The Lion’s Surrogate: A Paranormal Romance (Shifter Surrogate Agency Book 4)

by Layla Silver

  When she finally stepped back and had me open my eyes, I thought there really must have been some kind of magic involved. I felt like Cinderella. My skin gleamed radiantly, like I’d spent a month in a spa, and some mysterious combination of bronzers and highlighters gave my face a sculpted, glamorous look worthy of a runway model. Glittering gold and bronze eyeshadows made my eyes pop in a way I hadn’t known was possible.

  “Viv,” I gasped. “It’s amazing.”

  “Of course, it is,” she said, smugly, dumping everything into a professional-size cosmetics case. “Stay here.” A moment later, she was back, thrusting a hangar and pair of shoes at me. “We’re about the same size, and I think you’ll look fantastic in this. Try it on, and let me see.”

  This turned out to be a scandalously short metallic gold dress with a draped, low-cut neckline. I had to take my bra off—there was no way it wouldn’t show. I couldn’t help feeling a little self-conscious as I leaned over to strap on the glossy black high heels. I was incredibly aware of just how much thigh and cleavage I was showing, but underneath the discomfort was a wild sort of thrill. I looked really good.

  Flushed with burgeoning excitement, I opened the bathroom door and nervously showed myself off to Viv. She squealed with delight. “I knew it! It had you written all over it.” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, Gemma. We’re gonna rock this club.”

  Chapter 7 – Caleb

  On the screen, the crew of the Nostromo screamed bloody murder as a xenomorph exploded out of their friend’s chest in the middle of dinner. Lounging on my overstuffed and only slightly threadbare couch, I inhaled another slice of frozen pizza, unperturbed by the carnage. One of the skills you learned early as a doctor was to eat while you could, no matter what horrors you’d just seen or expected to see shortly.

  The pizza was sadly lackluster, but I’d never seen the point in putting in much effort to cook for just myself. I could certainly hold my own in the kitchen, unlike Chas, who could burn water. I willingly did plenty of kitchen duty when babysitting my nieces and nephews or during family get-togethers.

  For just me, though? Not worth it. Especially when my distracted thoughts kept me from paying much attention to the food or the movie. Try as I might, I hadn’t been able to get the enchanting Ms. Stone out of my head all week.

  She haunted my dreams and stalked my waking moments, the memory of her whiskey-golden eyes ambushing me without warning. More than once, I’d woken in the middle of the night, my body hard to aching from erotic dreams of her.

  It wasn’t just her beauty that captivated me, either. Gemma Stone was a mystery. She’d answered every question on the application and in the interview politely, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something. What it was, I couldn’t begin to guess, but I turned the question over like a puzzle in my mind whenever I wasn’t actively occupied with something pressing. She’d been noticeably nervous at the appointment. What had driven her to push through that anxiety and approach the agency in the first place?

  For a brief moment, I entertained the fantasy that she’d changed her mind. Let the anxiety dissuade her from doing business with the agency, after all. If she walked away, I’d be free to pursue her.

  No. I discarded the idea, frowning at myself for indulging in it even momentarily. Gemma was an ideal fit for surrogacy, and there weren’t nearly enough Lion shifters. Especially female Lion shifters willing and able to serve as surrogates. I couldn’t wish her out of that role, even for the most selfish of reasons.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. I’d never in my life had unprofessional thoughts about a client, and part of me was horrified that I couldn’t stop myself now. The more I tried to put her out of my head, the more appallingly certain I became that she really was my mate. The entire situation was nothing short of a disaster, and I had no idea what to do about it. If there even was anything I could do about it.

  More screams from the television dragged my focus back for a second before my mind wandered again, this time toward my family. Exasperation and affection rippled through me. With seven older brothers, I was used to everyone else having dealt with messy things before I got old enough to worry about them. This was the first time I could think of that I had to walk a path blindly, with no tales of their mistakes or successes to guide me. Not that I’d brought it up, of course—I’d never hear the end of it if I did. But I knew how each of my five married brothers met their mates, and there was nothing like this in any of their stores.

