Shifter in Paradise

Praise for Susan Kearney

Kearney is a master storyteller.

—Virginia Henley, New York Times bestselling author

Susan Kearney is a gifted storyteller with carefully woven plots and refreshing characterization. Her style is crisp, and keeps her readers hungrily turning the pages.

—Tampa Tribune

From the first page, Kearney captures the reader.

—Affaire de Coeur

The Novels of Susan Kearney from Bell Bridge Books:

Kiss Me Deadly

Dancing with Fire

The Challenge (Rystani Warrior 1)

The Dare (Rystani Warrior 2)

The Ultimatum (Rystani Warrior 3)

The Quest (Rystani Warrior 4)

Lunar Heat (The Heat Series 1)

Solar Heat (The Heat Series 2)

Shifter in Paradise

by

Susan Kearney

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-812-7

Print ISBN: ISBN: 978-1-61194-409-9

Formerly Devil in Paradise

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 by Hair Express

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published by Berkley Publishing Group in the anthology Unleashed as "Beyond Limits" in 2006

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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Cover design: Tara Adkins

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Man (manipulated) © Vojtechvlk.com | DepositPhotos.com

Seascape (manipulated) © Rcpphoto | Dreamstime.com

:Epaq:01:

Dedication

This is for Michael Greenwell. A big thank you for shooting and doing the technical work on most of my book videos and also for the interview in space. You’re great!

One

NEVER BEFORE had Ian Gordon shot Samantha Bessinger a devilish, peel-off-the-panty-hose smile. Why don’t you take the copilot seat, Samantha?

What had gotten into Ian? His suggestion to sit up front in her plane’s cockpit right next to him floored her. Intrigued her.

Samantha gave him a thorough second look. Since when did her pilot exude pure male magnetism that sparkled like fine champagne? Maybe he’d been drinking. But his speech was crisp, his smoldering, dark blue eyes clear as he met her gaze, his expression both burning and compelling.

Wow. Double wow. She’d known her pilot for more than a year, and she’d never reacted to one of his smiles with a zing of pure female interest.

Strange how her normally reserved and businesslike employee called her Samantha—not Ms. Bessinger. Funny how an invite to sit in the cockpit and one suggestive smile had made her suddenly aware of his devastating eyes. Never before had he sent interested signals—not when he’d flown her to Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, or LA. Even the night the two of them had been grounded during a thunderstorm, his conduct had remained formal and respectful. Yet this invitation had sounded as if he were asking her on a date, his demeanor playful, his smile hot.

And every cell in her body wanted to sidle closer, even if she got burned. The idea of taking him up on the invite was inappropriate.

Oh really?

Since when had hot become inappropriate? Since when had sitting next to a sexy and interested man become wrong?

My God. Had she become so conditioned . . . so caught up in what was businesslike that she no longer responded to the signals of her own body? Her nerves jangled like a teenager’s, and her pulse accelerated. Strangely flattered by his interest, she forced her lips into a smile. And in the typical fashion that amazed her competitors and contributed to her success, Samantha altered her plans. Work could wait.

Putting her briefcase behind the copilot’s seat, Samantha gazed back at Ian, wondering if she still remembered how to flirt. Thanks for the offer.

He gestured to the empty seat. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of coffee?

Thanks. Black, please.

He handed her an empty mug and poured steaming coffee from a stainless steel thermos. Since when had Ian cornered the market on virility? The delicious aroma filled the cabin, and her mouth watered—but it wasn’t the coffee she was thinking about tasting.

Nevertheless, she settled for the hot java and took a bracing sip. Ah, caffeine kicked in and revved her exhausted motor. It’s good.

The glimmer in his eyes as he gazed at her with keen appreciation suggested he’d like to offer her more than coffee, making her glad she’d taken extra care with her makeup this morning. Wearing her custom Armani suit that matched the Gucci pumps and bag she’d picked up at Saks, and sporting the new haircut she’d just gotten from the brand-new stylist she’d found on Forty-second Street, who had done wonders with her baby-fine hair, Samantha looked her best. The glamorous cut softened her jawline, and the new honey color brought out her brown eyes. Her dad would say she looked like a million bucks. But, of course, Samantha was worth much more.

And wealth made her a target. A target for the paparazzi. A target for scam artists. A target for men on the make. But she reminded herself that the shields she’d put up for her own protection were also shields she could pull down when the occasion warranted it.

As she sipped her coffee and Ian completed his preflight check, she recalled a time when she hadn’t been suspicious of a hot smile and a charming man’s interest, a time when coffee this good had been a luxury she couldn’t afford. She’d grown up poor, worked her way through college, and bought her first fixer-upper before she’d graduated. In the beginning, she’d done most of the renovations herself, sanding and painting, fixing plumbing and hanging curtains. Later, she’d had to deal with contractors and building inspectors—not an easy task for a woman, especially one so young. She supposed she’d begun erecting defensive walls then in order to make men take her seriously.

As Samantha had expanded into duplexes, then apartments, and finally New York City skyscrapers, she’d developed a tough exterior. She now owned a real estate enterprise that would soon rival Trump’s. Contractors no longer looked down their noses at her or assumed they could sell her cheap materials or shoddy workmanship. But somewhere along the way, regular workingmen had stopped asking her out. As she’d made the