ALPHA SPEED DATING (BBW) (Rocky Mountain Shifters) (5 page)

“Excuse me.” A man’s low voice came from behind her. She swung around to face the enforcer. Although he smiled this time, his gaze was no less intense. “Mari?” Tristen asked, holding out his hand.

“Yes. Good evening.” She capped the marker before she reached for his hand. He drew her forward in what came across as a searching perusal of her face. His nostrils flared. She imagined hers did as well. She tried not to be obvious, but she was curious about him and his position.

As a beta wolf, it would be natural for him to seek to uncover as much information about her, and scent identification was nothing new in meeting a fellow wolf. He pumped her hand before stepping back. Soothing tingles raced up her arm as though she were being welcomed into a private pack.

“We’ve met before. At Sonya’s.” Fin smiled at her. Warm and friendly, and he laughed. “And yoga. By the pond. Am I right?” His scent was as appealing now as when he’d demonstrated poses, bending next to her mat. Besides working at the Den, Fin held community yoga classes. All the women in the class tried to follow his vinyasa routine without ogling. He seemed so grounded, more tonight than before when she’d seen him last.

“You’ve got an excellent memory, and your class was amazing. I should have introduced myself, but you were overrun by others in the class. I plan on returning.”

“Great. Sunday. No pressure. Come when you can. More often than not, the class is composed of drop-ins. We take things nice and easy.”

She almost fell into Fin’s arms. His open manner, dreadlocked hair, and tanned body were irresistible to one worn-out unemployed reporter. “That makes me want to show up all the more.”

“If you need anything, holler,” Fin said.

Tristen nodded. “Thanks for pitching in. We’re all here to help. The area looks great.”

“Yes. Sonya filled me in. The setup crew needed little direction from me. I couldn’t have done all this in a couple of hours without them.” Mari motioned to the tables set in rows, allowing the gentlemen to get up and move as was the custom once the speed dating routine began.

“Well, if you run into trouble, wave and we’ll know you need us to intercede. Don’t try to handle anyone or anything that proves difficult. It’s why we’re here. Right over there, to be exact.” Fin pointed to the bar.

“I promise, I’ll let you know.” Mari straightened her shoulders, resuming her last task. She couldn’t imagine much trouble tonight. The whole setup of the Downtown Den was upscale, from the marble flooring to the mahogany paneled walls. The Art Deco architectural features inside the bar lent plenty of romantic ambiance to go with the pale silver and pink colors of the evening.

Everything appeared elegant, and the food being served had her stomach rumbling. The Den set out to serve real food that shifters enjoyed while having to deal with the pressure of date talk. Lime chili chicken, pulled pork, Alpine three-cheese mac bake, maple-glazed plantains, raw kale blueberry pecan salad, cornbread, and a smooth-as-sin rum punch. She eyed the specially prepared strawberry pie with a walnut and coconut crust to die for.

Henry, the bartender, whistled as he set out punch glasses when the chef walked in carrying several bags of a dark roast. Mari noticed and couldn’t help but comment upon with enthusiasm. The chef stopped and asked if she needed any help. She smiled and shook her head. A tap on her shoulder and she found Henry placing a demitasse of espresso next to the tablet she was using. “Something to start the evening off right.”

Everyone was so nice. She almost wished hospitality was a field she’d investigated in college. She didn’t imagine people here got the boot for telling the truth. Oh, Jesus. That wasn’t exactly true, what with the service agreement she’d signed in triplicate stating she was bound to the rules of anonymity in place. Mari lifted the tiny cup of aromatic espresso and sipped thoughtfully.

Sonya sauntered into the bar area, dressed in her flapper costume. Tristen and Fin positioned themselves at the bar. Her friend had warned her that the beta wolf enforcers were fixtures at these type of events. They didn’t get involved, but if something went amiss, they stepped in silently and forcefully to remove problems. No one with an ounce of sense—Sonya had sworn—messed with them. Both shifters were marine vets with little tolerance for mayhem. After meeting them, the idea of an out of control shifters brouhaha seemed truly farfetched.

“Seven on the dot. You ready?” Sonya asked.

“God, yes. Where were you?” Mari shuffled the name tags. She glanced at the bar mirror, and pushed back an errant curl.

