Mail Order Tiger Bride Wars: A Scorchingly Hot BBW Shifter Romance (3 page)

‘Horny babes wanted to meet up with him in his postcode area’.

Natch.

‘Nigerian woman with a large trust fund needs his help to unlock her cache of gold bars’.

Natch. He was fine with Congo women wanting his help to unearth their orgasms.

Then:

“Replying to your ad”, said the subject matter. The email address was one he had never seen before.

With trepidation, he clicked it open.

“Hello,

I’m a female tiger shifter, aged
25. I’m single and looking to meet someone special, preferably another tiger shifter. We are rare! (LOL.)

Can you please tell me a little bit about yourself?
Here’s hoping we might connect.

Yours,

ELLEN.”

Cole stared at the email again.

Ellen.

The midsummer solstice. That was six weeks away.

Ellen had to be a female, right? With lady parts . . . and tits . . . and she was a tiger shifter.

Ellen.

Ellen.

She sounded blonde and beautiful. Or maybe he was confusing her with Ellen Degeneres.

Eagerly, Cole hit the ‘Reply’ button and leaned forward to compose an email.

3

Ellen didn’t tell Terry she was doing this, of course. But every day since she had sent the response to the ad, she had waited by her computer.

OK. One didn’t technically wait by a computer any
more than they waited by the phone these days. But she certainly found herself checking for messages on her cellphone ever so often. Like . . . once in every twenty minutes. OK. Eighteen.

But the days rolled by and there was no reply. Ellen’s spirits sank. She was hoping . . . oh, what was she hoping for? People who advertised for mail order brides
were likely to be weirdos anyway. Or psychos. Or conmen. Or all three.

She was better off without them.
And she was also better off if she didn’t check her emails so often.

It had been two weeks.
And nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Zip.

Maybe it was time to get on with her life and go find a shifter like Terry did. Or a human. Pity most humans she knew laughed at her size and made fun of her babble.

It was time to throw herself a pity party.

Ellen went out and got herself two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream. Rocky Road. With an extra pack of marshmellows. And a Netflix download of ‘The Notebook’, her favorite movie. Life as a single girl could be marvelous. So there!

It was
just as she was putting down the double tubs of ice-cream that her cellphone went ‘Ping’.

Ellen’s ears immediately pricked. She had enhanced hearing, like all shifters did, and her hackles rose. She rushed for her phone in her bag
in the other room.

It was indeed as she suspected.

‘You’ve got mail.”

Her heart went into palpitations
and she was suddenly very scared. But wait. What made her think it was
the
reply she had been craving?

And yet . . . her hands trembled as she tapped a few buttons on her phone to open her mail.

It was the one!

She clicked on the Yahoo account:

[email protected]

(
Did it mean there were at least 32 tiger husbands before him?)

‘Dear Ellen,

Thank you for your email. I was very excited to read it.

I’m a 33-year-old
Professor of Archeology at the University of Pennsylvania specializing in ancient shifter civilizations. My work takes me all over the world, and that leaves me very little time to meet women.

I’m rather shy by nature anyway when it comes to women
. I would like to share my life with someone who can accompany me in my travels all over. I’ve excavated ruins in Machu Picchu, Easter Island, Cuzco, Tibet and Rajasthan. Life with me will be a whirlwind of cruises, exotic treks and diverse cultures.

Enclosed is my photo. I hope you will reply and we can proceed to the next step.
Naturally, I’m a true tiger shifter.

With love,

COLE.’

Cole.

With love
.

Ellen stared at the email until her eyes blurred over.

Exotic treks around the world! Cruises down the Nile! (OK, he didn’t say that, but she could totally envision it.) Hobnobbing with the statues in Easter Island! This was the life she (daren’t) dreamt of.

And more importantly, he was outlining a future.
Their
future together!

She was so bowled over that she
almost forgot to click on the attachment he sent. His photo. And so she did.

Her eyes popped out.
Was he for real?

He was gorgeous! Nice wavy brown hair which curled around his forehead.
Piercing blue eyes which crinkled with amusement. A nice tight body beneath the T-shirt he wore. A five o’ clock shadow around his firm jaw. He could easily grace the cover of GQ or
Esquire
.

No!
her instincts told her. He couldn’t be real. Men like that didn’t advertise for wives. Women threw themselves at the feet of men who resembled that photo.

