The Billionbear's Bride: BBW Bear Shifter BWWM Paranormal Romance (8 page)

The reception was more of a party, in true boisterous Davis fashion, and it kept both of them busy. It went on for several hours, guests coming and going as they pleased long after the caterers had been gone. Finally, well after dark, they saw the last of Bruce’s relatives off—on the receiving end of a few whistles and catcalls, of course.

“Thank goodness we don’t have to clean much up,” said Violet, surveying the mild damage back inside the house.

Bruce was half-listening, walking past their bedroom—
his
bedroom, he reminded himself—when he realized the door was ajar. Had someone come in here? With a frown, he pushed it open further to investigate and flipped on the light.

There was something on his bed. Drawing closer, he realized that a bunch of papers and photographs were spread out on top of his bedspread. A feeling of foreboding rose up inside of him. He hadn’t left any of the wedding photos out, he knew; he’d shown them to family and then put them away safely.

There were several large photographs strewn across the bed—photographs of him. He didn’t recognize any of them. But there they were, glossy and taunting: him in his suit, shaking someone’s hand; him at home, taken from outside the house. They looked like they were from a distance, like they were shot by someone following him.

A chill went through him when he spotted Violet among the pictures. And not just with him: the photographer had zeroed in on her, too. In one of the pictures, he recognized the dress she had been wearing at their very first meeting.

Someone had been following him.

He began to gather up all the photos and rifle through them with growing horror. In some of the pictures Violet was alone and in outfits he didn’t recognize—the stalker must have been following her when Bruce wasn’t there. She had been exposed, vulnerable, and Bruce hadn’t been there to protect her—

Was there some kind of message? He flipped through the pictures again, but found nothing. His frustration mounted.

“Bruce, is everything okay? I was asking where you wanted to put the—“

Violet’s voice came from the doorway. He had been so focused on the pictures he hadn’t even heard her approach.

Too late he tried to hide the photos from her, but she wouldn’t be deterred.

“What are those?”

“Photos.” He tried to look nonchalant, but she saw right through that charade.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she observed, drawing nearer.

Reluctantly he showed them to her. “I found these when I came in.”

Chewing on her lip, she glanced through them. Concern darkened her brow. “Someone at the party left them, maybe?”

But there was studied doubt in her voice, like she knew the truth lay somewhere else, somewhere more sinister, but she didn’t want to admit it.

“I don’t know who took them. But I’m going to find out.”

“Are these supposed to scare us?” Her voice, though defiant in tone, trembled on the last word. Bruce’s heart swelled. His brave, beautiful mate.

“There’s no note,” he said. “At least not that I’ve found.”

“Whatever these are, we won’t be intimidated.” Violet set the stack of photos face-down on the bed—and then they both saw it.

In permanent marker there were words scrawled across the back of the photo.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Bruce slowly, and it began to dawn on him. He spread out the photographs face-down; each had words written on the back. Individually they didn’t make any sense, but he and Violet rearranged them until they spelled out a coherent message:

You think you can just move on with your pretty little wife? Buddy, have I got news for you. You're going to pay for what you’ve done.

“Oh my God,” she said faintly. “How did they get in the house to leave these? Is it—could it be someone from your family?”

“It’s not my family,” he said grimly. The words stared back at him:
Buddy, have I got news for you
. “I know who it is.”

“This sounds like a story I need to be sitting down for,” she joked weakly, and he smiled briefly.

“In college, I was friends with a guy named Jim. We’ve—
we’d
—been friends for fifteen years. I’m an inventor at heart, not a businessman; that was Jim's job. Or at least it
was
Jim's job.”

Violet squeezed his hand encouragingly.

“When I came up with an idea for an improved food processor, Jim had jumped on it, insisting we go into business together. As a team we worked well for years—me as the behind-the-scenes brain, and Jim with the business sense and practical expertise to make it happen. Together we built a multi-billion-dollar enterprise.”

“He was your partner,” Violet said.

Bruce nodded. “Two years ago I started some designs for a better car seat—safer, more reliable. Jim saw it through the pipeline. At this point I was hanging back from the business part of the job completely. Almost too late I found out he had gone in and made some alterations to my design. The changes would have made production cheaper, but at a cost—a cost too high for me. The whole point of the new design was to make it safer, and he’d undone all of that.

