KIKO (MC Bear Mates Book 3)

by Becca Fanning

  Meg couldn’t miss the smile in her voice.

  “Addy?” she asked, fairly certain the woman had not become a bear.

  “I…”

  “Addy becomes a mountain lion,” Candace said, when Addy didn’t finish. “She’s probably the only one in her whole family, though, so it’s harder for her. Right Addy?”

  Meg saw Addy nod in the darkness and then take a deep breath.

  “If you’ll feel more…comfortable staying with Mel or Candace, I’ll understand.”

  Meg heard the sadness in Addy’s voice, and her heart went out to her new friend. Reaching forward, she laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Addy, I’ll feel safer with you until the boys get home.”

  Mel chuckled.

  “You’re all right, Meg. I think I’m going to like you. A lot.”

  “Me too,” Candace said, patting Meg’s shoulder.

  Addy looked at her, and Meg could see the other woman’s smile as they passed under a streetlight.

  “I think I already like all of you,” Meg said, leaning back in her seat. “I can’t even imagine where I’d be tonight, if I hadn’t heard John’s fiddle from out on the street.”

  “Let’s not go there, then,” Mel said firmly, pulling up at a red light.

  “Do they have Shifters where you come from?” Candace asked.

  “In New York City?” Meg thought for a minute. “Not that I know of, though there must be, I would think. I’ve heard about them, but I guess I didn’t really believe they were, well, real.”

  “It would be hard for our kind in a really big city,” Addy said. “It’s hard enough in Nashville.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mel said, patting Addy’s leg then accelerating as the light turned green. “We’ll be heading back home for a spell over Easter. You can get your mountain fix, then.”

  “Where is home?” Meg asked.

  “Eastern Tennessee,” Mel said. “Both north and east of Knoxville.”

  Addy seemed to sigh with relief. “I can’t wait.”

  “I’m really looking forward to meeting your Gran, Addy,” Candace said.

  And suddenly they were talking about Easter vacation as though they hadn’t just had a scary encounter on the streets of the city. Meg shook her head in wonder. Then she thought about these women and their men, the normal life they seemed to lead, the closeness of the family, and she felt her own pulse slow. For some reason, these strangers liked her. They were inviting her into their homes and into their lives.

  Then she thought about John, pictured him standing with his fiddle, enjoying his music like she hadn’t in a very long time. I think I’ve come home, she thought, perhaps for the very first time. God, I hope it lasts, because I never want to leave…

  * * *

  The morning sun streamed through the new green leaves of spring, while a profusion of daffodils in full bloom danced in the breeze. Meg thought about New York—the cold that lingered there well into March—and marveled as she walked along, her long slender fingers clasped loosely in John’s big hand, exploring the neighborhood around his home. She wasn’t quite certain of just how she had gotten to this point, except that the entire family had gathered in Addy and Mark’s apartment for a big breakfast at around nine o’clock this morning, and before she could offer to help with the dishes after, the others had sort of scooted her and John out the door with orders to enjoy their walk.

  Okay. So I’ve never walked along a street with a man before. I’ve never met a Shifter before, either, and now I can call six of them my friends. I’m not in New York anymore, Toto, that’s for certain.

  “What are you thinkin’, darlin’?” John asked, swinging their arms to get her attention.

  Meg glanced up at him shyly. “I’m just wondering how I got here, that’s all,” she said.

  “In Nashville or with me?”

  “Both, I guess. I’ve never done this before.”

  “What? Taken a walk on a sunny day or taken a walk with a guy?”

  “Both.”

  He stopped, and pulled her up short. “You’re not kiddin’, are you?”

  She smiled. “No. My father was always very strict. I led a very sheltered life.”

  “I can’t even imagine a life like that,” he said, turning back down the sidewalk, but keeping her hand in his.

  “I’m only just beginning to realize just how sheltered I’ve always been,” she said.

  “You never got to play outside as a little kid?”

  She snorted. “I don’t think I ever was a ‘little kid,’ to tell you the truth. I started to play the violin when I was three.”