But maybe it was because of his work!
Maybe it was as he said – he traveled greatly and he didn’t have time to socialize. Maybe it was because he was a tiger shifter and tigers were rare. It was the only way he could find a wife south of Kentucky!

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

She found herself sitting down. Her ice-cream was melting and she couldn’t move.

With trepidation, she hit ‘Reply’.

Oh wait, maybe she should hold out. After all, men didn’t like women who were too easy.

4

The reply came sooner than Cole expected. His sat phone went ‘ding’. He had programmed it to alert him when he received an email on his personal account. And there it was – a full six hours after he had sent the email.

His mouth turned up with amusement.
He knew the photo would do the trick. Not that he had to do Photoshop or anything. That was him in the flesh. He knew he looked good and that it brought in the hot babes – which was great for sex when he wanted it, of course.

But it wasn’t that great when they formed emotional attachments to him. That was why he usually did one night stands, or why he broke it off before
it got too deep. And not deep in a good, physical way.

He read the email Ellen sent
him.

Ellen Moss
.

He mouthed the syllables.

Mrs. Ellen Devereaux.

His father would be pleased.

Should he ask for a picture? Nah. No time. He’d take her – lock, stock and barrel. She was real interested, he could tell.

He read through her email and picked out
certain phrases that indicated her interest to go further:

I love travelling. It is always my dream to travel around the world.

I’m looking for someone to share my dreams with.

I have always been interested in archeology since I saw ‘Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull’.

He grinned. It was time to tempt her with a first class ticket.

He would write it off as a necessary business expense.

5

Ellen could not believe the first class ticket attachment she received in her email. She supposed in the olden days (maybe five years ago), first class air tickets would have come in an embossed envelope with her name written in gilded letters. But an email PDF attachment was as good as any. She’d take it. Hell, she’d seize it by the ears and run off with it.

The ticket was to New York. And then there was a connection to
Paris.

Paris!

And then there was a connection to Brazzaville, the capital of Congo.

Congo!

Even the entire PDF was an exclamation mark!

She couldn’t believe that she was really going!

And of course, there was that little thing about telling Terry.

*

“You what?” Terry’s eyes bulged out of her head.

It was almost comical. Ellen had never seen eyes do that before. Well, maybe once when
Terry found out that she had hives on her pussy after using a new spermidical cream.

“I’m going to Africa. Congo, more like. That’s in Africa, just in case you didn’t know.”

Terry didn’t know a lot of things, like what constituted the colors of a rainbow – unless it was on her manicure color chart – so it was better to be safe.

Terry
gaped.

“But you barely know this guy!” she spluttered.

“You practically egged me to write to him.” Ellen was now feeling a little peeved.

“I meant it as a joke!”

“No, you didn’t. You practically shoved that newsletter down my throat. I was literally gagging on it.”

That was quite a mental image, but it was true.

“Ellen, he could be dangerous!”

“No, he’s not. He’s a university professor.”

“Sez who?”

“He said it.
Right here.” Ellen tapped the screen of her computer.

“So you’re
gonna believe everything anyone says?”

“I believed what you said when you asked me to write to him,” Ellen said in an injured tone. “Unless you didn’t mean it . . .
which would make it totally obsolete.”

Uh, what did she just say?

“He could be a serial killer, trying to lure you to Africa so that he can feast on your flesh and bury your bones,” Terry argued.

“Why should he give me a first class ticket to do that? Shouldn’t it be cheaper for him to lure the locals instead?”

“Maybe he’s a spendthrift sort of serial killer. I’ve seen those on ‘Law and Order’.”

“OK. To prove to you he’s not a serial killer, I’ll Google the Congo news right now.
At real time.” Ellen called up ‘Google’ and typed ‘Congo’ and ‘serial killer’ in the same Search bar. “See? There’s nothing! Oh, there’s a piece on serial killers in Congo, New Jersey. But that doesn’t count because it wouldn’t make sense for him to fly from Congo all the way to New Jersey, and then back.”

“Now you’re not making any sense.”

“That’s because you make me so nervous I have to babble.”

Terry
clutched Ellen’s forearm. “Big sis, you can’t be alone in this. I’ll go with you.”

“
Wh-what?” Now Ellen was stunned.