“At that time I still thought there could be some explanation. That it was all just a misunderstanding and we could figure it out. The safety studies had already been done, so I went down to talk to them.”

Violet was watching him with rapt attention. “What did they say?”

He shrugged grimly. “It turned out some of the data had maybe been fudged. Hard to say, and only one worker was willing to talk about it—and swore they wouldn’t testify about it. I didn’t have enough hard evidence to get him convicted in a court of law, but there was enough to get him thrown out of the company. Messily.

“He has a grudge,” he finished with a sigh. Telling someone the whole story like that—not just the facts, but the hurt and betrayal of it all, their lost friendship—had taken something out of him.

With a worried look Violet glanced behind them at the photos. “But we can go to the police, right?”

“I don’t think I could prove it’s him. I don’t have any evidence, the way the message was worded—I just
know
.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“It’s hard to imagine he would do anything serious—he’s a friendly guy.
Was
friendly,” he corrected. Even though Jim’s actions had made him question their friendship, it was still hard to shake old habits. Bruce had a bear’s loyalty, and that was hard to lose. “Maybe this is all. Maybe he just wants to scare me a little. Maybe he feels betrayed by me, like I let him down. I can’t help but feel sometimes like it was me who ruined our friendship.”

But what stalker ever stopped at a few photos?

Violet still looked worried—but for him, not herself. “You did the right thing,” she said confidently, brushing her fingers soothingly through the hair at his temple. “He was in the wrong. You called him on it, and he faced the consequences. It sounds like he’s bitter and wants to bring you down with him.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he swore, his protective instincts flaring. “He never should have brought you into this. He won’t lay a finger on you.”

“I believe you,” she whispered, and something shone in her eyes.

Caught up in the moment, he kissed her. It felt like forever since he’d tasted her lips—he had kissed her a few hours before, but it already felt like forever ago.

He drank in her returning kiss like she was an oasis in a desert, like a parched traveler seeking water.

She kissed him back eagerly, her mouth soft and pliant under his. Even in her kiss he could feel the blood thrumming under her skin, a hummingbird’s beat of anxiety and dread, and he vowed to make it disappear . . . even if it took all night.

Hungrily he probed her mouth with his tongue, and felt her moan in response. She shifted, the pleasant weight of her body pressing against him as she opened her mouth and returned his kiss passionately.

He cupped her face in one hand gently. He was acutely aware of how fragile she seemed, how much she needed protection. Jim wanted to hurt her, or at least frighten her badly—and through her, he wanted to get to Bruce.

Brushing his thumb over her cheekbone, Bruce resolved that he would never let that happen. Her hands rose to brush through his hair, making his skin tingle. He breathed in her scent, fresh and lemony and uniquely Violet. When he kissed her neck she sighed, and he knew she wanted him too.

He wanted to touch her everywhere; he
needed
to. His hands roamed over her body, over the flimsy fabric that covered her and over her dark skin. Her dress was in the way; as his lips explored her throat, he pushed down the straps of her dress to reveal more of her beautiful, warm skin. He pushed aside the bra confining her.

Her generous breasts were bare and enticing. He cupped them, reveling in how they filled his palms. As he rolled her nipples between his fingers and pinched them lightly, she gasped. The sound filled his ears until it was all he could think about. He was already hard; he could take her right now.

But not yet.

She guided his head down until his mouth traveled to one nipple, taking it between his lips and sucking. Her fingers tightened in his hair and she moaned.

He paid the same careful attention to her other breast, until she was squirming on the bed next to him and panting with arousal. One of his hands roamed her back, searching for skin to touch and stroke.

Her dress was in the way again. Standing up, she wiggled out of it, her curvy body moving enticingly, until the dress puddled at her feet. Clad only in panties, she looked suddenly shy as she gazed down at him.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he told her honestly, and she smiled in surprise. He held her hips and pressed a kiss to her gently round belly.

She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties—there was lacy edging; had she wanted him to see them? The thought was intoxicating—and tugged them down until they fell to the floor too.

He slipped his hand between her legs, making her moan again. She was hot and slippery, ready for him. With a finger he parted her slick folds and explored her. He traced the edges of her skin lightly, swirled a fingertip around her tight entrance, and sought out her nub of pleasure. He wanted to draw this out; he wanted to make her scream for him.

