Desired by the Dragon Read online

  Mid-life crisis at thirty-five? Quinn didn’t think so. He had finally put his life back on track.

  Quinn thought about the change that had come over his fiancée when he had told her he was quitting his job to paint full-time. He hadn’t bothered to tell her about the healthy savings account or the trust fund that would cushion his transition to artist. During the six months of their engagement, he had become more and more convinced that Drake Investments mattered more to her than he did.

  If either of his cousins had been bachelors, Cynthia would have pursued them instead. But Hugh and Edmund were happily mated and married. His cousins, like most dragons who wanted children, had married young. Since dragons-born were all male, they had found and transformed their virgin mates into fertile dragonesses and set to work to continue the Drake lineage.

  Quinn liked both Rachael and Emma, adored their kids, wished he had a mate and children. But he had let his own opportunity to marry a virgin slip past him long ago. These days females lost their virginity when they were teens, and he was well past the age where a girl of seventeen or eighteen or even younger had any attraction. So while he had every intention of someday marrying, he would never have children.

  Not that he had confessed to Cynthia that the Drakes were dragon shifters. Since her virginity had been only a distant memory when he met her, he had reasoned that she did not need to know. Only virgins could be transformed into dragonesses. Only dragonesses could bear a dragon’s child. Until recently, Cynthia had insisted that she had no interest in children. Since theirs would be a sterile union, he had decided to keep his heritage a secret.

  His parents had reluctantly accepted that their only child would be childless. Other than no grandchildren, they had entirely approved of Cynthia. The Fitzhughs traveled in the same circles as the Drakes. Cynthia was exactly the sort of svelte, blonde sophisticate that they thought added cachet to Quinn’s social presence.

  Her complete lack of animation had seemed at first like poise and good breeding. Quinn wondered if it was just that he bored her to stiff silence. She exuded as much gracious dignity in bed as she did everywhere else. For several months, he had wondered if he could bear an ice princess for the rest of his life. Fortunately, that threat had evaporated with his change of career.

  Quinn smiled ruefully. “She gave me back my ring, sir.” Threw it in his face, and was surprised when he caught it and put it in his pocket. Dragons were naturally acquisitive. And that ring had belonged to his great-great-grandmother. No marriage? No ring.

  “Don’t you care?” snapped Dad.

  Quinn shrugged. “Now that you mention it, sir, mostly I feel relieved. I was dreading having to tell Cynthia we’re dragons, and that we could never have a child – even if she changed her mind.”

  Anthony’s patrician face tightened. “If you had done your duty when you were in college,” he began.

  It was an old grievance. But Quinn had been unable to fall in love on command. “Water under the bridge, sir. Anyway, I could get lucky on West Haven.”

  Anthony brightened at this diversion. West Haven had been the summer quarters of four generations of Drakes. The island was populated almost entirely by sensitives. Quinn’s predicament would not seem so odd to a woman born and bred on West Haven. He was amused as his father calculated the odds that his son might find a virgin bride.

  “Maybe. But your place is here in Seattle, son, managing the Drake Bond Fund.”

  Quinn shook his head. He wasn’t even in charge of the Bond Department, just another analyst. It was almost funny how his pragmatic father could be so delusional where he was concerned. “No, sir. I’ve arranged to rent out my condo, taken a cottage in the colony, and booked the ferry for next Wednesday.”

  “You could stay at Shoreside,” Anthony objected.

  The Drake summer cottage was a rambling, three-story Victorian mansion built just outside of the town of Mystic Bay. It had been designed to display his great-grandparent’s wealth and prestige. He could not stay there, where the entire clan gathered at will all summer. He needed a studio. Time, space, and quiet for his art.

  “I will be happier at the colony,” Quinn said mildly.

  “We were going to start building your lodge this summer,” Anthony complained. “That project will have to be mothballed.”

  “Understood, sir.” The Drake land on West Haven had turned into a compound as Drakes built separate summer homes for their brides and family. No Cynthia. No lodge. However, he had a place in the Tidewater Artists’ Colony, which entitled him to free rent for six months. After that he was prepared to pay.