“We have to check this guy out.”
Terry gazed suspiciously at his photo. “He looks too good to be true. And when someone looks too good to be true, you know what it means.”

Ellen shook her head helplessly. “What does it mean?”

“It means he’s a conman. And it’s up to us to bring him to justice.” Terry smiled. “Can you convert that first class ticket to two business class ones?”

6

They were off!

Ellen could not convert the first class ticket to two business class ones, but she could certainly do it with two economy ones. It was a pity she didn’t get to fly first class, but she couldn’t refuse her sister. When Terry had it in mind to do something, she certainly barreled her way through.

It was a very long flight with several connections. But in the end, they got to the Republic of Congo.
To Brazzaville, to be exact.

The humidity hit them like a tidal wave.

If they were hoping for Cole to meet them at the airport, they were disappointed. There was a local man with a sign waiting for them. The sign said:

ELLEN MOSS.

Ellen stopped in front of the man. She had packed enough clothes for a siege, and they were all stuffed in three massive suitcases.

“That’s me,” she said.

The man smiled, showing white teeth.

“Welcome.” He held out his hand, and Ellen shook it. “I am Mobutu, Professor
Devor’s personal assistant.”

“So you are,” Ellen said happily. “I mean hello.”
She shouldn’t try to sound so happy. After all, it wasn’t exactly Cole standing there.

Terry
came from behind, wheeling five suitcases on her trolley. Her earrings glinted in the sunlight – amethyst flowers adorned with little diamantes – entirely too dressy for the occasion.

“Well,” she demanded, “where is he?”

“He’s not here,” Ellen said quickly, “but this is his assistant. A personal one. You’re personal, right?”

Mobutu flashed his pearly white teeth again.

“Yeah, sure.” Terry sniffed. She looked Mobutu up and down as if he was a hologram. “It starts this way . . . send a substitute because he isn’t real!”

“
Ssssh,” Ellen tried to hush her.

“Please come this way, Ms. Ellen.
You bring friend, yes?”

“This is not my friend. This is my younger sister,
Terry.”

“
Hey, don’t give out my name. Your conman might use it in some Internet scam.”

“Nobody’s
gonna scam anybody, Terry.”

“
Sssssh! Enough already with my name!”

Mobutu maintained his smile throughout. “Professor
Devor . . . he send me with car to take you Site 2345.”

“Site 2345?”
Ellen said.

“Is
dig.”

“Dig?
Like in archeological dig?”

“Yes.”

“See?” Ellen said to Terry. “I told you so. They name their archeological digs after numbers. Like constellations.”

“I thought the constellations were named after Greek people?”

“Not the recent ones. They ran out of Greek people to name them after, apparently, and it’s all numbering from here. But my point is – ”

She paused. She kind of forgot her point.

“ – Oh yeah. The point being . . . he’s really an archeological professor.”

“How come we can’t Google him then?”

“Not everyone can be Googled. There are data protection laws and everything . . . especially for archeology professors. I doubt they can even go on Facebook.”

Terry
wrinkled her nose. “Aren’t professors supposed to be old?”

Mobutu said, “Professor
Devor not old, Miss.”

“There you go,” Ellen beamed.

“This is just the tip of a huge iceberg of hoaxes,” Terry argued.

“But we’re near the Equator. We’re very far from the icebergs.”

“Icebergs are everywhere when you least expect them.”

It was no use arguing
with her sister. There was only one way to find out if Cole Devereaux was an elaborate charlatan.

*

“How long is it to Site 1234?” Ellen asked. She sat up front with Mobutu while Terry sat at the back. The backseat was all piled up with bags, as well as the booth.

“
Site 2345, Miss Ellen.”

“Sorry
.”

“
Eight hours, Miss.”

Eight hours!

“I suddenly need to pee,” wailed Terry.

After a quick stop at a gas station, they were off on their way again.
Ellen was shocked to see how modern everything was. So much for exoticism. She was expecting to see cows everywhere. (Or was that India?) And bullock carts. And bicycles. Instead, there were high-rise buildings and cars and cleanly paved roads.

Amid all the finery were slums and squalor.
People thronged everywhere. The city was bustling, vibrant.

The car Mobutu was driving was a Range Rover, and it made its steady way
out of the city into the countryside. Here, the trees were lush and green. Ellen was reminded that they were in the steamy jungle part of the African continent. Which wasn’t good for either her hair or her glasses, as both tended to steam up.

