Target: BillionBear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (8 page)

“Oh?”

“He got hit hard. I mean nearly run down. He would have been—he tried to step between me and the danger, but the guy rode right
at
him, and I pulled him, and the guy hit really
hard
. If I hadn’t, he might have been killed. As it was, he blacked out a couple moments there, right in front of me.”

“Yeah, I did hear that you saved his life. Is that it?”

“No, here’s what’s weird. I was, well, I was giving him a shoulder rub, up at Sunset Point, and we, um, well his shoulder was bare—and then you called.”

“How many clothes came off?” Now there were two hairy eyeballs glued to Kesley, who backed away a step.

“Pretty much everything,” she admitted, and couldn’t prevent a little grin.

“Damn!” McKenzi exclaimed, stalking around the room, her invisible tail practically twitching. “And then I called. Argh! My timing
sucks
. Or is that a good thing?”

“It’s an I’m-totally-confused thing.” Kesley waved her hand, not quite ready to go into how blazingly, amazingly hot that sex had been. “
Anyway
. Your call didn’t come until after we . . . After. I was reaching for my phone, looked at his bare shoulder, and the giant bruise was, like, half-healed.”

McKenzi gave her a puzzled look.

“Kenz, I’m beginning to wonder if . . . well, is it possible he might be a shifter?”

Kenzi’s eyes rounded. “No. Freaking. Way.”

“Who else heals that fast?”

“I don’t know.”

“So . . . what should I do? Ask?”

“No.” Kenzi shook her head. “That much I’m sure about. Not with everybody clamming up around that woman he’s with, for whatever definition of ‘with’ is correct.”

“I don’t think he’s with her in any romantic sense. I get the feeling she might be some kind of . . . well, I don’t know how a journalist could be therapeutic, but he mentioned that a couple times. And I didn’t get the feeling
he
was lying.”

“Whether he is or not, he’s with her. If either of them come clean and tell us they’re shifters, or part of the shifter world, well, that’s different. But until then? They came
here,
asking questions. Let them admit to it first.”

Kesley let out her breath. “Okay. That makes sense.”

The timer rang then. While Kenzi got the strudel out and brushed on the cinnamon topping, Kesley took a quick shower, running the water as cold as she could stand it on her face before she got out.

Ten minutes later they were up at the main house, and as the food was being set on the table, Ed said to Kesley, “I was delivering down at Primrose today, when that fellow came limping in, looking like hell. From what everyone was saying, you saved him from being run down? What was he, drunk, standing in the middle of the street?”

Kesley gave a quick report.

Ed frowned. “Tried to run him down? On the sidewalk?” He shook his head. “Something is off about that guy.”

“What do you mean?” Kesley asked, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

“He says he’s a cameraman?” Ed asked with one of his eyebrow lifts that Kesley privately thought of as Typical Aloof Cat. “I’ve never heard of a cameraman wearing a Cartier Calibre watch.”

“Never heard of it.” Kesley shook her head. “Except the Cartier part. I take it his watch is expensive?”

Her dad snorted. “If you call more than a hundred grand expensive.”

Uncle Lee choked on his drink. Kesley’s fork clattered to her plate. “A . . . hundred . . .”

“Grand?” McKenzi squeaked.

“For a watch?” Grandma Enkel said, eyes round. “
Gott im Himmel
, it is made of diamonds and rubies, this watch?”

“Did he steal it?” Kesley’s cousin Rolf asked, interested for the first time.

“A watch like that belongs in a safety deposit box,” Doris stated. “That’s twice the worth of this house!”

“More like ten times the worth of this house, in the shape it’s in,” Ed said, patting his wife’s hand. “Not that that means anything, because we’ll never sell it.”

“Anyway, what’s the use of a watch in a bank vault?” McKenzi declared. “Good on him! If I had something that hot, I’d wear it 24/7.”

“I just hope it’s not hot in the stolen sense,” Doris said. “I don’t like those people, that woman prying and snooping up and down Main . . .”

