Dragon Intrigues

by Isadora Montrose

  Bump, grind, kiss, squeeze, nibble. The waves of delight came sweet and slow. Just the way she liked it. Exactly the way he wanted to please her. The only way this could be better was if he could touch her skin. The friction on her clit, the vibration against her folds, seemed to work for her. She climaxed again and again. But the pressure at the base of his cock kept him from coming and ruining her game.

  Blythe’s eyes were soft and unfocused. The rich aroma of her heated body filled his nostrils. Her pussy clasped his cock. With every pulse of blood, he felt the head move against her passage. Her fingertips gently grazed his collarbones and traced his muscles. She arched her back and her belly slid against his. How could she look like this, act like this, if she didn’t love him? She couldn’t.

  “I want to slide my hand under that silly nightie and feel your skin,” he pleaded. “I want to squeeze your breasts the way you’re squeezing my shoulders.”

  “Oh, all right,” she grandly granted his wish.

  He pulled his wrists apart and the cuffs flew off. He yanked her hips against his and rocked harder. Stars exploded behind his eyelids. Surely she could feel the intimacy of their bond? The way their hearts beat as one. The way their auras resonated in total harmony.

  She threw her head back. “Yes.” Her climax sucked his out of him in a tidal wave of purest pleasure and joy. Their vibrations merged and joined in the unity of the spheres. Somewhere on the astral plane chimes rang like wedding bells.

  CHAPTER 33

  Molly~

  The moon was doing its damnedest to shine through the glass panes of Colin’s conservatory. The clouds weren’t cooperating. The evening was warm, but the usual cloud cover had formed at dusk, and mist was curling steadily up from the Pacific beating loudly against the rocks a hundred yards below.

  You couldn’t see the jagged boulders where the surf was breaking, not from up here at the top of the cliff. But on a clear day the panorama from the greenhouse/sitting area was magnificent. Right now the view was nonexistent and despite a cluster of comfortable white wicker furniture with faded floral cushions, the space felt kind of bleak.

  “Why aren’t there any plants?” she whispered to Felix. There were tiers of white benches on either side of the wicker furniture, but not so much as an empty pot graced them. Just forlorn expanses of what must have been a showplace. A few dried leaves curled on the slate floor.

  “I don’t know,” Felix whispered back. “My guess is that once the boss’ parents moved to the desert, the boss decided he didn’t need a private greenhouse. Practical is his middle name.”

  “I think you’re wrong. He assures me it’s Romantic.” A giggle escaped her.

  “Huh.” Felix sounded put out. “Do you find him romantic?”

  “Not in the least. Nor subtle. Did you notice the way he hustled us out here after dinner?” They were both standing as far away from the seating area as possible without actually going out the French doors into the gardens.

  “Must have been pretty when it was full of Mrs. Justice’s plants,” Felix became defensive. “She’s a famous horticulturist in her own right. Be nice out here if the moon was out.” He took her elbow and she felt the jolt to her fingertips. “Maybe we should sit down?”

  She sat primly beside him, hands folded in her lap like a well-behaved little girl. Why was she so nervous? “Colin insists the gardens are dangerous at night.”

  “He’s probably right. For all I know, the boss thinks that it adds an extra layer of defense to the island and the lab.”

  “Defense?” she gasped.

  “You didn’t notice that this house sits on a cliff overlooked by the lighthouse? And that there are only two docks, one below us and one in town. Both under observation twenty-four/seven. And that the labs are only accessible through controlled entry points. I think the Justices, junior and senior, are obsessed with security.”

  She sighed. “I guess that’s why I’m here on Jutway.”

  “Bad guys can’t get you here,” he assured her. “You’re safe as Fort Knox. Mind you, there’s not much nightlife unless you include skunks and flying squirrels. Lot of both on the island.”

  “I’m from Mystic Bay,” Molly reminded him. “Our sidewalks roll up around suppertime. It’s not the lack of nightlife that bothers me. It’s this entire situation.”

  “I thought you lived in Seattle?”

  “I do. But not from preference. Mystic Bay already has a professional photographer. There wasn’t room for a second or third one.”