  “I’m sorry about the contractors, Dad, but I knew going in that ending my engagement was a deal-breaker.”

  Anthony looked sorrowful. “Your mother and I liked Cynthia. How can you be so cold-blooded about losing your ma-bride?”

  Probably because Cynthia was not his fated mate – scrub that – destined bride. “We grew apart,” he said lamely.

  “Do you have to leave now? What’s the rush? What about your mother?”

  “You can tell her if you wish, sir. Or I’ll do it when we have lunch tomorrow. I want to have at least three pieces ready for the Tidewater Art Fair in July. I’ve left it late as it is.” The Art Show was the centerpiece of the Fourth of July celebrations in Mystic Bay, and members of the Artists’ Colony were permitted to submit up to five pieces to the Fair.

  “You seem to have everything planned.”

  Quinn gazed at his father in surprise. Naturally he had a plan. Long-range planning was part of the Drake talent and why theirs was a wealthy and powerful clan. And why the Drakes had made as much of a success of their investment firm as their ancestors had of piracy and pillage. Nowadays, dragons were supposed to be civilized. That would be the day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mystic Bay, West Haven, Oregon, May

  Moira~

  “What do you mean Suffolk Green doesn’t come as a single tube?” Quinn shouted.

  Actually Moira’s most disgruntled and fussy customer had not raised his voice, but his dismay still reverberated in her shop like an icy north wind. Still made her entire body quiver. Which was utterly ridiculous. She was Fae. She didn’t do passion. She had thought all her emotional upheaval was behind her now that she was home. But Quinn set her off every time he came into her store. And he seemed to come every few days.

  “You can buy the entire range of Milton-Henshaw acrylics to obtain a tube of Suffolk Green, or you can mix your own,” she said patiently, indicating the large shrink-wrapped box Quinn was glaring at. “But you can’t buy it solo. Milton-Henshaw don’t make individual tubes of Suffolk Green.”

  Moira was becoming accustomed to her new clientele. Back in Seattle, the buyers of expensive art dressed in designer clothes. Gallery owners did too. In Mystic Bay, artists who shopped for paint and canvases were less fashion forward. The customers of Fairchild’s Art Supply tended to throw on something, anything, to cover their nakedness. Usually garments long past their best-before dates.

  And then there was Quinn. She didn’t know if that was his first or his last name. But it was the only one he used. It wasn’t so much his paint-impregnated jeans, or the stained blue smock that had never become acquainted with laundry soap. It wasn’t his black beard, which had morphed in the last four weeks from designer stubble to rat’s nest. Nor was it the unwashed hands with grimy nails rimmed with paint. She could have coped with that.

  It was the miasma of stale alcohol that clung to Quinn that infuriated her. She had seen this derelict’s work. He had genuine ability and vision. Strong talent. He was going to steal top prize the Tidewater Art Fair – if he didn’t implode first. Quinn wasn’t so much a train wreck, as a sidelined engine rusting out from lack of maintenance. He had so much potential, but his talent would eventually drown in a bottle.

  “I need to match my canvas,” he continued in that same urgent tone. “Why don’t they make Suffolk Green singles?”

  “Bec
ause it’s a new color they’re trying out,” Moira used her most bland voice. Years ago, her Aunt Robin Fairchild, who ran the Tidewater Inn and possessed decades of customer service experience, had counseled her never to engage with angry patrons. Normally maintaining her calm was effortless, as it was for any fairy, but Quinn had a way of getting under her skin.

  “But I need it now,” Quinn continued in that same wrathful voice. It had to be her imagination that blue flames flickered around his shaggy head and issued from his mouth. After only two months on the island, she was losing it.

  “Drop Milton-Henshaw an email and tell them how much you depend on it,” she advised courteously. “And in six months or so they may issue it in singles.”

  He growled.

  She froze. That was not allowed. She firmed her lips and prepared to tell her best customer to take his trade elsewhere. Because alcohol and dirt notwithstanding, Quinn bought all his art supplies from her, and paid cash on the spot every time. And he bought the best. Never quibbled at the premium she was forced to charge because everything had to be brought in from the mainland on the ferry. Never asked for credit. Which in any case she did not extend to starving artists.