Kesley sighed, knowing her family was going to go on about Marlo and her meddlesome questions for the rest of the meal. But that was better than the grilling she’d expected about
him
.

She had no idea what was going to happen, but she began to count the hours until that breakfast.

Chapter Seven

“They all say pretty much the same thing,” Marlo said to Jameson early the next morning. “College kids and pranks.”

“Then you’re done?” Jameson asked.

It was seven a.m. and he’d just come out of the shower when she knocked at his door.

“Not at all. I set my phone to record, and left it in my pocket yesterday, though what people saw was me standing there with my clipboard,” Marlo said, looking crisp and professional as they sat on the balcony outside the rooms. “Last night after you retired I listened to the entire recording all the way through, twice.”

He sneaked a glance at his watch as she went on talking.

“At first I assumed that the rumor mill had been churning out the usual distortions, but as I listened, I kept hearing the same phrases over and over. So either there really isn’t anything, and these small town people have little range of expression or imagination—or else they are all repeating a script.”

Jameson gazed at her, for the first time feeling a spark of interest. “Why would they do that? Do you think they really are all part of some cult?” He grimaced. “I don’t even want to imagine some of these little old folks prancing around in the buff doing animal sacrifice, or whatever it is you think is going on.”

“I explained it to you,” Marlo said. “This is about meta humans.”

“I remember those words, but not what they are supposed to mean. I hadn’t realized until recently—like yesterday—exactly how much of a brain fog I’ve been in,” he responded.

“Hmmm,” she said. “I did think that new doctor Beth brought to Tranquil Breezes prescribed rather strong doses on two of those meds, but Beth seemed satisfied that he is the best. Still, when we get back, perhaps we’d better do another blood workup, maybe even get a second opinion. You might require a dosage adjustment.”

She went right back to her pet project. “If meta humans exist in this specific locale, I will find them. I thought we’d widen the pool of interviews, at least for one more day. I heard of another motel up the Pacific Coast Highway a bit farther, but still within my area of interest.”

“Hotel,” he said automatically.

“What?”

“I don’t know about the other one, but this is a hotel. It’s small, but Mrs. Bashir has signs all over saying ‘hotel’ and there are all these little touches like the fresh flowers they change every day, and the good coffee in the little room off the lobby, and the fresh scones and butter. And so . . .” He shrugged. “It doesn’t cost any extra to use their preferred word.”

Marlo shrugged. “Point taken. After I satisfy myself I’ve been all over this town this morning, what I’d like to do is visit this motel—or hotel—called Dottie’s, up the highway, then we can drive over the mountain into Overton and interview there.”

He shook his head. “I’d rather take it easy,” he said, and rubbed his shoulder.

“Of course,” she agreed instantly. “I’m sorry—I’ve been so distracted I forgot to ask how you slept? Perhaps we need to call a local doctor?”

“No, I’m fine. I just want an easy day.”

She glanced around uncertainly, then said, “I’m responsible for you. I was very upset yesterday to discover you’d nearly been run down while crossing the street. I hated to have to admit it when I made my nightly report to Beth. She was quite concerned about that, and about making certain you took your meds. I told her as far as I knew you were being scrupulous about that.”

She looked an inquiry and he shrugged.

She seemed to take that as assent, and said, “Beth strongly encouraged me to take you with me when I visit the place up the road, but in my professional opinion you appear to be recovered enough to choose for yourself. Especially if you rest within the safety of this room. I hope you won’t go out unless you have to.”

“I’ll look both ways from now on,” he promised.

“Better, I’ll talk to Mrs. Bashir about the possibility of your ordering in, since the ‘hotel’ doesn’t seem to include room service.” Marlo’s tone shifted to genial sarcasm.

“Whatever you say, doc.”

She nodded, and departed a short time later.