  “Bummer.”

  “My partner and I do okay, but it turns out that very few people are looking for expensive prints of yet another atmospheric photograph of a sequoia. Blythe and I mostly do weddings and real estate virtual walk-throughs.”

  “Walk-throughs?”

  “You know, you go online and tour a home that’s up for sale instead of trekking over half the city looking at places.”

  “Sounds, well, boring.”

  “Be honest, why don’t you.”

  “Sorry.”

  She laughed. “It is a bit boring. But it isn’t easy to photograph a house so that it shows to advantage. People won’t go look at a house if the kitchen seems dark or worse clinical. It’s a skill to get the lighting right without exaggerating proportions. No realtor wants to show a place and have the clients complain that it looks like he brought them to the wrong house.”

  “I’m sure you make it look easy. And in your spare time you photograph the botanical gardens?”

  “They’re justly famous, but they aren’t much to write home about when you’ve grown up with a rainforest on your doorstep.”

  “I hear Mystic Bay is lovely.”

  “It is. Especially the Old Forest.”

  “The Justices’ private gardens are dangerous, but the woods around here are unspoiled. Great place for a hike, if you like hiking?”

  “I do.” She paused. “Where do you live?”

  “On Jutway?”

  “Hmm.”

  “On the other side of the lab. My job comes with a house. A big Craftsman overlooking the harbor. Fenced backyard, gate into the woods.”

  “Nice.”

  “Very. But four bedrooms is a bit much house for a bachelor.”

  She took the bull by the horns. “Is that why Colin sent us out here? He tells me you have ‘needs’.”

  “Needs,” he rolled the word around on his tongue. A long arm went around her shoulders. “I do.”

  “I think he views me as part of a complete employee benefit package.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I was thinking that JTA could upgrade their eyecare provisions. But a little postprandial discussion is a nice perk for any right-minded, red-blooded male.”

  “Postprandial discussion?”

  “It means after-dinner conversation. I was trying to impress you with my extensive vocabulary in nonscientific areas.” He paused hopefully. “Is it working?”

  “Is that what you want? A chat?”

  “Well, I’m picky about with who, but chatting will do nicely for now. Want to tell me about your family?”

  “I was born, poor but proud, in a log cabin I built with my own hands,” she said modestly. “One of only twelve hedgehogs.”

  “Ah. Bedtime stories are also a necessity.” And then he pulled her into his arms and his mouth was soft and hot against hers.

  After a few minutes, a scratching noise made them raise their heads. Six sets of glowing eyes gazed over six triangular faces. Six black noses twitched. Six pairs of black hands scrambled at the glass. A family of raccoons regarded them soulfully.

  “I think those bandits have given me my cue,” Felix said regretfully.

  “Is the point where you retire to your lonely bed to dream about me until dawn?” she asked.

  He kissed her again. “I wish. I’m going to spend the next three or four hours going through some of the old books in the Justices’ private library. We’re on the clock here. I have to figure out who infused
that creepy psi into those crystals, pronto, and more importantly, how.”

  She nodded. Back home, even though para-physics was treated as a science, the antiquarian bookstore and library of Jasper Franklin was considered an important community resource. “Those old alchemists might not have had any idea about the underlying forces, and they may have phrased their hypotheses in occult terms, but a few of them achieved remarkable results. Just not replicable results.”

  “Hard to get normals to replicate paranormal results,” he said tartly.

  Indeed it was. “Good luck.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Blythe~

  “Make sure you run hot,” Neil ordered. “Use your intuition.” He had wanted to come into the Olander mansion with her, but Blythe couldn’t take a male escort among women getting dressed.

  “Relax, no one is going to attack me in front of so many witnesses. And the Olanders have full-time security.” Moreover, unlike Neil, the Olander security detail looked like the highly visible army they were intended as.

  Eight bridesmaids chattered in the corner of the sitting room Blythe was shown to. Two small flower girls pressed against one wall with their moms. Courtney’s mother, Norma, sat bolt upright on a poof, hands clasped tightly. Braced for the storm.