  But Quinn must have realized that he had gone too far. He smiled at her. A winsome, seductive smile that robbed her of breath and made her nipples tingle. He was doing it on purpose too. She knew he had to be a sensitive of some sort. Aunt Robin did not offer space in the Tidewater Art Colony tonon-sensitives. Yet, try as she might, in the last month Moira had been unable to deduce what Quinn’s talent was. After today, she was guessing hunter.

  While she was recovering her power of speech he apologized. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild, I lost my temper.” Another panty-wetting smile. “But I need that Suffolk Green today.”

  “I could break this package and let you have that tube. But I would have to charge you –” She paused to calculate how much extra, “Four times the regular price of single tubes.”

  “Done,” he was almost purring. “And I’ll take a tube of Blue Twilight from that package as well.” He named a deep purplish-blue that he used to create depth in his shadowy forest scenes.

  “If you take three tubes, I’ll lower the premium to three times the price,” she responded quickly. She didn’t want to take advantage of this drink-soaked idiot. If he didn’t watch his money more carefully, he would never last the summer. Which would be a pity, as his paintings were extraordinary.

  Another big, satisfied, masculine smile. “Sold,” he said in exactly the tone one of her affluent former clients would have used to seal the purchase of multiple paintings by the same unknown artist. The tone that told her she had seriously underpriced said unknown’s work.

  Whatever he was, whoever he was, Quinn was playing her. But a deal was a deal. She shook the hand he was holding out to her. It was big and warm and sent heat racing through her normally cool veins.

  Goodness, he was wasting all that charm on her. His greenish-gold eyes ran over what she knew was her flushed face. Something glinted in their feral depths.

  By Morgana and Merlin, Quinn must be a hunter. That look confirmed it. Did Robin know? There were lots of predatory shifters on West Haven, but they never took up art. Never. Not enough challenge. No thrill of pursuit. But this hunter was pursuing her. Or he wanted her to think so.

  Her hand was still lost in the exhilarating clasp of his huge, dirty mitt. It had to be her imagination that his grip tightened fractionally as if to prevent her escape. She retrieved her hand, surprised to discover she still had her ring.

  “What is your third choice?” she asked.

  He bent over the box of Milton-Henshaw paints. She sighed. He would pick Crimson Lake or Titanium White or Marine Blue or Cadmium Light. The colors artists used to render the sunsets over the ocean. Reducing the number of readily salable colors.

  He frowned slightly. Tapped a metallic between pewter and gold that was never going to sell. “This one, please.” So she wasn’t going to regret this sale. At least not immediately.

  She rang the tubes up for him, slipped them into a plastic bag. Heard herself ask, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  His beard split to display a lot of sharp white teeth. “I’d like that. Here?” He looked around.

  Moira had a coffee maker in the back room. And a table with two chairs. Suddenly it seemed like folly to take him there. “I was offering to buy you a cup at the Bean,” she said hastily.

  “Sure. Best coffee on the island. Although I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell your aunt I said so.”

  The Tidewater Inn boasted the best restaurant on the island. Or in Mystic Bay. Since there was only one town on West Haven, it came to the same thing. The Bean and Bran was Mystic Bay’s best coffee shop and where the locals congregated rain or shine. It would spark gossip for her to be seen there with Quinn, but better gossip than a tête-à-tête alone with a hunter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Quinn~

  Things were definitely looking up. The fairy princess was opening the doors to the town castle for him. Summer residents and day-trippers weren’t precisely barred from the Bean, but after they bought their lattes and pastries, they could never find a free table. Whereas they could always get one down the street at the Wheel House. That was where Quinn usually bought his coffee – when he didn’t make his own.

  From the moment he had set eyes on Moira Fairchild, he had been consumed with lust. Not that he had done anything about it. The rules on West Haven were simple and strict. Don’t mess with the locals unless you were serious. That meant no putting any moves on the sweetest, prettiest fairy of them all. But he was beginning to think he would have to defy the rules.

