Chapter 1
Lizzy
There was so much of me that I’d buried. I wasn’t sure who or what I was anymore.
*
It was my favourite day of the week – Thursday, which meant the book club was
meeting. I would be surrounded by people who were old enough to know better, but
too old to care. After the previous years that I’d gone through and just about
survived, I felt liberated in their company, even if outwardly I hid behind the persona
I’d created for my protection.
“Lizzy, when did you say we can start reading that Shades of Grey book?”
Michael asked. He walked on two sticks and had a hearing aid, but still thought he
was some sort of Casanova.
It probably wasn’t professional of me, but I laughed at his question. “If you
think I’m reading out loud a single word of Fifty Shades of Grey to you lot, you’ve
underestimated me. I’m not such a pushover and this is a civilised book club. I’m
afraid you’ll have to start up a different type of club if you want to read those kinds of
books.” There were mutters around the room and I shook my head at them. “You do
know the next village from here housed one of the greatest names in English
literature, don’t you? She would spin in her grave if we read something like that!” It
was a rhetorical question. They were all fully aware of their esteemed neighbour.
“If Jane Austen had thought she could get away with it, I’m sure she would
have put some steam in her own books,” Edith said. She was the lady who sat
knitting socks during the sessions, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. Obviously, she
wasn’t one for shying away from a raunchier book choice.
“Do you not think the subtleties of the courtships Jane Austen created are far
more appealing than the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, you get in books like Fifty
Shades?” I appealed to them. Deep down, I knew I was on a losing battle; they’d
been asking to read it for months, even though it had been out for years, and they
could have borrowed it from the book swap, as we didn’t stock it for sale in the shop.
I had the awful feeling I was going to have to give in to them, just to shut them up. If I
ever did, there was no way on this earth I would be reading excerpts aloud. I wasn’t
being responsible for an increase in the blood pressure of the whole of my aged
group.
“At our age, love, you can’t wait around to plough your way through niceties
and subtleties, you might be dead before you get to the juicy bits. Give me wham,
bam, every day. Most of us are on borrowed time as it is. We might as well go out
with a smile on our face,” Mildred cackled.
The room broke down into guffaws, nods of agreement or smaller
conversations, some of which I was sure I didn’t want to hear; sometimes the term
too much information, really was the case. I didn’t think my ears would ever recover
when they started talking about where to get butt plugs from. I was no longer sure
that most of them lived in a nursing home; I think they were living in some sordid den
of iniquity.
I knew I’d lost them for the day, but I wasn’t worried about it. In the main part
of the sessions, we concentrated on whichever book we were looking at; it was only
the last fifteen minutes of the time that descended into anarchy. It was as if they had
to be completely outrageous before returning to their civilised, middle-class
Hampshire lives.
“Right, you rebellious lot. You can read three chapters for next week,” I called
out over the hubbub of noise. “Our time is up for today.”
I stood and started to collect cups and plates of crumbs, all that was left of the
numerous packets of biscuits that had been devoured. A few women from the group
joined in to help, but the men were content to sit until the last moment, when the
minibus would collect most of the group and return them to their homes, whether
residential or independent living, throughout the wider Alton area.
Jean, by far my favourite attendee, was the last to leave the room after the
others had finally said their goodbyes and left us. She always insisted on helping to
wipe down the tables we used. “My nephew, well, great-nephew really, but that
makes me sound old, although I suppose being a ‘great’ aunt isn’t a bad thing really,
is over to visit. He’s coming to pick me up. I’d like you to meet him, he’s on holiday
here from America.”
“Is he staying with you?”
“Yes. He’s using my house as a base to go exploring. He used to come over
for the school holidays and he went to university at Bath, but he’s not been over for
years. He spent a lot of time in the military, which meant he spent all his leave at
home. Understandable, but I missed seeing him. I’m glad he came home unhurt and
is having some time off before he decides what to do next.”
I knew that Jean had no children and looked on her nephew as a substitute
son. Now that she was a widow, there was no one else in England who belonged to
her, and I think I was drawn to her because we were both alone. She mentioned the
nephew every week, and I knew he was coming, but it was pretty standard for the
older ones to repeat stories to me. Some of the other workers in the shop got
frustrated with the repetition, but I didn’t mind; it was all part of their charm.
I know we were a business, but we didn’t make a massive profit. Ours was a
co-operative, a second-hand bookshop with a difference. People could come in, take
a book and leave a donation. They could also drop off books that they’d finished.
