Hollywood Dragon: BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance

by Chant, Zoe

  She wore something gauzy in shades of pink printed in elegant art nouveau lines that softly fell over her bewitching curves, stopping just above her dimpled knees. Her pretty feet were enclosed in those sexy sandals. She looked like a Botticelli angel standing there with the morning light shining in her pale hair, glowing along the arch of her ear, down her neck and over her rounded shoulder. Except for those spike heel sandals, which ignited thoughts far from angelic. Did she know that?

  When the song ended, and the last exquisite note had died away, she gave a deep sigh, turned—and their eyes met.

  “I apologize,” he said contritely. “But I was walking to the house—the sound amplifies so well—I could not stay away. That was beautiful.”

  Her lips parted, her cheeks flushing. Her hands made a helpless little gesture that caught at his heart as strongly as her music, pulling him up onto the stage. Then she gave him that bright, heart-stopping smile, and took a step, her fabulous hips swaying the soft skirt above those bad-girl sandals . . .

  Oh, yes. She knew.

  He didn’t know what he meant to say, or do, only that his hands came out to touch hers, and the shock of her touch was so electric that his fingers of their own accord drifted up her arms to cup the back of her neck, ever so gently, and when she turned her face up to his he bent and kissed her.

  And when her hands drifted up his arms to cup his face and then to fist in his hair, his questing kiss heated to command.

  She made a little noise in her throat that drove him crazy with desire, then she melted against him one again.

  This time it was no accident.

  * * *

  Kissing was a pleasure she had always enjoyed, but never in the history of the world, she thought hazily, had there been a kiss like this.

  His lips began to explore hers ever so softly, taking infinite time and patience, until, desperate with passion, she opened her mouth to him. His tongue plundered hers. She responded with her own fire, lips, teeth, tongue: he tasted of wood smoke and fire, demanding and tender by turns.

  She grabbed his hair to pull him to her, wanting that long body tight against hers. His strong, sensitive hands caressed her face, his thumbs gliding along the edge of her jaw and over her throat, and then swept over her neck to the edge of her dress.

  She gasped for air, and pressed against him for more, and he was there, the hardness of his cock pressing against her mound. She widened her step, opening her thighs to fit that bulge into her as his hands dipped under the scoop neck to brush over her breasts.

  Back a step. They kissed wildly, hands desperate for skin. She got her hands inside his karate tunic, and ran her fingernails over the marvelous contours of his chest, ribs, wonderfully cut abs. Her back touched the shell, supporting her or she would have fallen. As it was her knees wobbled, her toes curled in her sandals, and when his knee nudged her thighs she lifted her knee so she could fit him against her more deeply.

  He groaned, one hand exploring her breast under her shirt, the other slipping down to clasp her leg, oh yes, closer. Tighter . . .

  She gasped for air again and he began kissing her face, down her neck, and to her neckline—

  “Jean-Pierre! Where are you?”

  They broke apart, Jan gasping, dizzy with desire as she gazed at his flushed face. The glossy black hair falling over his forehead. The deep open V of his black karate tunic pulled apart by her hands. The rise and fall of his chest.

  She stared at his chest, wanting more of his gorgeous skin that smelled so enticingly masculine after his workout. She swayed uncertainly.

  JP steadied her with strong but gentle hands on her shoulders—his thumbs caressing, sending shivers through her in sweet nerve-showers like carillons on glass.

  He whispered, “Jan. I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”

  “I’m not,” she said, for so magic a moment deserved only the truth, whatever happened next. “If it’s the last kiss I ever get, at least I had that one. What I am sorry about is stopping.”

  “Jean-Pierre!” the voice was nearer.

  “Emergency council meeting,” he said, raking his hair off his forehead, the tendons standing out on his hand. “I must go. I am late—and there are . . .” He shook his head.

  “I get it. Shelley said town politics.” Her eyes dropped to that open V, and the little dip between his collarbones. Her knees went weak again with the intensity of her desire to kiss him there.

