Animal Passions

By Elizabeth Coldwell

He's destined to meet his mate on a killer vacation.

Horror author Mason Wells is having a midlife crisis. He's burned out as a writer and he keeps falling for guys who are way too young for him. So when his agent, Nora, arranges a birthday getaway for him and a few close friends in the Spanish Sierra Nevada, it's just the break he needs—until Nora is found drowned in the hotel swimming pool. It seems like someone has a hit list of victims, and Mason's on it. Can the hotel's gorgeous owner, Xavi, step in and keep Mason safe?

Lion shifter Xavi Bianco loves the peace and solitude of his boutique hotel in the mountains. It's a shame the place still holds the memory of his ex, Ramn. When the group of brash Americans arrives for a vacation, he doesn't expect to find himself falling for one of them. But everything tells him Mason Wells is his destined mate, bizarre as it may be, and when Mason's friends fall victim to a series of horrific attacks, Xavi knows he must do everything to protect Mason, even if it means risking his own life...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pride Publishing
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786514264

Elizabeth Coldwell

Elizabeth Coldwell is a multi-published author and editor whose stories have appeared in a number of best-selling anthologies. She has written novels in a variety of different genres, from paranormal to BDSM and contemporary romance. She is the former editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine and the proud winner of an International Leather Award. When she is not busy writing, she is an avid supporter of Rotherham United Football Club and can be regularly found on the terraces at weekends, cheering her boys to victory (hopefully!).

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Animal Passions

ISBN # 978-1-78651-426-4

©Copyright Elizabeth Coldwell 2016

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2016

Edited by Shannon Combs

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2016 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

Lionhearts

ANIMAL PASSIONS

Elizabeth Coldwell

Book six in the Lionhearts series

He’s destined to meet his mate on a killer vacation.

Horror author Mason Wells is having a midlife crisis. He’s burned out as a writer and he keeps falling for guys who are way too young for him. So when his agent, Nora, arranges a birthday getaway for him and a few close friends in the Spanish Sierra Nevada, it’s just the break he needs—until Nora is found drowned in the hotel swimming pool. It seems like someone has a hit list of victims, and Mason’s on it. Can the hotel’s gorgeous owner, Xavi, step in and keep Mason safe?

Lion shifter Xavi Bianco loves the peace and solitude of his boutique hotel in the mountains. It’s a shame the place still holds the memory of his ex, Ramón. When the group of brash Americans arrives for a vacation, he doesn’t expect to find himself falling for one of them. But everything tells him Mason Wells is his destined mate, bizarre as it may be, and when Mason’s friends fall victim to a series of horrific attacks, Xavi knows he must do everything to protect Mason, even if it means risking his own life…

Dedication

For Adam Nevill

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Facebook: Facebook

Twitter: Twitter

Amazon: Amazon.com Inc.

Like A Virgin: Tom Kelly/Billy Steinberg

eBay: eBay Inc.

Food Network: Television Food Network G.P.

Entertainment Tonight: CBS Television Distribution/CBS Studios Inc.

Chevy Aveo: General Motors

Premier League: Premier League

Harry Potter: J K Rowling

Seat: Seat, S.A.

Moleskine: Moleskine

Chapter One

You can do this. It’s going to be fine.

Mason stared in the mirror, silently repeating his mantra as the makeup girl pressed a powder puff to his face. He hated appearing on television, and even though he’d come to regard it as a necessary evil, the thought of the hot studio lights beating down on him still made him sick to his stomach. The glass of wine he’d been given in the green room hadn’t done anything to calm his nerves and he’d have turned on his heels and fled if he hadn’t known his meltdown would be all over the Internet gossip blogs within minutes.

The door opened and a young man wearing a microphone headset popped his head around it. They’re ready for you, Mr. Wells. If you’d like to come with me…

Butterflies fluttered in Mason’s belly. He willed them away. Of course.

The makeup artist removed a bib, designed to catch any errant traces of foundation or powder, from around his neck. Mason eased out of the chair.

I’m Chad, the newcomer said.

Mason nodded his acknowledgment. The production company seemed to employ any number of gofers designed to show guests to the studio or fetch water and snacks if they needed them. They all had the same keen-eyed look and peppy enthusiasm, even though he suspected they were mostly interns struggling to make minimum wage. This guy was, admittedly, cuter than anyone else who’d been looking after him tonight, with his long, dirty-blond hair and pale green eyes. Just my type, even if he is twenty years too young for me.