Violet steadied herself by gripping his shoulders hard. With every touch he slowly drew her closer to the edge. Her eyes half-closed in pleasure and her lips parted.

Her hips swayed, and she unbalanced. Bruce caught her gently. “I don’t think I can keep standing,” she said breathlessly with a giggle.

“Then don’t.”

They traded places—her on the bed, him in front of her. Her thighs parted, as if in tentative invitation. Bruce kneeled between them and took in the sight: her pussy slickened with her juices. He could feel how much she wanted him.

He dipped his head, tracing her folds with his tongue, and took the same path that his fingers had. The salty-sweet taste of her was entrancing. He explored her entrance, pushing his tongue just inside until she gasped. Then he sucked her nub into his mouth and played with it, stroking and rubbing and licking. He found out what she liked and worked her over until the muscles in her body began to tighten tellingly.

She was close to the edge. He lightened his touch, and she moaned in protest, tugging at his hair. His cock ached; he rubbed his palm over the hard line in his jeans. But it wasn’t enough; he needed to be inside her.

Violet felt the same. When he rose and unzipped his pants, his hard length sprang out, and she reached for him.

Her hand clasped around his cock and stroked gently. Her touch threw gasoline on the blaze of the fire within him. Gently she guided him between her legs and pressed the tip of him against her entrance.

With a groan he sank into her wet heat. She was all around him, engulfing him, wrapping her arms around his back. United, they moved together, the urgency building between them and threatening to spill over. With each thrust her hips rose to meet his; she was just as lost as he was.

Her nails dug into his back when she came, arching hard and squeezing him so tight he practically saw stars. Her body quivered beneath him. He thrust again, and heard her whimper; that was it for him. His hips jerked as he hilted himself in her and came in a warm rush of perfect pleasure.

He lay behind her and pulled her close against him, whispering soft reassurances into her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you. I love you.”

Violet tucked her hand into his as he wrapped himself around her. Her short, curvy frame was dwarfed by his larger one; the sight of her tucked up against him ignited a protective instinct he didn’t know he had in him. He thought he heard her whisper a response before they both fell asleep.

Chapter Nine

Violet

Violet fingered the earring threaded through her ear. Normally she didn’t wear a lot of jewelry—at least not since she’d sold everything non-necessary in order to pay the bills. But she was accompanying Bruce to a charity dinner tonight, and for the first time in a long time she got to pamper herself a little and dress up—with a little help from Bruce’s personal shopper. She had been surprised to find he had one at all, until he explained how little he cared about fancy clothes despite his job, and then it made perfect sense.

The dangly gold earrings were just the tip of the iceberg. Her hair had been curled and pulled back into an up-do that was elegant and timeless, yet simple; a few locks framed her face and brushed her shoulders. Her dress was a dainty shade of lavender, cut in an A-line dress that fell to the floor, hiding the golden slippers underneath.

Violet fingered the organza as she eyed herself in the mirror. The dress was so feminine and frankly
pretty
; she hadn't worn anything like it in so long. Maybe not since prom, she reflected wryly. Her life had been mired in practicality and business for a while. She almost hadn't recognized herself in the mirror.

I wonder what Bruce will think of it?

A smile played over her lips as she considered the question. Picking up the skirt, she twirled around and looked over her shoulder. The dress floated like a dream, and the light color accented her dark skin in a flattering way.

I love you
, Bruce had said the night before.
I won't let anything happen to you
.

Violet had been on the receiving end of such promises before. Yet she believed Bruce; there was absolute sincerity in the way he looked at her. Maybe their relationship had started as a farce, but along the way it had developed into something real.

She couldn't wait to make her entrance in this dress, and watch Bruce's reaction—not to mention see
him
in a well-cut tux—so her apprehension came from somewhere else.

This was new territory. It was one thing to meet each other's families; it was another to attend a formal business function. Bruce had taught her the basics of dinner etiquette—how many forks she would need to use that evening, she didn't know, but she'd dutifully memorized the varieties—but she still felt out of place, a strange trespasser in the land of the rich.

But there wasn't anything else she could do, she supposed. She was as prepared as she was ever going to be.

She grabbed the clutch recommended for this dress and made her way downstairs.

Most of the house's beauty lay in its simplicity and natural feeling. Bruce's one indulgence was a grand staircase carved in dark wood at the center of the house. The first few times she'd taken it, she had done so shyly. It seemed like a staircase fit more for royalty than everyday use.