  At least you’re not trying to protect your newfound mate from a cult. Picking up another piece of pizza and taking a generous bite, I frowned. I remembered the fierce urge to protect Gemma I’d experienced in my office on Monday, and that had been prompted by nothing more than minor anxiety on her part. How had my oldest brothers survived worrying about their mates in those dicey early years just out of the cult?

  Commune, I heard my late mother’s voice reprove in my head. It had become a cult later, there was no disputing that. But when my parents had first joined, it had been a peaceful, happy community run by a respected leader in the shifter community. For a young couple with three active little boys and another on the way, it had seemed idyllic.

  That’s what I’d been told, at least. By the time I came along, everything had long since soured. I’d still been young when we got out. Six? Seven? Something like that. What few memories I had were a blur. The only things I distinctly remembered were the fear and the tension that permeated the days just before we escaped.

  The Elders had believed, as I now did, that there weren’t nearly enough Lion shifters. With so many strong young sons, my family was highly coveted, and they’d fought bitterly to keep us. In the end, only my father’s relatively high-ranking position in the city police force had gotten us out. He was too visible and knew too many important people for the Elders to risk bringing active harm to us. Others, I knew, had been far less fortunate.

  Not that I’d felt lucky at the time. Getting out had cost us everything. Already getting on in years, my parents had started over with almost nothing on a public servant’s salary. To say things were tight was an understatement. But we had each other, and none of us had ever been afraid of hard work. We’d survived. Thrived.

  Wiping my hands on the paper towel I’d grabbed to serve as a napkin, I scowled. Thriving as we were, we’d never wholly escaped the cult’s long shadow. As recently as six months ago, Corbin had warned us all to be on our guard. He said he’d taken the kids to the mall to get their pictures taken with Santa, but had to cut the day short because they were being followed. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but we all trusted his instincts. It made for an odd situation, to be sure. I didn’t doubt my brothers when they reported being followed, but I couldn’t help the frustration that welled up every time the elusive threat reemerged.

  We’d been out of the cult for so long. What could anyone hope to accomplish by shadowing us now? More to the point, we didn’t even know for sure that the cult still existed. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect it might have survived in some form, but, well, I’d never been followed. Not alone, nor with my brother’s wives and kids. With so few memories and no direct experiences, it was hard to feel like the shadowy threat was real.

  The doorbell interrupted my thoughts, and I glanced at the clock. I wasn’t expecting anyone but got up anyway, gathering the detritus of dinner and depositing it in the sink as I passed through the kitchen. The bell rang again before I got to the door, and I chuckled, suddenly having a pretty good idea of who was on the other side. All the impatient genes in the family had been split between two of my brothers, and only one of them didn’t have a wife, making him the most likely to be roaming on a Friday night.

  “Conner,” I greeted amiably, pulling the door open.

  “Caleb!” He barged inside, brimming with his usual magnetic energy. “Let’s go out.”

  “No, thanks,” I said dryly. “I’ve got a hot date with a xenomorph and the First Lady of
Sci-Fi.”

  He frowned at me. “You’re the youngest,” he reminded me, accusingly. “You’re supposed to be the wild one. Come on—I’ve got leads of half a dozen awesome parties happening tonight.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood.”

  “That,” Conner said, cheering up again and poking a finger into my chest pointedly, “is because you’re not getting laid enough. Which is dumb. You’re rich, and while you’re not as hot as me, you’re not bad.”

  I snorted. “Thanks a lot.” I folded my arms. “For the record, I’m not rich yet. Just getting there.”

  “Whatever.” He darted his hand toward my head, and I dodged. “Seriously, a little hair gel and a better outfit, and you’ll be good to go. C’mon, we’re going out.”

  “You’re seriously bored enough that you’re going to drag me out on the town?” I asked, bemused, as he grabbed my arm and steered me up the stairs.