There was a limit of four books per day, and that seemed to work well. We also
hosted events such as the book club and author sessions, which were well-received,
as the authors often provided us with a bundle of their books, even though they
wouldn’t make any money from them. We sold some of the more specialised books
online, very often for a decent price. There is always someone for every book. It was
a perfect set-up in my opinion.
We both walked out of the back room in the rear of the shop and across to the
desk. The main part of the shop looked like any other bookshop, for it was a
substantial space. A man stood with his back to us in the reception area, but I
immediately recognised him as a military man. Cropped hair, muscles on muscles,
tight T-shirt and jeans, all impeccable and screaming of someone who had been
trained to take care of his belongings. Oh, and kill, I thought wryly. Let’s not get
carried away and think the military is all sunshine and roses.
“Charlie! Yoo-hoo!” Jean said, waving, even though her nephew faced away
from her.
The stranger turned and I admit to faltering for a second or two. He was
gorgeous to look at – think chiselled good looks and the most unusual amber eyes I
had ever seen. Being distracted by his smack-you-in-the-face good looks, and
feeling a pull I hadn’t felt in a very long time, I hadn’t noticed the heavily tattooed
arms when he’d been looking at the books. I gazed at his features like a schoolgirl
with a crush, which was a massive surprise to me, as I thought I’d managed to
control any feelings which could put me at risk of becoming involved with people,
especially handsome men. Thankfully, before I could get carried away with myself,
the tattoos caught my attention when he stepped towards us. There was barely an
uncovered patch of skin on his arms, and there was something on his neck that went
underneath his T-shirt.
I have to admit that I hate tattoos, but I have a good reason for my strong
feelings. I can acknowledge that some of them are works of art; some are so intricate
they should be in an art gallery, but I don’t like them near me. Too often, tattooed
arms had pressed me down, or been shoved in my face so that all I could see was
the differing colours of ink almost swirling in front of my vision as I struggled to
breathe before I fainted, the tattoos being the last thing I saw before
unconsciousness took over. Just the memory made my breathing more panicky and
shallower and I took a step back as the fear the images stirred made me want to run.
I struggled to control myself and cursed inwardly that even after a year of having
escaped Dave, he could still affect me. I hated that he still wielded control.
Those strange amber eyes I’d noticed had watched us as we’d approached,
and I was convinced he’d guessed some of the discomfort I’d felt when seeing his
artwork by the flicker of slight annoyance and possibly defensiveness in his
expression. I was sorry that he wouldn’t understand my reaction to him, but there
was no way I was explaining to anyone what memories they brought back or the
reason for my fears. The sooner I repressed them once more, the better, or the
nightmares would return that night for certain. I smiled at him, trying to pretend I was
just your average second-hand bookseller. When I didn’t look at his ink, he was a
fine specimen indeed. I couldn’t help but notice how stunningly handsome he was,
and those eyes were incredible. I might be off men entirely because of self-
preservation, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t admire one who looked so spectacular.
“Charlie, this is Lizzy Elliott. She’s the one I told you about, keeps us all in
order every Thursday. Lizzy, this is my gorgeous nephew, Charlie Harker,” Jean said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, I think they manage to run riot whether I’m there
or not. Hello. Welcome to the area, I’ve heard all about you,” I said, extending my
hand in greeting.
Charlie wrapped my hand in his paw. I couldn’t describe it as anything else.
My hand was enveloped in something which made me feel small. It wasn’t a feeling I
was used to and I have to admit it wasn’t unpleasant. His handshake was firm and
assured. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
I didn’t know whether the tingles were caused by the deep rumble of his voice
or the effect of my hand being swallowed in his. I looked into those eyes and, for the
first time in years, felt a real tug of attraction — a longing to get to know someone. It
was intense, unexpected, and unwelcome, yet swirled in the pit of my stomach.
Trying to push aside the sensation, because that was not a feeling to encourage in
the slightest, I smiled at him, but he frowned, so I suppose he noticed my confusion.
Damn my face, which betrayed my innermost thoughts and feelings. You’d think after
everything which had happened, I would have learned to hide my emotions more,
but apparently not.
“Doesn’t being referred to as ‘ma’am’ always make you feel old?” Jean asked
me, seemingly oblivious to the slight tension between me and her nephew. “She’s a
Ms, but that always sounds ridiculous. In my day, you were either a Miss or a Mrs;
there was none of this in-between stage.” She had aimed her last comment at
Charlie.