But tonight, she appreciated its effect.

Violet kept one newly manicured hand on the railing; it would be just like her to trip and ruin a moment like this, even without high heels. She padded down the staircase.

At first Bruce's back was to her; he was on the phone with someone. Then he heard her footsteps and turned.

He trailed off mid-word. For a few moments he was simply silent, staring at her with wide eyes. Violet tried to hide a smile and failed.

"I—uh—I'm going to have to call you back," he stammered to whoever it was on the other end of the line. He nearly fumbled the phone before managing to hang up.

Violet reached the bottom of the stairs and bit her lip shyly.

Bruce visibly swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Wow," he said finally. "Wow."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Very eloquent of you."

He took her hand, twining their fingers together. With his other hand he cupped her face. "Sorry I'm not Edgar Allen Poe."

"I'm not," she said mischievously. "Didn't he write a bunch of horror stories?"

"Did he? See, I don't know anything about poetry. That's the only poet I know by name." He kissed her—a slow, lingering kiss that sent a thrill from the top of her head down to the tips of her pedicured toes.

Wistfully she wished they didn't have to go out. They could stay inside, build a fire, and have an intimate dinner together. But wifely duty called. They both broke the kiss reluctantly.

She wiped a smudge off his lower lip. "I think I got something on you. Is my lipstick okay?"

"Your
everything
is okay. More than okay," he said fervently. "I was joking about not being a poet, but you look incredible. Gorgeous. Amazing."

"Sounds like you can be pretty eloquent, with the right motivation," she teased. "You don't look so bad yourself." And he didn't; the tux was tailored to fit him perfectly and framed his broad shoulders so well she wanted to run her hands over them.

He tugged at his cuffs in a clear gesture of discomfort. "I always feel like a pig in a costume at these things," he confessed. "As if one day they're going to figure out I'm some kind of fraud and that I don't really belong there with them."

The sentiment expressed her own feelings so perfectly she was stunned for a second. Then her face softened into a smile. "That's just how I was feeling upstairs. You know, it sounds weird, but knowing you feel the same way makes me feel a bit better."

Bruce squeezed her hand, reassuring her or him or the both of them. "We'll have each other to lean on. I'm glad I have you."

They were almost late for the charity dinner-cum-ball, but neither of them minded. Despite her anxieties, Violet found it easier than she had expected to mingle and make small talk with the other guests. Drinks, the best social lubricant, came first, and would be followed by dinner and dancing.

Wanda was there, too, which helped immensely. She looked just as dolled-up as Violet in a turquoise empire dress with orange accents. Violet grabbed her as soon as she saw her.

"I'm so glad someone I know is here," said Violet in a low undertone when they had a moment alone.

Wanda shot her a wry look, one finger still tapping away at her phone even though she wasn't looking at it. She was a woman of many talents. "I know just what you mean."

"You don’t have fun at these things? God, if this was part of my job …" She couldn't imagine getting dressed up like a princess and rubbing elbows with the rich all the time.

"
You
have a hot date and no work responsibilities," Wanda pointed out. "I've set up two meetings and have to feel out a potential investor tonight."

"Fair enough. I guess if this were my job, I might get tired of it fast." Privately, Violet couldn't imagine that happening.

"It's not all grinding for work." Wanda flashed a mischievous smile. "See the hot bartender?"

"I see the
young
bartender."

"We chatted a bit earlier. He's bartending to put himself through grad school. And he keeps looking at me," she said in a sing-song voice. "I think this night is going to end very nicely."

They were still giggling when Bruce returned with three glasses. "Champagne for my favorite ladies," he said gallantly. "Do I want to know what's so funny?"

They traded looks. A giggle squeaked out of Violet despite her efforts. "Probably not."

Bruce took her to meet several of his business acquaintances, all of whom seemed to eye her with some curiosity. She supposed she couldn't blame them; Bruce had been single for a long time, and then she had blazed into his life like a whirlwind—or so it appeared to everyone else—but it was still discomfiting.

"Miranda Cho, this is my wife Violet. Violet, Miranda is a Vice-President for Stockard Manufacturing. They make a lot of the parts used in our designs."

They traded pleasantries for a few minutes. Violet cast about for something to say so she wouldn't seem totally clueless. She had read an article recently that discussed how most American factory jobs had been sent overseas. "So does your company outsource your labor?" she hazarded.