He sighed in relief. If he’d had to, he’d have admitted he had a breakfast date, but he didn’t want to talk to Marlo about Kesley yet. He wasn’t certain why, but he had been going on instinct here ever since . . .

He turned to stare at the pill bottles. Ever since he’d stopped taking them, when he’d listened to that inner voice after that dose had made him vilely sick. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much of a mental fog he’d been in.

Fallout from the accident, or . . . something else? He shook a couple of pills from each bottle into a tissue, wadded it up, and thrust it into his pocket.

Then he grabbed a jacket, tucked his wallet and the hotel key in with the pills, and set out to walk up Main Street in the chilly morning air. The time was still early enough for the morning light to be golden, highlighting the distinctive shrubs and trees of mid-coast California. He really liked this little town by the sea.

He passed a row of closed shops. Only the grocery was lit. He stayed near the shadows, again out of instinct, aware that he was listening for the growl of motorcycle engines. What the hell was that about? Likeliest scenario was a random crazy, but he still walked softly, senses alert: sniffing the air, he identified a trace of exhaust in the sea breeze, but that could be from the occasional cars passing down Main Street.

He smelled Ralph’s Eatery before he saw it, and when he walked into the slightly humid warmth carrying the delicious aromas of coffee and cinnamon rolls, he felt the back of his neck let go its tension.

“Howdy,” Ralph said with a polite smile. “Coffee black, right?”

“Thanks,” Jameson said. He turned to survey the place. The table by the window was empty. He started toward it, but sensed Kesley’s presence. He glanced around and there she was, waiting in a corner booth.

His heart hitched in his chest. She looked so . . . beautiful—delectable—sweet—all these words came so easily, but none of them matched the warmth inside him when she saw him and her entire demeanor brightened with her smile.

“How is the shoulder today?” she asked.

“Good as new.” He lifted his arm. The pain really was all but gone. “Except for some fading blotches of green and purple, you’d never know what hit me. Luckily I seem to heal fast, or maybe it was your magic fingers. You?”

“Great,” she said, looking up as Ralph approached.

“My usual, waffle and tea,” she said. “Thanks!”

Jameson realized he hadn’t even looked at the menu. “Bring me whatever you recommend. I guarantee I’ll like it.”

Ralph looked him over, and gave a short nod. “I’ll order up a man’s breakfast.”

“Sounds excellent.”

Ralph moved away, and Kesley said, “Is your friend going to join us?”

“Friend?”

“Ms. Evans.”

“She’s not my friend,” he responded, aware of an echo of Marlo’s voice at the beginning of therapy sessions,
I want you to think of me as a friend. Don’t call me Dr. Evans, call me Marlo.

He’d felt a resistance to that from the beginning. He didn’t know if it was because there seemed a falsity in a doctor insisting on friendship, or maybe because in real friendships one didn’t have to insist on labels like ‘friend.’ Still, he felt that Marlo had done her best by him, listening patiently to his dull blather when he was in the cotton fog, and making sensible suggestions to try to pry the lid off his memory.

“Our relationship is professional.” Jameson looked around, and bent closer. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really understand what she’s after. ‘Meta humans.’ She can’t be looking for Superman or other Kryptonians, though that’s what it sounds like. Might have been the drugs I’ve been taking, because I heard her talking once and it sounded weird—something about rumors of people turning into animals, or animals into people. I have no idea why a doctor would find it necessary to chase down folk tales. Maybe there are holes in my thinking as well as my memory.”

“She’s a doctor?”

“A therapist.”

“Pretending to be a journalist?”

“She thinks people talk more freely to journalists.”

“Wow.” Kesley shrugged. “I’m more worried about you, especially if you had to travel with your own doctor. Do you want to talk about what happened?” Her eyes were steady and serious.

“I don’t know what happened. Plane crash, I’m told. I was in the hospital before being transferred to the rehab center. My memory is spotty, and I can still feel some of the mental fog I’ve been in. I can remember bits of my early childhood, and brief images from later. But nothing of the past, say, ten years. And what I do remember has me confused.”