  Courtney and her attendants had gone to a spa yesterday before the rehearsal and had the works, but predictably they were having it all redone today. One hairdresser smoothed Courtney’s updo, another was worked on the attendants. A dressmaker assessed each woman as she put on her dress and adjusted the sashes.

  Bridezilla snapped her fingers and summoned Blythe. The hairdresser averted her head and rolled her eyes. Blythe wiggled her fingers in a friendly wave as if she hadn’t noticed Courtney’s rude gesture, and crossed to speak to the wedding planner.

  Sylvie Richmond, the head of the company, had not come to personally supervise the bride’s getting dressed, but she had sent her assistant. As soon as Blythe saw Taylor Simpson’s tasteful shot-silk gray suit and rich blue blouse, she realized she had a lot to learn about society weddings. She needed to go shopping. Black was so last year. And maybe a sleek bob like Taylor’s, instead of her simple twist? Elegant was the way to go.

  “Do you have that list of the shots Sylvie wants?” she asked.

  “Sure thing.” Taylor reached into a deep blue attaché case and handed her a single sheet of paper. “This is just for this dressing session,” she reminded Blythe. “We have lists for the church and reception too.” She lowered her already low voice. “Madame’s in a mood. Yesterday Alfredo refused to alter the color of the flowers. She’s stuck with the cream and sea-green she ordered.”

  “Of course.” Blythe wasn’t surprised that Courtney had belatedly realized that blue-green rosebuds were absurd. But to be sure of matching the bridesmaids’ dresses, probably Alfredo’s team had started dyeing the flowers days ago.

  “We can do this,” she whispered back. “Only twelve hours to go.”

  Taylor’s smile was a parody. But boy she looked elegant. Could Blythe handle twelve hours of photography in three-inch heels? Probably not. The first time she had to squat on a lawn, she’d get stuck. It was time to greet Courtney who was plainly about to go nuclear. But like all bullies, meekness only made Bridezilla worse.

  “Hey, Courtney.” Blythe gave the hairdresser a high five and flashed the bride a glowing smile. “Fabulous,” she declared. “Courtney is going to be bride of the year.”

  She focused on Bridezilla. And raised her senses. Courtney was still a shrew. The hairdresser was still long-suffering. Business as usual. “Sylvie wants a whole bunch of shots of you before and after you put on the veil. Maybe a shot of one of the flower girls trying it on first?”

  Courtney opened her mouth to blast Blythe who raised her camera and started the video rolling. That irate mouth shut with a snap. Courtney drew a deep breath but her eyes shot daggers. “What about what I want?” she hissed.

  “You’re the bride, you hired professionals,” Blythe assured her cheerfully. “Your only job is to be dewy-eyed and joyous, and let us do the rest. But give us some of that unflappable-executive-unfazed-by-the-stress-of-getting-a-wedding-pulled-together vibe too.”

  Courtney was VP of Public Relations for Olander Global, a position she was proud of. Sylvie and Taylor were doing all the coordinating today, but the flattery worked. Courtney’s spine stiffened. “I don’t think that I want my veil to be worn by those brats. Suppose they rip it?”

  Suppose you turn off the evil eye? “Then we’ll skip that,” Blythe said amiably from behind her camera.

  “And no shots of me until I put on my makeup. You lose that footage.”

  “Sure thing, Courtney. You gals carry on, I’ll be back. I have a long list.” Blythe hurried over to the bridesmaids who were putting on their sandals. She had to record sixteen sets of sea-green toenails for posterity.

  The dressmaker was on her hands and knees basting six inches of lace to Veronica’s dress. Blythe recognized a show-stopping vignette when she saw one. She drifted closer. Veronica stopped trying to spin and stood rigidly, making herself as tall as she could. Which from the seamstress’s point of view, probably was no better.

  “I grew without permission,” the flower girl crowed, clearly repeating adult conversation. “Aunt Courtney is going to be so mad!”

  Veronica’s mother gulped and flapped her hands. “Don’t shout,” she begged.