  “May I . . . shall we meet later?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

  “Yes,” she whispered, pulling her dress straight. “But first you’d better . . .”

  “Go.” He gave a quick nod, and leaped lightly off the stage. Four, five steps and he vanished at the top of the rise.

  When he was safely beyond the rose trellises, he said, “Mother?”

  “There you are! This is not the time for playing around with your karate. It’s quite rude to keep us waiting even when there isn’t an emergency.”

  “I apologize, Mother.”

  “Please, change into something less uncivilized and I’ll get things started.”

  With fingers still trembling, Jan smoothed her wild hair and straightened her dress. She waited to the count of one hundred, then swiftly left the shell, and backtracked toward the eucalyptus border.

  When she reached it, she faltered, gazing up the slight hill toward the motel. She could see figures moving about in the parking lot, and realized she wasn’t ready to face people yet. So she turned and walked away, randomly choosing to walk alongside the row of trees. A narrow footpath had been worn there. She made out horse hooves in the dust, and animal paw prints.

  The line of trees curved toward the west, bordering a very, very extensive property. The land sloped beyond, at the bottom of which was a thin stream that widened into a pool, nearly hidden by oak, arroyo willow, and clusters of wild lilac.

  She had not emerged from the shelter of the tall eucalyptus when she spied a large bird circling overhead. She paused to watch an egret float downward on a draft. It vanished behind an oak then reappeared, skimming over the placid pond. Its wings barely touched, sending little ripples outward, and then the bird blurred, stretched, and became a tall, gangly teenage girl with long tangled dark hair. A flash of brown skin and she vanished into the lilac shrubs.

  Jan froze, staring.

  A minute later a perfectly normal-looking teenage girl in shorts and a summer top wheeled a bicycle out of the other end of the sheltering shrubbery, flung her leg over, and rode off toward a distant road, where she met a man coming along on a moped. Jan could barely make out the high put-put of the moped’s engine.

  The man, middle-aged, with Hispanic features, stopped to talk to the girl for a few seconds. Then he nodded decisively. She flipped up a hand in farewell, and he continued down toward the pond, and vanished with his moped into the lilac thicket.

  A short time later a huge hawk flew out of the lilacs, skimmed over the pond water, then arrowed up into the sky before banking toward the north. Jan tipped her head and watched until the hawk shrank to a tiny dot that vanished into the sun.

  * * *

  Inside, JP stopped and leaned both hands against the wall, his head bowed as Mick spoke rapidly on the phone, his bear voice a rough growl of anger. “Good news and bad news. Want the good news first?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fernando and Isabel found the scent trail of the scumbags who beat up Chief Albert’s kid. They came across the two lurking behind the municipal building, and let’s just say that that pair of fucktards is feeling a whole lot worse than Jason did.”

  “Excellent. The bad news?”

  “Another set of them attacked Alma Jimenez.”

  “What? I saw her out on patrol right before I transformed and came home. She was fine—there was nothing out of place anywhere.”

  “We all thought everything was fine. But they must have been lying to ground so we couldn’t see or smell them, and attacked at dawn when we all
came back.”

  “Dammit. Where was this?”

  “Out by the old sulfur spring.”

  “There’s nothing out there! It’s just the connecting road between the Hsing and Alvarado ranches.” JP rubbed his temples, trying to press the headache out. It didn’t work.

  “Right. This is about intimidation, pure and simple. I’m sure those two at the municipal building were planning to jump whatever clerk or office jock first showed up for work today. If their aim wasn’t the council.”

  “Shit.”

  “Anyway Alma messed up their plans some. Managed to get a call off before they jumped her. From the blood and the scents, I’d say she damaged three of them at least as badly as she’s been hurt, but she’s been a good cop too long to kill.”

  “Too bad she didn’t finish them,” JP said, teeth gritted against the spiking heat of his fire dragon. “Did you get their scents?”

  “Oh, yes. Everyone with a nose is coming out here in relays. Dennis will see to that. I’ve got to get back to the Willises, keep them busy. And safe.”