  “I started with Grandpappy’s fiddle at about the same age. We’d sit around the house most evenin’s, playin’ this tune or that. Then when we got better, we’d play at a local place—there was this tavern where we sometimes played, and during the summer, we’d play on the green when there’d be a picnic and folks wanted music.”

  She sighed. “It all sounds so normal.”

  “What about you? Where did you play as a kid?”

  She sighed again. “I started my studies at Julliard at ten and played my first concert at Carnegie Hall when I was thirteen.”

  He stopped short again, a look of disbelief on his face. “No shit?”

  Meg laughed. “No shit.”

  “Holy cats. Where else have you played?”

  “Oh, Rockefeller Center, in New York. The Royal Albert Hall in London. Vienna, Berlin, Paris, Bucharest, Moscow. I’ve been all over the world with my violin.”

  “Holy cats.” He shook his head, “I’ve never even been out of Tennessee.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze and began walking once more, pulling him along. “I might as well have stayed in New York for all that I missed seeing in all those places. It was nothing but airports, the inside of limousines, fancy hotels, and concert halls. I never actually got to go exploring. Not like here.”

  She grinned, and hugged his arm to her. “Maybe that’s why I’m having such a good time in Nashville. I’ve been having a real life adventure.”

  “Does your father know where you are?” he asked.

  She sighed. “No. Or at least I hope not.”

  “And your mama?”

  “She died when I was just a baby, so I have no memory of her.”

  He pondered that for a moment.

  “So, you’re tellin’ me you just ran away from home?”

  “Something like that.”

  He stopped once more. “How old are you?”

  She laughed. “I was twenty-three in September. Don’t worry. I’m plenty old enough to be on my own. I’ve finally just had enough of the concert circuit.”

  “You don’t have any broken contracts or anythin’, do you? Mel’s a real stickler for contracts.”

  “No. I don’t,” she said. “My father has undoubtedly lined up a whole season of concerts for me, but I haven’t signed any contracts. I’ve been telling him for months now that I need some time off, so if he has signed something for me, when I told him not to, he’ll just have to deal with the consequences, because I’m not going back to that life. Not ever!”

  Her voice had hardened, but she couldn’t help it. She was burned out, and she was through.

  “So, you think you’ll be stayin’ here for a bit?” he asked, gently cupping her cheek with his hand. She felt the calluses on his fingertips, so much like her own, and reaching up to take his hand, she turned her face and kissed his palm before intertwining her fingers with his.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m happier at this moment than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I’m free—free of expectations, free of responsibilities, free to be myself.” She sighed. “Free to find out just what that might be.”

  His smile warmed, easily reaching his golden eyes. “Maybe I can help you with that,” he said, his voice as gentle as his touch.

  She returned his smile. “M
aybe you can.”

  In another moment, she was reaching up to pull his face down and kissing him. He kissed her back, and her mouth opened under his at his gentle probing. His kiss wasn’t demanding, but she felt something shift inside her as his arms came around her, and their kiss deepened further. It was not as though she had never been kissed before. She had done that and a lot more with various famous musicians and conductors around the word, all at her father’s urging. This was different, though. John was different. She had met his brothers and their wives, and over the past twelve hours she had been welcomed into his family with open arms. Suddenly she knew things could be very different with this man, and she’d never felt such a yearning.

  The honking of horn and a shout brought them abruptly apart.

  “Get a room!”

  They hastily broke apart, and Meg felt herself blushing deeply. John only laughed and pulled her back into his arms for a hug before turning her back the way they had come.

  “How about we go up to my place, so I can teach you how to play a mandolin,” he said with a wink. “You did say somethin’ about wantin’ to learn, didn’t you?”

  Meg kept her arm around his waist and tipped her head against his shoulder.

  “Is that what they call it down here?” she teased.

  John laughed and pulled her tighter to him as they picked up their pace.

  * * *

  They did stop at Mark and Addy’s apartment to pick up Meg’s violin before heading over to John’s place. The band had the full day off, so there was no hurry to go anywhere. Mel had to go to work—she worked at the Konstantine Talent Agency, which represented the band—and Bart was going in with her to work on more negotiations with Mel’s boss. Addy and Candace were taking the family’s SUV to the grocery store, as all of their larders were bare, and Matt, Mark, and Luke were headed out with the old beater van to see about trading it in on a newer model. No one seemed at all surprised that John and Meg were spending the day together at his place, and if anyone suspected music was just an excuse, no one said anything. Meg still found her face heating as they headed out under knowing eyes.