“
Tell us about Cole Devereaux,” Terry demanded.

“Terry. He’s Professor
Devereaux’s personal assistant. There might be a client confidentiality clause or something.”

“Client?
Don’t you mean boss?”

“OK. Like, yeah.
”

M
obutu said, “Professor Devereaux . . . he a hardworking man. He work very, very hard.”

“That’s the def
inition of hardworking,” Terry said.

“That’s got to be a good thing,” Ellen said in a bright voice.

“Is he rich?”

“Terry!”

Mobutu said, “Yes. He very, very rich. His father – ” he pronounced it as ‘faddah’ “ – very, very rich.”

For once, Terry was speechless.

Ellen’s heart swelled. OK, she probably would have met Cole Devereaux if he hadn’t been rich, but being rich was just icing on an already very creamy cake. Her prospects were getting better and better.

Terry finally piped up, “It has got to be a hoax.”

“Terry . . . Mobutu is right here. It’s not polite to talk about his boss in front of him.”

“Why not?
He’s just the hired help.”

“Well,
I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of an African spear.”

Terry said, “
So, Mobutu . . . that is your name, correct? What else can you tell us about Professor ‘Devor’? Is he as handsome as his photos?”

“He
very handsome man, Miss.”

“He is?” Terry wrinkled her nose.

He is! thought Ellen in elation.

“Then if he is rich and handsome and hardworking and an academic,” declared Terry, “why would he want to meet someone through a classified ad?”

Ellen flushed. She could tell from Mobutu’s rather bewildered expression that this was going above his head. Perhaps he wasn’t privy to his employer’s private life. Well, of course he wasn’t privy to his employer’s private life!

“Uh, I not understand, Miss?”

Terry clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Does Professor ‘Devor’ have trouble meeting women?”

“Meeting women?”

“You know, like in getting them to fuck him.”

“Terry! He probably doesn’t the word ‘fuck’!” Ellen was mortified.

“Ferk?” Mobutu said.

“Yes.
Ferk.”

“Oh n
o, Miss. Professor ‘Devor’ not have trouble getting women to ferk him. He is getting all sorts of women every day.”

Both Ellen and Terry prick
ed their ears up.

“Oh?” Terry said, suddenly very interested. “Tell me more.”

“Professor Devor, he has many women he do the fickety-ferk with. Tall women. Short women. Thin women. Women with big – ”

Mobutu took his hands off the wheel for a moment to
symbolize melon-sized boobs.

Ellen’s heart sank.

“Fat,” she said. “Does he like fat?”

“
Does he still do the fickety-ferk with all these women?” Terry demanded.

“Yes.”

“Are they prostitutes?”

Ellen quailed. Her sister was really giving Mobutu the third degree.

“No, Miss. All women come to Professor Devor with happiness.”

“I’ll bet they do.” Terry pursed her lips.
“Single and married ones, I suppose. All colors.”

“Oh, yes, Miss.
”

“Shifters and humans alike?”

“Huh?” Mobutu was even more bewildered.

“
Terry,” cautioned Ellen, “he mightn’t know his boss is a shifter. It’s not our right to tell him.”

“He probably doesn’t even know the word,” Terry sniffed.
She addressed this to Mobutu, “Did you know your boss is a shifter? A tiger shifter, to be exact?”

“I
no understand the word, Miss.”

“Terry!”

Terry did not heed Ellen’s pleas. “A shifter is someone who
changes
into an animal at will. You know, animals.”

Mobutu’s face lights up. “
Ohhhh, a
mguezi
.”

“Whatever. That’s what your boss is. Did you know?”

Mobutu suddenly looked frightened. “The people here . . . they not like
mguezi
.”

Ellen was distressed. “There, you’ve gone and done it. Not everyone all over the worl
d is open to
mguezis
, you know. Now we’d probably be arrested and thrown into a stinky
mguezi
prison where they serve us scraps from pigpens.”

Terry only smiled, showing her perfect teeth.

“Did you know that we are
mguezi
too?” she told Mobutu slyly.

Ellen groaned.

Mobutu spent the rest of the journey wild-eyed and terrified and driving as fast as he could to offload his passengers in Site 2345.