Judging by the way Bruce choked on his drink, it was the wrong thing to say.
I've said something horribly embarrassing
, Violet thought in a panic.

But instead of becoming offended, Miranda's demeanor changed from reserved politeness to amusement. "You don't beat around the bush. I didn't think you were the trophy-wife type, Bruce, and I'm glad I was right. To answer your question, no, we don't outsource. We're employee-owned, in fact, and all of our materials and labor are American right down to the bone. It was one of Bruce's conditions of working with us when he first began."

"That's good to hear," Violet said faintly, over the sound of blood rushing in her ears.

Though she was smiling, Miranda patted her on the arm, not without sympathy. "These parties aren't my favorite thing, but I think I like you, Violet. If you need anything, please let me know."

Sure thing
, Violet thought as Miranda whisked herself away to parts unknown.

"I hope I didn't mess up any business deals for you," said Violet when she was sure she could speak again.

Bruce choked back a laugh. "Actually, I think that's the friendliest I've ever seen her. How about we take a break from socializing? Would you like to dance?"

The dance floor was lit and beginning to amass a population. Music had begun playing in the background: soft classical, perfect for a gentle, elegant dance like the waltz. Trouble was, Violet had no idea how to waltz.

"Don't worry," said Bruce. "Just follow me."

It turned out a basic box step wasn't too complicated. And it didn't hurt that Bruce was the perfect partner: gentle, patient, and endlessly forgiving of any missteps. Soon they were whirling around the ballroom with the other couples with, Violet thought, just as much grace.

Their dance inscribed a wide arc across the floor, but all of their attention was focused on each other. Their clasped hands and his hand on her waist created a space between them like an intimate, magical world that was all their own.

Bruce knew perfectly how to lead her with just the press of a hand or the angle of his body. When he intended for her to twirl, she knew it, and laughed with a spontaneous joy at the pleasure of it. And when she returned to him, he claimed her with a kiss—it was nothing improper, just a brief brush of the lips, but she relished the romance and possessiveness of the gesture.

When they broke apart, she leaned into his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered in his ear.

"I love you, too," he murmured, his hand tightening on her. "God, I can't even tell you how much."

The dance ended, and Violet's eyes wandered around the hall. Her gaze snagged on a dark figure at the perimeter—one of the caterers, judging by the uniform he was wearing. Their gazes met, his intense and almost—angry? Violet felt boggled. But then the emotion disappeared from his face, and she thought she must have imagined it. She shook her head to clear it.

"Is something wrong?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing." But Violet couldn't shake the unsettled feeling in her gut. "There was just a guy staring at me."

He chuckled. "I can't blame him. You're a vision."

She frowned. "No, it was more like … I don't know how to describe it. Maybe I was imagining it."

"What does he look like?" Bruce glanced back over his shoulder at where she had been looking.

Violet scanned the area where she had seen him; he had disappeared. "He's gone now. See, I thought it was nothing." She had to laugh at herself.

Bruce shot her a quick smile. "Well, if he turns up again, I promise to scare him away." He gestured to where the tables had been set up, where people were beginning to congregate. "I think it's time for dinner to start."

Thankfully, they had been seated with Wanda and Miranda, among a few others whose names Violet couldn't remember but easily made polite small talk with. It was a full five-course meal in French cuisine. She kept an eye out for the strange catering lurker, but didn't see him again, and the knot of tension in her belly gradually eased until she had dismissed him entirely.

The main course was halibut
en papillote
with asparagus and lemon, paired with a crisp
sauvignon blanc
. Everyone cut the parchment packets open at the table, and there was a collective deep breath and sigh as the aromatic steam billowed out.

Even though it seemed more complicated than a typical weeknight dinner, Violet thought it was one of the best meals she'd ever had and wondered if Bruce might show her how to cook it. The fish was dense and tasted clean and mild, and the asparagus were tender-crisp and garlicky.

Halfway through the meal, Violet was already feeling full. The sensation conspired with the warm atmosphere to make her suddenly a little tired.
How do people make it all the way through these things
, she wondered. She felt like she might need a nap before tackling dessert.

She touched Bruce gently on the arm. "I'll be back in a moment."

"I'll come with you," offered Wanda. "We can powder our noses."