  Megan’s mom was the color of ashes. She clutched bloodless hands in front of her. Norma Olander looked up from her poof and stared between the children and Courtney. She was braced for the inevitable scene.

  “I can see you’re taller,” Blythe whispered. “Let’s get Megan to stand beside you.”

  Megan’s mother shook her head. Courtney had selected Megan and Veronica from a crowd of her small relatives because they were precisely the same height. Blythe sympathized, but pretending Veronica’s growth spurt hadn’t happened wasn’t going to work. Courtney’s tantrum had to be deflected.

  Megan pranced over and showed off her new black patent shoes. “Veronica’s feet grew too. She gave me hers, but they didn’t fit me. Aunt Beth bought us these ones. Look how they sparkle!”

  Blythe admired. “Very pretty. I love the rhinestones on the straps and toes.”

  Courtney had insisted that the flower girls wear shoes that matched the bridesmaids’ sea-green sandals. They had had to be custom made and both mothers had protested that children grew too fast to have shoes ordered so far in advance. Courtney had overruled their judgment, but that wouldn’t prevent her from taking her wrath out on a seven- and eight-year-old.

  “All done,” the dressmaker said. For Blythe’s ears alone she murmured, “Herself decided on Wednesday that sea-foam was mint, as if we didn’t point that out nine months ago. She wanted us to make eight new dresses.”

  Blythe merely smiled. Bitches gonna bitch. As she had anticipated, everyone in the room but Courtney smelled normal. Even her mom. Who just looked more and more anxious. Had to be hell knowing your daughter was certifiable.

  “Look at me, Miss Blythe.” Veronica stuck out a sturdy leg with a ruffled white sock and a black patent shoe. “Do you see how big I am now?”

  “I certainly do. You and Megan look great. All grown up. Let’s get a photo of you with Aunt Courtney.”

  “And my nail polish!” cried Veronica. She held out her hands where ragged green polish sparkled. Unfortunately, Courtney had degreed champagne for all her attendants’ hands. Veronica had painted over yesterday’s manicure. The moms gasped. Blythe would have to edit that out later. But then she specialized in fiction.

  Taylor appeared. “Beautiful,” she cooed.

  With her customary efficiency, she pulled gauzy sea-foam gloves from her case. There were sea-green ribbons and tiny blue-green rosebuds at the wrists of the child-sized gloves. The girls were in raptures and the gloves covered the offending nail polish. Bridezilla could
have her hissy fit at the reception. Taylor’s foresight was why Sylvie Richmond was the wedding planner to high society.

  The moms relaxed. Blythe escorted the girls over to Bridezilla and forced her to treat Veronica’s growth spurt as a very good joke that she was far too sophisticated to mind.

  The mother of the bride had relaxed infinitesimally. Blythe took pictures of her before and after Taylor pinned her corsage to her sea-green lace suit. Veronica and Megan curled up on the couch to tell Norma Olander all about their miniature dolls. Who knew little girls still played tea party with Grandma?

  All in all, it was a great relief to pack bride and entourage into the three limos and get back into the minivan. Her dragon seemed like an oasis of calm in an emotional sand storm. She better not get used to having him around. This pretend engagement was sure to end in tears if she did.

  “Now what?” asked Neil.

  “You get some good shots of the limos?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where are Sam and Rory?” She peered up and down the street and checked her rearview mirror. Nothing.

  “In position at the church.”

  “Then that’s where we go. But first, coffee.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Neil~

  He wasn’t bored. The Olanders certainly knew how to throw a gala wedding. There had to be 500 movers and shakers gathered in the ballroom to celebrate Courtney Olander and Brentwood Slocum’s marriage. And a sizable number were shifters. All those strong talents gave the room quite a buzz. But after a full day of scrutinizing strangers, he had detected neither flats nor sharps.

  So far Neil hadn’t been recognized. Probably because no one expected to see a Drake behind a camera. At the church, Packard and Merritt had been discreet in quiet gray suits and plain ties that hinted at vague official duties. But they came into their own at the reception. No one noticed two more waiters circulating. Any more than they noticed the photographer’s assistant.