  He knew Moira was a fairy because all the Fairchilds were Fae. The first settlers on West Haven and the founders of the town of Mystic Bay had been Fairchilds. Theirs was not a prolific family, any more than his own was, but there were Fairchilds sprinkled over the island like flowers in a meadow. And the present mayor of Mystic Bay was Moira’s cousin, Robin Fairchild, who was the originator and sponsor of the Tidewater Art Fair as well as his landlady.

  Moira Fairchild was little. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals to disguise the fact. That brought her about level with his heart. A good height. At least it suited her. She was built on lush lines, a pint-sized Mae West, with huge eyes set in a heart-shaped face, and plump pink lips. In fact, she was plump all over. She looked kissable. Huggable. Beddable.

  Her bright eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes as gray as the sea on a cloudy day. Her hair was a silvery shade of blonde that looked too pale to be real, but probably was. Unless all the Fairchilds, young and old, used the same brand of hair dye.

  He had looked Moira up on the internet when he first started to do business with her. She was a native of West Haven, although for the last seven years she had been running a couple of art galleries in Seattle and Portland. Fairchild’s had recently closed its gallery doors, and she had retreated to her childhood home and opened a much-needed art supply store.

  He guessed that she was around his age. Perhaps a little younger. Normally he would have avoided an islander no matter how much she turned his crank. But Moira was no innocent. She had lived and worked and owned prosperous businesses in the two biggest cities in the northwest. If she was looking for a little dalliance, he could handle that. There was no point hoping for marriage. On West Haven, the Fae didn’t lower themselves to marry hunters.

  At his age, even if he couldn’t expect dragonlings, he should be looking for a bride. And he should be immune to the sort of enchantment this fairy was using on him. Either Moira Fairchild was more powerful than she looked, or he was more susceptible. Because he was completely enthralled. He was going to have to get her out of his system, even if she broke his heart.

  On the other hand, his disguise seemed to be holding. Madame Mayoress knew who he was, of course. He had had to divulge his name when he applied for a place in her Art Colony. But he p
referred to keep his connection to the Drakes of Shoreside to himself.

  If he was going to disoblige his family by becoming a full-time painter, he had better have the excuse of talent. However, he didn’t want his family name to be the deciding factor in the judging of his work in the upcoming Art Fair, so he was only using his given name.

  It wasn’t a lie. He had been born John Quinn Drake. On Drake Investments letterhead, he was John Q. Drake. His family had always called him Quinn to distinguish him from the grandfather he had been named for. He signed his work Quinn. Always had. Every canvas he had cranked out in the last month had Quinn scrawled in the right-hand corner.

  He had taken further steps not to be recognized. He had been flying every night. The frequent shifts had accelerated the growth of his hair and beard. Both now curled luxuriantly. He looked nothing like the sophisticated analyst who gazed stiffly from the glossy pages of Drake Investments Annual General Report.

  As a final touch, each time he went into Mystic Bay, he tossed on an ancient smock that he had found stuffed into a cupboard in Willow Cottage. Although it made his eyes water, it was the perfect disguise. The grubby, paint-stained garment was stiff with age and reeked of turpentine and cheap booze.

  Moira was neatly arranging the remainder of the tubes from the opened package on her display shelf. He hoped that she was not going to take a loss on their deal. Although she had initially seemed satisfied with it, her scent had subtly altered to indicate concern.

  Mutual satisfaction was the most important thing in any negotiation. Both parties had to think that they got the best of any deal. Sounded impossible, but usually people wanted different things, so that a successful agreement was never zero sum.

  On the other hand, he had not played fair today. He had used his talent to manipulate Moira into giving him what he wanted. He needed that Suffolk Green. He was working on a series of panels of the old forest that were intended to hang as a single unit.

  That dark blue-green color was devilishly tricky to match. Every time he had blended his own, it had looked fine until he changed the light source. If it was the same color in daylight, under incandescent light it looked yellower or browner. He had spent far too much time trying to match it before he came into town. Not that visiting Fairchild’s Art Supply wasn’t a treat.