They walked down a long corridor, decorated on both sides with gilt-framed photos of the network’s biggest stars. Late Tonight was the jewel in their crown. It had been on air for nearly three decades, setting the standard for late-night chat. Four months ago, the job of hosting the show had gone to Johnny Lorimer, an English stand-up comedian and actor best known for his role in the low-budget horror spoof, Ben Pringle: Pig Killer. Critics had been skeptical as to whether American audiences would warm to Johnny’s style, but he’d delivered a huge boost to the show’s ratings and Hollywood A-listers were queuing up to take part. Only last week, the President of the United States himself had appeared as a guest.

I’m really stoked we’ve got you on tonight, Mr. Wells. I’m such a big fan of your work.

He’d heard that comment so many times before, but Mason still preened inwardly. Writers were notoriously insecure, and he was no exception. These days, with so much focus on Facebook friends, Twitter followers and Amazon ratings, it seemed his fellow authors were more desperate than ever to be liked. Quality of our work be damned. We just want to be popular. Fortunately, his sales were healthy enough to convince him he was doing something right.

Thanks, er— Mason struggled to recall the gofer’s name.

Chad, the young man replied. He didn’t seem in the least offended. Mason supposed that when you were at the bottom of the pile in any profession, lack of recognition came as part of the job.

They were approaching the main studio. From behind the big double doors, Mason could hear the show’s house band performing a funky version of Madonna’s Like a Virgin.

Okay, they’ll be going into an ad break in a moment, Chad said. I’ll take you inside, you’ll be mic’d up, and when we come back from the ads, Johnny’s going to introduce you. That’s when you walk over to take your seat on the couch.

Mason nodded. He’d been here once before, during the long-running reign of its previous host, the veteran comedian Rich O’Malley. On that appearance, he’d been talking about his first novel. Hard to believe that was only four years ago. So much had changed since then. His publishing company had him contracted to produce a book a year, and each one had done better than the one before. But it meant he’d been on a treadmill of writing, editing and marketing his work without a break. At least he could console himself with the thought that this interview was the last date on his current promotional tour. Tonight, he’d be sleeping in his own bed for the first time in seven weeks.

So, Chad, have you read The Scarlet Harvest yet? he asked, needing to keep his mind occupied so he didn’t start thinking about all the things that might go wrong once he was on air. He might trip over his own feet on the way to the couch, or the words might dry up the second he opened his mouth…

Chad shook his head. No, sir. A copy was sent to the office, but Johnny took it to read and that’s the last we saw of it.

Well, I tell you what. How about I sort you out your own signed book after the show? Call it my apology for forgetting your name.

He didn’t add that it would offer him the excuse to spend a little more time in Chad’s company. Mason’s gaydar had never been the most acute, but he didn’t need it to tell him that Chad’s sidelong glances were down to more than just being in the presence of an author he admired.

Oh, wow. That would be awesome. The music had come to an end, replaced by wild applause and whooping. Okay, here we go. You’re on. Good luck, Mr. Wells.

Thanks, Chad. I’m going to need it.

* * * *

Chad was there to meet Mason as he emerged from the studio fifteen minutes later. You did great, he said, smiling broadly.

Thanks. Mason was relieved at how well things had gone. Johnny Lorimer was known for giving his guests an easy ride, which was one of the reasons he had been happy to go on the show. But Johnny also had a sharp mind concealed behind his shtick of being a chubby Brit who’d fluked his way to fame, and he was clearly a fan of Mason’s work. He’d opened the show with a humorous list titled Bizarre Deaths I Want to See in the Next Mason Wells book, and the running joke throughout the interview was Johnny’s shameless begging for a part in the film version of Mason’s previous novel, Cutting Costs.

I’ll even play the guy who gets fed feet-first into the industrial-grade shredder, Johnny had said, before turning to the camera with a cheeky grin and adding, Whoops, sorry, guys. Spoiler alert. Even Mason had laughed at that one.

Chad led Mason back to the green room. One of the other guests on the show, a professor from Columbia University who’d been discussing her new book that claimed to reveal who really wrote Shakespeare’s plays, had already left. The other, actress Julia Donnelley, sat watching Johnny’s final monologue on a TV monitor. She had a glass of champagne in her hand, which she raised in salute as Mason walked in.

Didn’t I tell you Johnny’s a sweetheart? she said.

Mason nodded, his heartbeat slowing to something approaching normal now he was away from the high-pressured environment of the studio.

Well, if there’s anything else you need… Chad began, hovering at Mason’s side as though he couldn’t bear to walk away just yet.

Hey, I need to sort you out that book, don’t I? Mason said, remembering their earlier conversation. He went over to where he’d left his elderly canvas messenger bag. Even though he could afford to replace it with something more elegant, he’d carried around the notebooks in which he’d written the original draft of his first novel in that bag, and still considered it his lucky charm. He reached inside and brought out a hardback copy of The Scarlet Harvest, with its lurid jacket image of a bloodied scythe, and a fountain pen.