  “Right. Where is Alma?”

  “On her way to the hospital. Doc Goldstein has been alerted, so he’ll supervise. But Jeep, even for a shifter she is in real bad shape.”

  “I’m on my way as soon as I let the Consejo know.”

  They rang off, and he leaned against the wall, fighting to get control of the fury. He turned his mind to Jan, and her image steadied him, like snow on a lava lake.

  Jan.

  He felt the pressure of danger, and expectation, and duty, and knew he must get moving, but he shut his eyes as an inner voice whispered, resonating from soul to heels:

  “She is the one.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jan’s friendship with Shelley had really begun when Shelley casually mentioned that her brother Finn always seemed to know when someone important was about to call. Or that her great-grandmother had always warned them when a quake was about to hit.

  Shelley had never looked for magic as ardently as Jan, but she had accepted its possibility the way she accepted everything else in life.

  Jan’s first thought as she walked back toward the motel was to tell Shelley about the wolf-man, the egret-girl, and the hawk-man, then she stopped herself. This week is not about me, it’s about Shelley. And Mick.

  Nothing, she vowed, was going to get in the way of Shelley’s wedding week. The weird stuff was really, really cool, but not important. Those people obviously thought their transformations secret, so it wasn’t like their natures would have any impact on the wedding.

  And she had other things to think about. She smiled, her body singing with the echo of pleasure when she remembered what happened in the shell. Frustrating at the time, until he said, Shall we meet later?

  She still didn’t really believe it was possible, so she refused to think of the future. The now was amazing enough—they both loved music. He seemed to want her as much as she wanted him.

  The world had changed, colors brighter, the air sweeter with possibility.

  Reality intruded, as it always did. She sensed that there was a whole lot he wasn’t saying—probably having to do with those politics—but that would go with the cool, controlled personality. Keep it simple, she thought. Keep it light.

  Shall we meet later? That meant there was going to be a later. And a longer one. Right now, that was enough.

  She was still smiling when she got back to the motel, let herself into her room, and checked her phone, which she had left behind so it wouldn’t ring while she was practicing.

  One message—from Shelley. “Jan, I am guessing you went over to practice your song. Great! If you want to join us, come down to the Volkovs’.”

  Jan put away her music and left. As she walked down the block to the Volkovs’ she looked at the houses that she had dismissed as so alike on her arrival that first night.

  They were the same small houses, built probably in the twenties or so, judging by the small rooms and narrow windows, but some had flower boxes below each window, others had pretty gardens. There were subtle individual touches that made her curious about the lives within.

  All at once she wondered if that boring main street was like a Hollywood backdrop—depicting a boring town of the sort nobody would want to stop in, except to get gas and then back on the highway. These supposedly plain little houses each had their secret beauties, but you had to look for them.

  When she reached the Volkovs and stretched out her hand to the knocker, she paused, wondering if smiling gargoyle had extra meaning.

  Now she was leaping to conclusions! She couldn’t imagine that kindly elderly Russian couple knowing anything about egret-girls and hawk-men.

  Shelley answered the door and welcomed her inside, where she found a buffet spread of breakfast breads, eggs, coffee, and tea. As Shelley gestured to help herself, Jan sifted the voices, hearing only the high hum of females.

  Shelley said quietly, “Mick and Dennis took all the guys out for some dirt bike racing. They’ll meet up with JP for Mick’s bachelor party. I don’t think we’ll see them until tomorrow.”

  Jan hid the sharp pang of disappointment. Okay, so ‘later’ meant tomorrow. She resigned herself to a long day as Shelley’s family, on their best behavior, made conversation with Baba Marisia.

  The clock crawled inexorably until it was time to get ready. Shelley said, “Though an afternoon tea anywhere else would mean something nice, Mick says that for Mrs. LaFleur, it’s formal.”

  Baba Marisia nodded. “Helena LaFleur is very fine woman, but never forgets she is lady.”

