still shook like she had downed six espressos instead of a hot chocolate. “So, when do you want me to start?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  Bel snuck the marshmallow from the bottom of the cup and popped it into her cheek, hoping the sugar would soothe her nerves. “Tomorrow?” Although with the marshmallow sticking her teeth together, it sounded more like, “Foomarew?” She licked her lips to remove a stray fleck of sugar.

  His gaze stalked her tongue.

  Bel swallowed. “But what about the contract?”

  “Rex will have it drawn up by then. Can your father drive you here?”

  Bel bit her lip. Having her father give her a ride would mean telling him about this unorthodox arrangement, and that wouldn’t go over well. She could lie and walk, but somehow she felt like Mr. West wasn’t a big fan of liars. And she had seen enough of his bad side already.

  Before she could decide, he decided for her. “I’ll come by and pick you up at ten.”

  Bel glanced at him suspiciously. “Okay.”

  What was she getting herself into?

  5

  “She’s damn frustrating, Rex,” Samson growled as he stalked through the woods outside of his house. “She broke three plates on her first day and another three on her second. I think she’s purposely trying to do a terrible job so I’ll fire her.”

  Snow crunched under his feet, and his brother glared at him. Usually, he was a perfect, silent hunter.

  “At least she signed the contract,” Rex said, wading through the snow a few paces in front of Samson, sniffing the air every minute or so. “So she can’t quit.”
<
br />   As werebeasts, they retained some of their powers in human form. Ideally they’d hunt as wolves, but with the humans’ paranoia because of Luther, they couldn’t risk it.

  “Yes,” Samson said. “But she fought me like a cat every step of the way.” He shifted his weight forward, and his steps quieted. His wolf did not. Just the thought of that curvy, pugnacious little human made his blood seethe. “I don’t know what I was thinking with this bargain. I should’ve just done it the old way and taken her right there. I wouldn’t be so distra—”

  “Shh.” Rex held up his hand, which glimmered white in the shafts of light slipping through the naked branches above them.

  Samson closed his eyes and listened. But all he heard was her voice echoing through his mind. ”What if I have a hot date?”

  The thought of another man touching what was his made the hairs on Samson’s arms lengthen into his wolf’s pelt and his eyes flash a furious yellow. She was his mate; that she had returned to him proved it.

  “Look,” Rex said, hope in his soft voice.

  Samson smiled grimly. Maybe it was Luther. God, he would love to shift and do battle with that son of a bitch. It was his fault this was happening at all. If his youngest brother hadn’t gotten stuck in his wolf’s form and decided to haunt their old house, slaughtering livestock like a common animal, Samson would’ve never returned to this hellish town to find him. And he would’ve never run into Isabella again.

  Samson opened his eyes, haunches raised, ready to spring forward and attack.

  But there was no wolf in the trees, only a deer—skinny-legged, with ears twitching, staring at them with a stupid curiosity.

  Samson’s disappointment that they hadn’t found his brother soon faded into hunger. It was impossible to resist.

  Against Samson’s will, his spine cracked and compacted, his teeth sharpened, and fur poked through his skin. He usually found satisfaction in the wash of pain the change brought. It sharpened his emotions, transforming them from distractions into motivation, into tools he could use to take what was his.

  And the deer was his.

  Samson began the chase. The deer pranced around the trees, but Samson didn’t need grace. He was a huge animal; each of his forceful strides carried him twice the distance of the deer’s. Before long, he was upon it, a black bullet in the pale forest.

  Samson leaped onto the deer’s back, tackling it down, his teeth at its throat before they even hit the ground. The deer twitched in his jaw, and an ocean of hot blood flowed into his mouth. He drank it down greedily, relishing the visceral sound of the deer’s flesh ripping under his fangs.

  Red trickled through the white snow, blooming like the petals of a flower. And for the first time since Isabella Booksmore had opened his door, Samson’s wolf was silent.

  Samson panted, his eyes closing as he folded upward and back into his humanness, naked but not shivering. Shreds of his clothing marked his trail like breadcrumbs. He followed them until he was back at the path with Rex.

  Rex stared at Samson, concern softening his already urbane eyes into almost human weakness. “Be careful, brother.”

  Samson gave a booming laugh that shook a pile of snow off a nearby tree branch. He wiped a string of blood from his mouth onto his forearm. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to wash before she sees me.”

  Rex shook his head and stuck his hands into the pockets of his long designer trench coat. “I’m sure you will, but that’s not what I’m worried about.”

  Samson smiled at him, too exhilarated by the kill to be annoyed at his brother’s worrying nature. “What is it?”

  His brother frowned. “You’re losing control.”

  “Rex,” Samson growled warningly. His brother, with his perfect control, had never really understood the thrill of the hunt. At least not when the hunt didn’t involve money. Samson raised his eyebrows and gave Rex one of his alpha glares. Usually that shut him up.

  “If you don’t focus, you may not be able to shift back next time.” Rex didn’t look down. “It’s hard enough hunting Luther, Samson. I’d rather not hunt you too.”