He opened the book to the title page, then scrawled, To Chad, whose name I shall always remember. All the best. He’d quickly learned that the more personal the message, the smaller the chance of a book appearing on eBay the following day. Mason signed his name with a flourish.

There you go.

Chad took the signed book from him. Thank you so much. I can’t wait to read this.

On the TV, the house band was playing the Late Tonight signature tune while Johnny applauded the audience. The show was over for another night.

Julia addressed Mason. I don’t know if you’re up for it, but Johnny suggested we all go for cocktails at Chandler’s.

He knew the spot, a former speakeasy down in Greenwich Village, and the offer was tempting. His head told him spending time with people such as Johnny and Julia would be good publicity for his new novel, but his cock was sending an entirely different message. Chad was still casting lustful looks at him from beneath his long eyelashes, and even though Mason sensed nothing good could come of it, he wanted to respond to that unspoken invitation.

I’d love to, but I’m getting a real headache, he lied. I think I’m just gonna jump in a cab and go home.

Let me see you down to the lobby, Chad said.

As they turned to leave the room, Johnny Lorimer entered, smiling broadly and giving off a restless, manic energy. Mason supposed that having been ‘on’ for the last hour, it would take the Englishman some time to unwind.

Hey, gang, wasn’t that a fantastic show? Johnny clapped Mason on the back. "Mason, I’m still serious about that part in Cutting Costs."

Mason laughed. I’ll have a word with my agent, but I can’t promise anything.

Mate, I’ll learn my lines. I’ll turn up on time… I can’t guarantee I won’t shag any of the other cast members, but— Still grinning widely, he turned his attention to Julia. And you, my darling, you were sensational. Hotter than the surface of the sun. He clicked his fingers, one of his trademark gestures. Now, who’s up for a nice little drinkie at Chandler’s?

I’m in. Julia nodded, grabbing her purse from where it lay on the floor at her feet.

Sorry, Johnny. I’m not feeling too well, Mason lied.

Don’t worry about it, mate. Some other time, right?

Right.

Mason waited till Johnny and Julia had left the room, then picked up his bag. He looked at Chad, who still cradled his copy of The Scarlet Harvest. About that cab…

Chapter Two

The yellow cab pulled to a halt at the curb outside Mason’s home. Buying the apartment in the brownstone on East 71st was his first real sign that he’d made the big time, and he sensed Chad was just as impressed as he’d been when he’d seen the house for the first time.

Chad had mentioned something about living in Queens, part of the ‘bridge and tunnel’ crowd who commuted in from the outer boroughs. Mason recalled his own days growing up in a cramped little house in the suburb of Rockaway Beach, and his determination that, one day, he’d have enough money to be able to move to a home in the heart of Manhattan. He’d never imagined his talent for dreaming up the grisly deaths he’d longed to inflict on the older kids who’d bullied him at school would enable him to achieve that ambition. He’d channeled all the frustration and unhappiness of those early years into his writing and it had paid off in spectacular style.

Of course, Chad didn’t need to be aware of any of this. Mason still couldn’t believe it had been quite so easy to persuade the young gofer to come back to his place. He’d expected him to turn down the offer of a cup of coffee—after all, he assumed the guy was still working. But Chad had said, Hell, it’s Friday night and they’re not paying me enough to hang around when everyone else is partying, and jumped in the cab alongside Mason.

They’d been sitting so close on the back seat, their thighs pressed together. When Chad hadn’t made any attempt to break the bodily contact, it had told Mason all he needed to know. The driver, who spoke with a heavy Spanish accent, hadn’t tried to make conversation with them, preferring to listen to the salsa station playing on his radio. It had left Mason free to talk about Chad’s ambitions to progress in television.

Here we are, the cabbie said.

Mason checked the price on the meter. He fished enough bills from his wallet to cover the fare and a decent tip while Chad got out of the car.

Have a good night, Mason said as he handed over the money.

"You too, señor."

Mason stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching the car drive away. Now that he was alone with Chad, nerves overcame him and he wondered again if he was doing the right thing. The chill in the night air caused gooseflesh to rise on his skin. He gave himself a mental shake. Okay, let’s get inside…

He let Chad into the brownstone, warning him against making too much noise as most of his elderly neighbors would already be in bed. I don’t think they even know late-night television is a thing, he said with a grin.

They took the two flights of stairs up to his front door. Iréna, the stout, motherly Polish woman who cleaned Mason’s apartment twice a week, had visited