I felt my cheeks flush. “Lizzy is fine. There’s no need to stick to formalities. It
was nice to meet you. I hope you have a good holiday. See you next week, Jean.” I
walked away from the pair, knowing without a doubt that those appealing eyes were
watching me. It wasn’t vanity on my part; I didn’t portray anything but a middle-aged
single woman. If you could have drawn the archetypal unmarried librarian from some
Agatha Christie novel, you would have seen me in the picture. He was probably
watching me, thinking that I was an innocent, never been kissed, easily shockable
rustic, and I was happy with that. My persona had to remain firmly in place if I was to
be content and safe and those two things mattered more to me than the admiration
of a truly gorgeous man. If you painted the perfect man, you would find a lot of
similarities between the painting and him, apart from the tattoos, of course, and my
aversion wasn’t caused by him, just my blasted past.
Briefly thinking of Dave again, I wondered if there was a piece of paper large
enough to compile all of Dave’s faults, but I gritted my teeth. I was supposed to be
concentrating on not thinking of him, but sometimes it was difficult when someone
had had such a profound influence on your life, even in an indirect way, and still did.
One day, I was determined to be completely free. I just had to take one step at
a time.
Chapter 2
Charlie
I had been amused at the reaction I’d caused in the small, quiet town store, in fact,
the whole of the town since I’d arrived earlier. I had spent a substantial amount of
time with Aunt Jean when I was a lot younger, but now, fully grown and inked up,
with a body one didn’t tend to see on the streets of Alton, I’d found the experience of
walking along the high street entertaining. I’d received open stares from the locals
and a few of the women had ogled me without shame, something I wasn’t going to
complain about. I am a red-blooded male after all.
This woman, Lizzy, had reacted differently, though; she’d almost withdrawn
from our encounter. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Jean, I was convinced she would have
turned away from me. It's funny that even in this day and age, people still feel
threatened by someone who is inked. I suppose it wasn’t a surprise, really. This
wasn’t some cosmopolitan city, and the woman looked like the typical bookworm
type: low-heeled shoes, a knee-length straight skirt, a plain blouse, and a cardigan.
With her mousey brown hair in a ponytail, there was nothing exceptional about her,
apart from her eyes; they were appealingly large and clear grey. It was probably why
I’d noticed her reaction so forcefully, the widening of already attractive eyes. If
pressed, I would have described her as mousey, but when we had shaken hands, I’d
felt a pulse of something between us. Strange that, although seemingly plain, when
you looked beyond her drab attire, she was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, but
definitely not my type, though there was a strange feeling inside me, which was at
odds with what I was thinking. My tiger seemed to agree as he started to preen
himself, ready for a show of prowess. That was strange in itself as he’d never taken
much notice of the women I usually paired up with.
Amusement at her discomfort soon took over from the annoyance I’d felt at
her look of disgust at my artwork. She confused me further when I sensed fear from
her. Was she afraid of tattoos? The fact that I was a military man? Or just men in
general? People’s opinions don’t usually bother me, but for some reason, hers did.
For the first time, I wanted the approval of a woman – a woman who looked ready to
run away from me.
Then Aunt Jean started talking and let out information that I bet Lizzy didn’t
want bandied about town. Trust Aunt Jean to tell everyone’s secrets whether they
liked it or not. I expect she’d done the same for me. In fact, I’d put money on it and I
wasn’t a gambling man. Miss Mousey was obviously a divorcee. Perhaps she’d
bored her husband away, I thought idly as I opened the door for my aunt and we left
the bookworm behind, but I got the distinct impression my tiger disagreed with me.
Strange, as he didn’t normally go for the plain Jane types, but there were definitely
rumblings of discontent as we left the shop and deep down I had to admit that for
some strange reason I was drawn to the woman who’d been afraid of me in some
way. I didn’t like sensing that feeling from her. I was a protector by nature, but the tug
I’d felt towards her emphasised my feelings. I had the urge to remain behind and
question her as to how I could make her smile and remove her sense of unease. I
glanced back as we left the shop and was disappointed that I couldn’t see Lizzy; the
urge to see her again was almost overwhelming, which was very odd.
“I hope you are prepared for a wild night on the town tomorrow night. It can
get quite rowdy around here,” Aunt Jean said as we walked away from the
bookshop, thankfully distracting me from my musings.