  No wonder JP was so buttoned up, looking like a prince at a picnic, if that was what he’d grown up with. Jan followed the others out to the car, smiling at the inner picture of him in white tie and tails at a barbeque. Or what he’d look like as she peeled off the layers of his tux, one item at a time . . .

  They caravanned to the LaFleurs’ in two cars, so that no one’s clothes would get squashed. Jan veered between nerves and intense curiosity to see the inside of the house besides the music room.

  She wasn’t disappointed.

  Mrs. LaFleur met them at the door herself, wearing a linen suit that had to come straight from Paris. She greeted each of them, then said, “Please call me Helena.”

  Jan was secretly amused to see Mrs. Willis, weather-browned and tough from years of bawling directions on the basketball court, and Shelley’s granny, who had grown up in the Depression, both acting wide-eyed on their best behavior. No way were they going to say ‘Helena,’ she bet herself—and she was right.

  They were conducted into the house. As Mrs. LaFleur passed, Jan caught the faintest, wonderful whiff of Jicky, an expensive Parisian perfume. The whitewashed walls and heavy, beautifully carved and polished wooden furniture was a combination of Spanish and French provincial—the real McCoy, too. Same with the art, landscapes and portraits by Spanish and French artists, mostly, with some early American impressionists. Perfectly arranged floral arrangements added color to the white and brown with accents of gold, and the tiled floors.

  Then Mrs. LaFleur led them into an entirely French room done in shades of pale blue and rose and white, with oval portraits and framed embroidery that had to date back three or four centuries. Here they were introduced to Mrs. Nair, Helena LaFleur’s mother, and a host of other important women of the town, whose names flew by too fast for Jan to catch.

  A magnificent tea service awaited them, as well as a table of gorgeous little pastries on gold-rimmed porcelain. Three servants in white and black starched uniforms moved noiselessly among them with cups, saucers, and plates.

  Though coffee was offered, no one dared take it. They all drank tea, a perfectly brewed Assam. Mrs. LaFleur presided with grace and poise.

  Her manners were faultless. They discussed the weather, everyone agreeing that it was hot, and then came the questions about how Shelley and Mick had met.

  Shelley’s eyes brimmed briefly with amusement as her
gaze met Jan’s, then she gave an entirely sanitized account. Jan’s innards squeezed when she remembered the real story, jetting her thoughts straight to JP. Oh, if only it would be that easy for her, that . . . destined.

  Leading straight to the question: what would this wealthy, sophisticated woman say if she knew what her son and Jan had been doing earlier? And I hope to more of, and longer, ASAP.

  Jan hid a smile as Mrs. LaFleur signaled for the pastry tray to be wheeled around, and conversations broke into knots. Mrs. LaFleur asked Mrs. Willis about basketball, but after two or three questions, Jan began to suspect that Mrs. LaFleur knew even less about sports than Jan did.

  Then Shelley said, “I wanted to ask when Jan will get a chance to practice her aria tomorrow.”

  “My son has taken command of everything excepting the garden, which is my area of expertise. I am told that the musicians will arrive by four. Aria,” Mrs. LaFleur repeated belatedly, as if the sense of Shelley’s words had just caught up with her. And her expression changed from a polite mask to real interest. “My understanding was that Jan was to sing a popular tune.”

  Shelley shook her head. “She can, but she is an opera singer.”

  “You are an aficionada of the opera?”

  Shelley shook her head. “Oh, I’ve gotten used to it, after listening to Jan, but I can’t say I’ve ever gone to see any on my own. But the one she’s singing for my wedding, from Zaide, it’s special to me.”

  Mrs. Willis and her mother, and several other ladies, looked blank, and Jan felt obliged to say, “It’s an unfinished masterpiece from Mozart, about a slave-girl and an evil sultan. Um, slave-girls and evil sultans were kind of a thing at that time, like gladiator teenagers are now.”

  “Oh-h-h-h,” went up in a collective note.

  “I shall look forward to hearing your solo,” Mrs. LaFleur said, and for the first time Jan heard the note of truth in her politely modulated voice.