“I wish I could help,” she said softly.

He studied her gaze. He could fall into that gaze. He knew he might be thinking with his dick and just fooling the mind that was supposed to drive his body, but every instinct demanded he trust her.

So he pulled out the tissue with the meds. “This might sound really stupid, but do you know anyone with a lab? To test what’s really in these?”

He
felt
stupid as he opened the tissue and disclosed the pills. She glanced from them to him, and to his surprise, gave him a serious look as she reached to take the tissue. Their fingers touched, and the spark of attraction, of connection, shocked him in a good way—the opposite of pain.

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Kesley said softly. “In fact, I know someone who would love nothing better than to test them.”

“Look, Kesley. I don’t want Marlo to know. If it turns out they are what they’re supposed to be, then I’ll tell her myself that I’m experiencing paranoia, and yadda yadda. But right now . . . just say, after yesterday, coupled with my realizing how bad my head has been clouded, I’m paranoid.”

Her pupils widened, and now she looked worried. “I totally get that.” She glanced out, then back at him. “In fact, if you don’t mind my leaving for a couple of minutes to talk to someone, I can get that happening right now. Stay here. I know you’re safe with Ralph.”

He smiled. He’d been hearing a lot about his safety for the past month. Funny, or maybe it wasn’t funny at all, but the first time he truly believed it was from this woman he hadn’t known forty-eight hours ago. “Thanks,” he said.

His reward was that bright smile again, and a quick, deft movement of fingers as she pocketed the meds.

She walked away quickly, and he spent the time counting up his facts again.

He had more, but still no coherent picture. Something big was missing from the middle.

As she promised, Kesley was quickly back—half a minute ahead of the food. Ralph had cooked up what turned out to be a delicious Spanish omelet, with crispy bacon, beautifully cooked sausage, country fried potatoes, toast, and a bowl of fresh fruit cut up. He loaded honey onto the toast and in his coffee, and dug in.

As they ate, the talk was easy—food, sunsets, music. He liked the way she adapted to his limits, because she never pressed if he hesitated on an answer. Several times he felt his mind on the verge of something . . . recovery? Recognition? But he knew better than to force it. The only result would be a headache.

When they were done, he said, “Are you painting this morning? May I watch?” he asked.

She looked searchingly into his face, then smiled. “Sure. But won’t it be kind of boring?”

He couldn’t imagine ever being bored by her. “If I nod off, just kick me,” he joked, and won an answering smile.

Ralph brought the check, and Jameson noticed that there was only a charge for his breakfast, not Kesley’s. After he paid and they were about to leave, she gave him a troubled glance, then said, “How about if we walk the back way? There’s an alley behind the shops.”

He laughed. “Afraid to be seen with me?”

“As if our breakfast isn’t all over town by now,” she retorted. “No, I was thinking of possible crazy bikers.”

“Ah. I still think it was random. But I appreciate your looking out for me.”

She led the way through the spotless kitchen, waving at a gray-haired woman and a skinny, lantern-jawed guy busy working with the food, and then they were outside.

As they began walking he discovered a wish to hold her hand, like they were a couple of kids. He shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his trousers, as she set the pace.

“Ralph’s daughter Madison is my old friend. She’s about to get married to Noah, who is going to take over his mom’s pharmacy. He’s been studying chemistry. He and Maddy live together, and built a lab in what used to be the garage. It’s like something from the future in there—she does experiments with food, and he does . . . whatever pharmacy people do.”

“Drugs,” Jameson said, laughing.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I know, but it sounds so, I dunno, crack-house to say that, doesn’t it? Garage lab, drugs.”

“Mad scientist has a promising sound.” He slanted a glance at her.

“Except he’s not mad,” Kesley observed, her lips curving upward.

“How do you know?” he asked. “There could be a complete set of body parts in his lab, and he’s just waiting for a passing thunderstorm.”