  In all fairness, they did spend the first hour playing music.

  “You heard me last night,” John said, as they rosined their bows, “so why don’t you give me a taste of the kind of music you play?”

  “All right. What should I play?”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  She thought for a moment then smiled. “Rimsky-Korsakov. Scheherazade.”

  “What’s that?” he asked settling himself on his worn couch.

  “Not what, who.”

  He grinned. “Okay. So who’s that?”

  “Rimsky-Korsakov is one of my favorite composers. I’ve always loved the Late Romantics, especially the Russians. They wrote a lot of what’s now known as ‘program’ music—it tells stories, like Scheherazade, which is about a woman who tells stories to an Arabian sultan, and through a thousand and one nights, he falls in love with her and makes her his queen.

  John laughed. “Cool. So when did he write?”

  Meg laughed to here the great composers referred to as “dudes.”

  “The late Romantic composers would have been born in the second half of the nineteenth century. There was just something about that period. Whether it was the climate, the beginning of the industrial revolution, the political upheavals throughout the world, whatever…”

  Sighing, Meg tucked her violin under her chin and began to play. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and she let it carry her along with it. She didn’t play the entire movement, but came to a stopping point, and sighing once more, she dropped her violin and bow to her sides. Then she looked at him and shook her head in wonder.

  “I’ve played that hundreds of times, but I haven’t felt it—really felt the music—in a very long time.”

  “It was real pretty,” John said. “You’re real pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  She set her violin and bow gently aside and reached for his mandolin.

  “Show me,” she said. “Please.”

  He got off the couch and went to her. “Like I said, you finger it the same as a fiddle.”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and helped her place her fingers on the strings, then handed her a pick, and held her right hand in his, to show her how to pluck the strings. She leaned against him and let her fingers find the melody she had just played. It sounded so different on the mandolin she giggled.

  “No, you need to move the pick from your elbow, not your wrist,” he said, showing her how as she continued to finger the melody.

  Then they were both laughing at the awkwardness of their positions.

  “I’m not certain Nikolai would appreciate my efforts,” she said, laughter ringing in her voice.

  “Who’s Nikolai?” John asked with a frown.

  “The Russian composer I told you about. His first name was Nikolai.”

  “Oh, that Nikolai.”

  Meg laughed out loud then turned in his arms, leaving her trapped between the mandolin and his hard body. It took her only a moment to notice there was a part of him that was suddenly particularly hard, and she caught her breath. Hesitantly, she reached up to gently touch his face.

  “Do you want me, John?” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes tightly then stepped away from her just long enough to lay his mandolin back in its case. When he turned back to her, Meg saw his golden eyes darken. Then she was in his arms, and he had his hands fisted in her long, silky hair.

  “I’ve wanted you since you first walked in last night,” he told her, his voice tight with emotion. “I think I’ve wanted you my whole life.”

  “Then take me. Now. Please.”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause once we get started, darlin’, I won’t be able to stop anytime soon.”

  She smiled. “I certainly hope not.”

  With a growl reminiscent of his uncle’s last night, John laid his lips on hers and lifted her effortlessly, wrapping her long legs around his waist so she could hold on tight for the ride into his bedroom. The furniture there was still as sparse as that in the rest of the unfinished apartment, but when he laid her down and came over her, she felt the mattress’ firm support and decided he had at least managed to buy a new bed. Then she couldn’t think about anything but John, as his big hands roamed her body, inflaming every place he touched.

  “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.” It was a chant in her head as well as on her lips, but he didn’t seem to be swayed by it.

  “We have all afternoon, darlin’,” he told her, only slowly unbuttoning her blouse.

  “I can’t wait that long,” she gasped when she felt his mouth close over her breast. She felt his tongue working her nipple through the satin of her bra and arched her back, begging for more.

  She felt as much as heard his chuckle and reached for the front of his jeans in retaliation.