“Getting ready and making certain upstairs is running smoothly. Your disguise.” Sonya held out a silver jeweled mask.

“I nearly forgot.”

“Good thing we’re a team. The front gate texted me the guests are valet parking, and there’s a steady stream. Some high rollers tonight. Maybe you and your royal gown have a special vibe.”

“What do you mean?” Mari asked, zoning in on Sonya.

“We’re being graced by English royalty tonight. An earl, no less.” Sonya looked around. “I think the name was
Exist
. Strange, but you know how the English are about titles.”

Mari froze, and her fingers scrabbled, unable to hold onto the mask. It dropped from her hands. “Do you mean Essex?”

Sonya bent down to retrieve the mask. “Isn’t that what I said? Yes. Do you know him?”

“Sonya, the Earl of Essex is—” She didn’t have a chance to finish. Four guests were at the entrance.

“Mari, time to do the first meet-and-greet. Good luck to us.”

“Let’s hope.” She went to tie the mask, and the ribbon pulled free on one side. Mari stared at the ribbon in her fingers. Guess she would go without tonight. She didn’t need a mask. The Earl of Essex could be standing right in front of her and he’d not know her. None of the jet set would. It didn’t matter if the whole Fisher pack came to call; she just wished she’d been forewarned. Conrad Fisher was clueless as to her life and career and she wasn’t looking to make friends or enemies with any of the Fishers. They were hands-off in her reporter world.

Still, she was shaken and unable to comprehend how she’d missed this one freaking detail. His name was not on that list. Probably why the man caused such problems. Rule breaking playboys were all alike. Trouble. A couple approached her, and she set the mask down.

“Good evening,” Mari said picking up the tablet. “Welcome to the Den.”

From the entrance, Mari checked the guests in, giving out name tags and directing them to the buffet and bar. She gave a thumbs-up to Sonya across the room, and her friend smiled back. This work felt natural, as though she belonged somehow. Even though she sat on pins and needles waiting for
Mr. Fisher
to show up, she relished the banter with the guests. Each time a man approached her, she tried to see past the costume. From what she remembered of him the one time she’d tried to get a statement and she was surrounded by fellow reporters, Conrad was more than tall. He was a skyscraper in height. And handsome, in the boring hoity-toity aristocratic sort of way. She held her nose upward, pretending to smell cauliflower cooking. That was the expression he’d had facing the group reporters she was hidden amongst.

The good earl was a journalist himself. She half snorted. Traveled around and wrote about his journeys. She read one of his pieces about Venice and another when he’d been in Pamplona, running of the bulls. Only to herself would she admit that yes, his photographs were amazing. But, he probably gallivanted about in a limo while everyone else hoofed it on foot. She could just imagine the difficulties he encountered what with luxury hotels and all the luggage he more than likely toted around. Mari hugged her tablet, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe while watching the crowd for a beat. She prayed he wouldn’t show up.

The room rapidly filled with all sorts of costumed bodies. Mostly gentlemen in suits with masks, while the women were the ones in all sorts of unusual getups. Another wave of guests arrived. This time it was much smoother, once she’d grown accustomed to the sequence of what to do first. After check-in, Mari informed the guests of the abbreviated list of speed dating rules and tidbits, then handed out name tags.

Sonya filled punch glasses at the buffet. The bar buzzed with talk. Silverware clinked against the china. And various groupings of guests were established at tables along the bar area, and in one corner. Tonight the private rooms along the wall were closed and locked.

The steady arrival of people required she be at the entrance as well as keep an eye on when to text the chef on duty that another chafing dish was needed. Sonya brought her a plate of food. She took a few bites. Too nervous to enjoy eating, Mari set the plate down, and reached for her tablet instead.

“According to the guest list, almost everyone is here,” Mari said, observing several well-known people.

“Great. Why don’t you get a cocktail? Remember, no loose lips.” Sonya pretended to lock her mouth with an imaginary key, then she picked up Mari’s plate.

“Seriously, I would never betray the Den’s trust.” Mari realized somewhere along the way that evening, she liked being a part of the club. A lot.

“I know. It’s just a compulsion of mine because I realize how important this place is for people like us.”