  “You heard everyone at the barbecue last week. You can’t find your mate if you’re not looking, and we’re both supposed to be looking.”

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes and tugged my arm free as we neared my bedroom. “Because that’s definitely how it works.”

  Conner shrugged, unrepentantly. “It can’t hurt.”

  Digging in my closet for something more appropriate, I told myself that it was for the best. While I didn’t particularly want to go out, playing wingman for Conner had to be better than sitting around obsessing about the horrible likelihood that I’d already met my mate and couldn’t have her.

  ***

  The Embassy wasn’t bad, as local nightclubs went. Upscale and trendy, it was packed and loud but not obnoxious. Leaving Conner to scope out the lay of things, I headed to the bar and ordered two beers. A pale ale for him, a pitch-black stout for myself. By the time I set the two bottles down on the small high-top table he’d commandeered, he was more than ready.

  “So,” he said, taking a quick pull of his beer and propping his elbows on the table. A few inches taller than me and just as broad-shouldered, he was already drawing interested looks from all sides. “Are you in the mood for a blonde, a brunette, or a redhead? I’ve got dibs on the raven-haired beauty in the corner.” I followed his nod toward the dance floor, where a beautiful woman with exotic features danced among a knot of friends in front of the stage. Full-bodied and laughing, she was exactly his type.

  “There are two blondes in that corner,” he continued, gamely, tipping his head to the left. “And a very nice redhead …”

  I stopped listening, my attention tripping to a halt and my stomach dropping so hard I thought it might go straight through the floor.

  Gemma was here.

  She looked like a goddess draped in gold, her arms and most of her long legs tantalizingly bare. She was standing alone at a high table just like the one Conner and I were leaning on. There were three glasses—the one she was clutching and two others. She was obviously trying to feign casualness, but there was a tension about her that made all my protective instincts flare.

  “Will you need a ride home?” I interrupted Conner, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course not,” he laughed, following my gaze. He whistled. “Oh, nice choice.”

  “Yeah.” Picking up my beer, I barely spared him a glance. “Have fun.”

  “You, too.” Saluting me with his bottle, he took off in the other direction.

  Technically, out of respect for their privacy, if agency employees encountered patients or clients outside of appointments, we weren’t supposed to acknowledge them. Not unless they addressed us first. Every step I took toward Gemma put my job at risk. I kept walking anyway.

  I saw the moment she recognized me. Her eyes went wide, and her delicate fingers tightened around her glass. My heart clenched at the thought that I made her nervous.

  “Dr. Hawthorne.”

  “Just Caleb, out here in the real world,” I said, offering a reassuring smile and gesturing to the lights and noise around us. “May I join you?”

  “Um, sure.” Her long lashes brushed her glowing cheeks as she blinked, and she fidgeted nervously with her glass. “I don’t think I’m staying, though. Not for long.”

  “Not enjoying it?” I asked, casually nudging the other drinks out of the way and leaning in to rest my elbows on the table. This close, I was struck by how the gold edging her eyes brought out the depth and uniqueness of their coloring. I tried valiantly not to notice how well the mini dress showcased the swell of her breasts, or how the metallic fabric brought out the golden tones in her skin and hair.

  It didn’t work. The desire to touch her was so strong I all but burned with it.

  “It’s not bad,” she hedged, glancing down at her drink and toying with a crumpled cocktail napkin. “I, um, my … friend convinced me to come. I don’t usually … but she met some guy, and they took off. So I think … I’m just going to go home.”

  “By yourself?” I asked, the words coming out more sharply than I intended. Wincing internally, I softened my tone. “Did you drive yourself here?”

  “I don’t have a license.” A look of horror crossed her face as if she hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean, I can drive,” she amended hurriedly. “I just never took the tests. I haven’t needed a car …” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I think I can call a taxi from the bar. Or find a copy of the bus map for this part of town.”

  “I’ll drive you,” I said immediately.