“I’m ready for anything, Aunt,” I answered as I followed dutifully after my
ageing relative. A night on the town didn’t hold any appeal to me. I wanted the quiet
life more than most people would understand. Crowded places made me feel
uncomfortable; it was ridiculous, as most people would be intimidated by me at my
size and ability to protect myself, rather than the other way around. But after
spending as much time as I had patrolling areas where suicide bombers targeted
crowded areas, the apprehension when in busy places was hard to dismiss
completely. Added to this, my animal was often wary of strangers, which just
increased my apprehension. We had both seen too many things which couldn’t be
unseen and our nightmares were evidence of that.
I wasn’t going to try to explain any of that to Aunt Jean, though. If it made her
happy, I’d go along with whatever she wanted. I’d missed her in the years I’d not
managed to get across the pond to visit. She was the person who had given me
more love and affection in one summer holiday than I’d received from my parents in
the preceding ten years.
I had felt like a starved child who had been given the keys to a chocolate
factory whenever I visited, and as my parents seemed as keen as I was to spend as
little time together as possible, it was easy to persuade them to send me to Aunt
Jean every year. Summer camps weren’t for me; the quiet English countryside and
my loving, full of character, great-aunt were far preferable.
I ducked as I entered Aunt Jean’s house. “The eighteenth-century builders
didn’t future-proof their houses,” I groaned, as I knocked my head on a low ceiling
beam.
“You weren’t small the last time you visited, so you should be used to it by
now,” Aunt Jean said with a shake of her head.
“It has been fourteen years.”
Aunt Jean’s face changed. “I know. Fourteen long years. Skype calls just
aren’t the same as seeing you in the flesh and being able to hug you.” She wrapped
her arms around me and sighed into my shoulder as I bent towards her. “I’m so
happy you’ve finally come home.”
I didn’t disagree with her words. This had been my home to all intents and
purposes. I’d contacted her every week when I was able; sometimes duties
prevented regular contact, but she had always been the one I would ring or video call
first. She had never been anything but welcoming and supportive towards me. “Your
calls kept me going,” I admitted. “Only you could provide me with humour in the
darkest days.”
“That was the least I could do. I could pray and cry myself to sleep as many
times as I needed to, but when you were on the phone, my aim was to put a smile on
your face.”
Kissing the top of her head, I let go of her. “I’m sorry I put you through so
much worry.”
“You were always destined for some dangerous job or other. You have an
innate desire to protect. A real surprise when you look at the parents you come
from.” Aunt Jean moved away and approached the kettle, filling it with water and
then switching it on. “I know she’s my niece, but I still don’t like her very much.”
Laughing, despite the fact that my aunt was criticising my mother, I started to
get cups out of the cupboard. It was soothing to know that everything was in the
same place; the chipped teapot still limped along, but provided the best tea this side
of the Atlantic, in my opinion. We took a tray into the cosy lounge and I set it down
on the coffee table before sitting myself down on one of her comfy wing-back chairs.
I would get my knuckles rapped if I attempted to pour the tea. It was a ritual my aunt
insisted on.
“It wasn’t always easy for them, being who I am,” I said, trying to focus
attention away from the rant which would always follow when Aunt Jean focused too
much on my parents. I agreed with her in many respects, but ultimately, it was
because nothing was ever going to change regarding my relationship with them, so it
wasn’t worth revisiting old ground. My shifter genes had skipped a generation, an
unusual but not unheard-of occurrence, but my parents struggled with how to cope
with a tiger shifter.
“I often hoped that if you did get hurt, it was something your animal could
heal,” Aunt Jean said.
“I did get a scrape or two and being a shifter certainly helped.”
“I won’t ask about them purely because of the fact you’ve never mentioned
them before and I refuse to worry about what’s already gone,” Aunt Jean said.
Instinctively, she knew I hadn’t come out unscathed, and I wouldn’t want to talk about
what had gone on. I appreciated her tact. Too much had happened that I couldn’t
avoid reliving in nightmares, but I didn’t want to dwell on it during the day.
“Good, because the sooner I forget about the last few years, the better.” The
military had used my talents to the full and it had added to the baggage and trauma
I’d returned home with. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever feel content or
completely happy again.
Aunt Jean reached across and squeezed my arm. “If you ever need to speak,
I am willing to listen,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine, honestly,” I lied. My animal growled deep inside and I rubbed my
chest surreptitiously. I wasn’t going to be open with my aunt; she worried enough,
and I appreciated her concern, but I didn’t want to add to her fretting by explaining
about my nightmares or panic in certain situations. That wouldn’t be fair to her. She
had already given me so much, I refused to ask for more, even though I knew she
would continue to give without hesitation. “I’ve had a proposition about a job,
actually, and I’m going to take it.”