“Before tonight, I’d never imagined shifters required a private place to unwind. The male mojo energy is palpable.”

“And palatable. Spikes my appetite. Truthfully, I didn’t remember this recipe tasting this good.” Sonya motioned with the tip of her fork over the pasta.”

“Oh, it’s the truffles and clarified butter. The chef told me his secret trick that makes them savory. But in your case, it might also be the rum punch. I can tell you already sampled it, didn’t you?”

“Guilty your honor. Just a thought. You have a way of wrangling secrets from people. You might want to think about that one.”

“It’s a job hazard. But I’m not tipsy, so no worries.” Mari snickered at Sonya’s slightly askew headband and reached for her rum punch. She took a sip and flinched. “No wonder you’re laidback while I’m sweating bullets.”

“Did something go wrong? Was someone rude?”

“No. I was joking. Stop, I’m going to have a glass as soon as you think we’ve hit a lull.”

Sonya laughed. “Oh, definitely. We’re lulling right now. Drink time.” Sonya’s name was called softly as it had been by staff throughout the event. She and Mari shrugged simultaneously. “Darn, just when I said the coast was clear. You go, and I’ll catch up.”

Mari had almost turned to leave her post at the door when a blurry movement beyond her peripheral vision called her attention. Looking down the hall, she gasped at the sight of a tall man leaning over, his large palm flat against the wall next to one of the many black and white photographs framed and hung within the passage. He came without a mask. The only other person here besides herself without one. She studied his strong profile, composed of a straight nose and solid square chin. Slowly, she let her gaze travel over his shoulders and down his arms. The way his muscles flexed in his arms made it near impossible to stop staring. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the jamb, taking in the freeze-frame her mind had snapped. And she remembered why she was so taken. In front of her stood Conrad Fisher. The Earl of Essex.

Her eyes traveled roamed over his powerful physique, enjoying the shadows cast over his skin. A work of art in how the light captured the dips and grooves of his torso, the hollows of his face, and even the way his black polo shirt was pulled snug over his incredible shoulders. Jesus H. Christ, she wished she could whip out her cell and snap a pic of this Greek statue come to life. Talk about a man candy contest. He’d win, shirt off, hands down. He moved to the next photograph. Stopped and gazed. Time didn’t seem to be a concern. He was more interested in the photographs adorning the walls than getting to the date party destination.

Mari’s brows drew together as she focused on his progress, or lack thereof. Really, he resembled a pinball ricocheting from one wall to the other each time he encountered another framed picture. Fisher stared at one of the photographs taken in Tibet. High up in the Himalayas where Shawn and Quinn had visited years ago. During her time in the Den, she’d marveled at the black and white widespread vistas from cliffs and shadowed temples and sacred gardens featured in the shots.

The monolith of a man was much closer, and without knowing why, the fine hairs all over her body rose. From what she could tell without outright gawking, his colossal height made him one imposing shifter. She sniffed the air, bathing her senses in his alpha wolf scent. Conrad wore jeans, which were out of place for the Den, but seated low on his hips, were perfection hugging his tight rear. His shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, pecs, and arms, making her bit her lip.

She tore her gaze away from the contours of his torso at the thud of his footstep, louder this time, and wondered if a motorcycle came with those badass black boots on his feet. The gold watch on his wrist was expensive, but something about him spoke wild, untamed.

He suddenly glanced down the hall in her direction. It was all she could do to man her post. Within the space, not really that far, she felt trapped in having been discovered staring back at him. The second their gazes locked, her heart did a tap dance in her throat, leaving her mute. And staring. Never a great condition conducive to starting a conversation. Conrad held her attention with a pair of glinting eyes that darkened as though his thoughts ran toward mischievous…and his actions into the arena of wicked.

He was the first to speak, breaking their streaming silence. “Reminiscing. Seems like only yesterday we were hiking through the Himalayas.”

She stepped forward, her mind blown away. Was he the actual photojournalist on the hike up the Himalayas? Sonya had mentioned it was some important person. “You were the photographer? They’re incredible. Did you have help?”

“That hard to believe. No, I assure you I do my own work. Actually, it was one of the easier treks I’ve been on.” His deep voice cloistered in a British accent sent chills racing over her skin.