  She startled, those big, intoxicating eyes staring at me uncertainly.

  Crap. I’d come on too strong. “Friday nights are a rough time to be using public transit,” I covered hastily, praying the excuse came out smoother than it sounded. “Besides,” I gave her my best convincing smile and dropped my voice confidentially, at least as much as I could in the noisy club. “I got dragged out here myself, and taking you home is my best hope of escaping.”

  Her lips curved up in a conspiratorial smile that made my insides melt. The tension in her shoulders relaxed. “Guess I can’t say no to that,” she agreed.

  “Great.” Satisfaction washed through me. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded, pushing her drink away and gathering up her small clutch purse.

  I guided her in front of me as we headed for the door, the tips of my fingers grazing the silky skin of her exposed back. It was the lightest of touches, but it made my whole body tighten with desire. Shit. I tried to restrict my touch to her shoulder, her arm—touching her at all was inappropriate, but the club was crowded. Staying together while getting out meant being close.

  More than once, I deflected oblivious strangers who nearly bumped into her. The idea of them touching her, even inadvertently made me bristle. My protective instincts were at full throttle by the time we got outside, and it was a relief to get her safely to my car. Her already daringly short skirt rode up her thighs as she slipped into the passenger seat, and I swallowed the flare of lust that burned through me.

  Closing her door, I fisted my control tightly as I walked around and slid into my own seat. “Where do you live?”

  Gemma provided her address, and I punched it into the GPS on my phone. She watched with interest as the program started feeding me instructions.

  “I’ve never seen an app like that run in person,” she explained shyly as we turned out of the parking lot, catching me looking. “My … there were strict limits on what kind of technology we could have, before I got my own place.”

  “Yeah?” The confession felt intimate and only fueled my curiosity about her.

  “I’m trying to catch up,” she said, rubbing at her knee in a nervous gesture. “The library has some great classes. I haven’t been able to sign up for very many yet, but once I’m a surrogate, my schedule will open up, and I should be able to take more.”

  A lightbulb went on over my head. Money. Gemma was getting into surrogacy because she needed a stable income while she rebelled against how she’d been raised and got her feet under her on her
own. The idea made my lips quirk. Given how odd and scandalous some people found the idea of surrogacy, I’d bet it made for a great way to get back at overbearing, controlling parents.

  “Do you have a favorite app?” she asked.

  It was obviously an attempt to keep the conversation going and deflect from herself, but I accepted the prompt easily. Selfishly, I wanted her to be comfortable with me.

  “I have a podcast app that I love,” I told her, picking one that would be easy to converse about.

  She perked up with interest, and gratification rolled through me. We talked idly about apps and phones as I drove, happiness and guilt clashing inside me the whole way. Every tidbit I learned about her felt like a treasure, but no matter how much I tried to pretend that I was being “responsible” and “chivalrous” by ensuring Gemma got home safely, part of me knew damn well I was taking advantage.

  At the apartment building, I parked and went around to open her door. “I’ll walk you up.”

  “Oh.” Gemma looked surprised, then her cheeks colored in what might have been embarrassment. She looked up at me through those incredibly long, smoky lashes as she got out, and I imagined hope there, too. “You don’t have to. I’m all the way at the top.”

  “I insist,” I said firmly, closing the door behind her. “I’ve got nowhere else I have to be, and I’ll feel better knowing you got there safely.”

  “Thank you.”

  The ground floor of the apartment building was ritzy, all granite and polished stainless steel. When the elevator opened onto Gemma’s floor, though, it was clear we were in the low rent section. Not a surprise, given what I’d just learned about her motivation for going into surrogacy. The impulse to take care of her roused again.

  I beat it back as we walked down the hall. My family had lived in some pretty cheap places when I was growing up, and I’d had more than one bare-bones apartment of my own during medical school. Low-rent didn’t have to mean unsafe, and Gemma was obviously a smart woman. She could handle herself.