  Samson sucked in a sharp breath. His wolf didn’t have enough energy left to comment. Then he narrowed his eyes, turned from his brother, and made the rest of the walk to the farmhouse in silence and solitude.

  By the time he got home, he had cooled enough to see Rex’s point. He had to find control, or Isabella would end up like the deer. Devoured by his need.

  A change of strategy was needed.

  6

  Bel stared at the dusty mirror next to the dining room door. The woman who stared back was wearing dusty, too-tight jeans and had a few more chins then Bel remembered. Where the best-selling writer who only wore flowing black dresses down to her ankles and took shit from no one had gone, Bel didn’t know.

  That certainly wasn’t her anymore.

  But it had to be again.

  Bel shook her head and decided then and there that she wouldn’t continue this arrangement any longer. What kind of rose was worth a million and a half dollars, anyway? There was no way that valuation would hold up in court.

  She wouldn’t be the pawn in Mr. West’s revenge against her father. Partly because the longer she spent with him, the more she became convinced that it wasn’t her father he wanted revenge against.

  Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the elegant double doors to the dining room.

  “Hello,” Mr. West growled.

  As he had the first two times they’d had dinner, Mr. West was sitting at the head of the table, which was miles away from Bel’s position at the foot. However, that was the only usual thing about the situation.

  Mr. West had showered and shaved, leaving his dark hair damp and his strong jaw line naked. Also, instead of his usual frontier fashion, he was wearing a starched white shirt and crisp slacks. Jesus, was that a bowtie around his neck? No man should’ve been able to make a bowtie look so hot.

  His green eyes narrowed as he took her in. “You didn’t wear any of the dresses in the wardrobe.”

  Bel was about to reply that the yellow things in the closet were too short to be anything other than lingerie, but he went on before she could get a word in.

  “Sit down. We’re having deer.” he said.

  Bel’s eyes widened farther. At the center of the table was an entire side of venison, lying in a bed of bacon bits and roasted potatoes. It was simmering like it had been taken right off the spit.

  Mr. West’s chair made not even a squeak as he pushed it back, then walked over to her. Bel froze when he got close enough to smell. There was a hint of minty aftershave in his woodsy scent. He pulled out her chair, and Bel looked at him quizzically.

  “Please join me for dinner, Isabella.”

  Bel closed her mouth, all of her plans evaporating in the face of this new and improved Mr. West. “I didn’t even know you knew that word.”

  Annoyance cracked his pleasant façade, but only for a second. “Of course I know your name, Isabella.” There was no ignoring the sensual lilt with which he inflected her name.

  “No,” Bel said, trying to keep up her sour annoyance. “I mean ‘please’.”

  “I’m not used to begging. Most people obey the first time I ask them to do something.” His eyes flashed.

  Bel put her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin. “If you’re calling me by my first name, then I think I should be able to call you by yours.” She tensed, waiting for him to explode again.

  To her surprise, he gave her a smile with too many teeth and glimmering hungry eyes. “It’s Samson. Now sit down. Unless you’d like to eat standing up.”

  “Samson?” Bel sat. “Were your parents pioneers on the Oregon Trail?” She meant her reply to be insulting, but it ended up sounding more like a joke. Her palms felt damp with nervous sweat.

  Samson pushed her chair in, the edges of his knuckles grazing the back of her neck, right below her hairline. She hadn’t taken her hair out of its ponytail, and for a se
cond, she swore his fingers were flirting with her hair tie as if to remove it. But when she twisted to look over her shoulder, he was gone.

  “My parents were traditional,” he said, somehow already at the other side of the table. His expression was as unreadable as an ancient rune.

  Bel tapped her glasses, and they slid back up her nose. “Or you’re part of a secret Amish cult. Hiding away in the woods. Breeding expensive plants as part of your mission to take over the world.”

  Samson began to chuckle.

  The low, resonant sound filled Bel’s chest with warmth and made her smile. She relaxed back into her chair. “You know, I used to be a counselor around here. At Camp Kikanoo. An investor brought it before you moved here, so you never saw it. But it used to be awesome. Did you ever go to camp?”

  “I don’t like group activities,” he said. The final echo of his laughter faded, and now his expression was curiously intent. Bel had to battle down a blush. Just as she was about to broach the subject of her employment, he asked, almost too smoothly, “You must have seen this house while you were here. What did you think?”

  “You have no idea.” There was no fighting the blush now. Her whole face felt as crimson as the tablecloth covering the cherry-wood table.

  “Tell me.” A writhing darkness underscored Samson’s words.

  Bel stopped breathing.

  He rolled his shoulders. Smiled. No; he formed that expression that was supposed to be a smile but wasn’t quite. “Please.”

  “We were terrified of this house,” Bel admitted finally, staring at the fringe of the tablecloth, resisting the urge to fidget.

  “We?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It was easier to talk about her experience at the house in the context of a group. Anything to make it less personal. “Cynthia, Red, and I. Cynthia, that was the girl who’s a professional organizer now. I don’t know what Red’s doing.”