“Oh? Tell me more. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re leaving too soon.” Aunt
Jean started to pour the tea and passed me a mug. There was no dainty china cup
for me and I was grateful for it. I had no idea how I would hold one of the tiny things
with the size of my hands; it would be like something out of Gulliver’s Travels.
“No, there’s no need to worry, I’m hanging around for a while. I’m insisting I
have some R’n’R before I start something new. You’ll remember Ben and Eddie from
my university days,” I explained. “I’m going into business with them.”
“Oh, I do. Lovely boys. Three shifters together? What are you going to be up
to?”
I smiled at her response. “There’s never anything but directness from you, is
there?”
“No point in being wishy-washy. It’s like we were trying to explain to Lizzy,
when you get to our age, you might as well go straight to the books on the top shelf.
Life’s definitely too short. I think Tinder is a prime example – one swipe and you’re
sorted,” Aunt Jean answered. Her eyes twinkled as she blew on her steaming cup of
tea.
Bursting out laughing and shaking my head, I felt lighter by just being with her,
as if the last years hadn’t happened and I was home from university. It was
something she’d clearly picked up on too, and looked pleased with herself. Perhaps
my old self was still there, just hidden behind the trauma of active service.
“I really don’t want to ask how you know about Tinder or the type of books
you’re referring to. That poor woman has probably nearly had a heart attack if that’s
what you talk about in your book club. I doubt she’s ever heard of half of what you
say,” I responded.
“Have you never heard the saying, don’t judge a book by its cover? Our little
Lizzy is not as placid or demure as she tries to appear.”
“Anyway, to get back to the point,” I said, probably wishing as little as Lizzy
had to continue a conversation about anything to do with sex with my elderly aunt.
“We’re setting up a private investigation company. We thought we might as well use
our abilities for good.”
“Is that not dangerous? Doing a job which hasn’t got the backup of being with
the police, or other official organisation?”
“No. We’ll probably end up looking for lost dogs and other items. After
spending a couple of weeks with you, I’ll be heading off to meet the other guys.
We’re going to base ourselves just outside London,” I explained. I was pleased to
notice the sparkle of delight in my aunt’s eyes. “Yes, I will be visiting regularly.
Probably every time I’m not working.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Aunt Jean huffed but softened when she saw
the look of surprise on my face. “I don’t want you running up and down the motorway
every spare minute you have. You can jolly well join Tinder and meet a girl to settle
down with. I’ve a longing to be a great-great-aunt, a bit like New York, New York, so
good they named it twice.”
“I think you might have to wait a long time. I’m not sure I want to bring any
children into this messed-up world.”
“And what does your beast say about that?” Aunt Jean asked.
I groaned. “He’s in cahoots with you, longing for a mate.”
“It’s not natural for any of us to go through life alone.”
“There aren’t many women who are willing to take a shifter on, let alone a
tiger one. Which limits my options for anything long-term.” It was true, there were few
tiger shifters around and many people when they found out the truth backed away
quick-smart. Wolf shifters seemed to be far more accepted than some of the bigger
animals. A pity one had no choice over which animal you were, I thought grimly.
Being a tiger shifter hadn’t been the easiest to deal with, especially around the age
of puberty.
“When you meet the right one, it won’t matter to her what you are,” Aunt Jean
said. “I loved Ronnie’s bear almost as much as I loved him,” she said of her long-
deceased husband.
“He was very lucky to have found you,” I said. I had turned to Ronnie when
my animal had developed. My parents had been horrified that I’d been a shifter in the
first place, then adding a tiger in the mix, and they were really unhappy. “Ronnie was
a godsend to me and very patient.”
“And you will be to your children when the time comes.”
“Unlike my father.”
“Let’s not spoil the evening talking about him,” Aunt Jean said, unusual as it
was customary for her to enjoy going over my parents’ faults. Perhaps she was more
worried about me than I’d thought and didn’t want to upset me in any way. It was a
little concerning that she could see beneath my façade as I worked hard to display a
persona which seemed normal and at peace with the world. In reality, all I wanted to
do was put the last decade or so well and truly behind me. I’d discovered through
bitter experience that sometimes it was best to leave things be. ...
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