A Siren for the Bear (Sarkozy Brothers Book 1)




1. Carson

2. Marek

3. Carson

4. Marek

5. Carson

6. Carson

7. Marek

8. Carson

9. Marek

10. Carson

11. Carson

12. Marek

13. Carson

14. Marek

15. Carson

16. Marek

17. Carson

18. Marek

19. Carson

20. Marek

21. Carson

22. Marek

23. Carson

24. Carson

25. Marek

26. Carson

27. Marek

28. Carson

29. Marek

30. Carson

31. Marek

32. Marek

33. Carson

34. Marek

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About the Author


for the BEAR




A Siren for the Bear (Sarkozy Brothers #1)

Published By Pia Milan

Copyright © 2015 Pia Milan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or events are entirely the work of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials.

Cover art by MH Silver


. T
for you." Kat leaned close and whispered so loudly that she might as well not have bothered lowering her voice.

Carson Grant sent a scathing glance to her redheaded friend, simultaneously glad and annoyed that she'd accompanied her. Katriona Brandon could be pushy and demanding when it came to Carson's career. Most times, Carson appreciated it. Just not when she was about to go on stage.

She needed Zen, and Kat, despite her sedate black suit and demure silk shirt, was as far from Zen as sushi was from chocolate cake.

The sound of applause filled the small club, rising from a smattering of lone claps to a resounding wave of expectation the longer it continued.

Carson gave Kat a cool nod, brushed her unruly black curls from her face, and squared her shoulders, abandoning her margarita with a rueful glance. They'd been sitting at their usual table along the back end of Club Serendipity, waiting for Carson's set to come up.

It wasn't as if she was nervous. In her short career, she'd sung at a hundred places, covered nearly a hundred songs, graced a hundred different venues.

She was a performer. Born to it, reveling in it.

Or something like that.

She sighed as she got to her feet and rubbed her hands down her hips, which were a little too curvy for the floor-length black dress. The silky, dark fabric, speckled with silvery dust, and the ridiculously sexy thigh-high slit, did help to make a statement though, despite her generous hips.

Besides, most of the people here knew Carson well enough by now, knew that she was nowhere near the skinny type no matter how many pounds they assumed her videos put on. They came to hear her sing.

And sing she would.

She got to her feet, shifted past Kat, and took a deep breath. They had a full house, standing room only. Adam Fulsom, Serendipity's owner and Carson's biggest supporter, would be over the moon.

It had never stopped amazing her that all she had to do was announce on her social media where she'd be performing, and they came in droves.

She took a deep breath and threaded her way between the tables and up toward the low stage. It was nowhere near a big performance, the club seating a maximum of a hundred people, but it was enough to satisfy the performer in her.

Well, that was supposed to be the case, wasn't it, she thought, as she smiled and greeted people, acknowledging the applause as she neared the stairs to the stage.

Lately, things had changed.

Her recent covers had garnered thousands of likes, and her weekends were always filled singing at open-mike nights, or small clubs across California and its neighboring states. The unpaid performances were fun. The paid gigs were sufficient for Carson to get by.

Still, something seemed off.

The string quartet--Adam liked to make a statement with her backup musicians--struck up the music and her fingers closed over the stem of the microphone.

Using her voice, she enthralled the crowd. So close to her audience, she sang directly to them, enjoying their joy in her voice. Even today, the power of her voice still amazed her. There was something about it that made people stop and listen.

As a little girl, she used to adore her mom's voice, praying every night that she would learn to sing as well as her angelic mother. Who'd have known her talents would far surpass those of the woman who'd given her voice.

For years, her father had told her that music would never be her future. That she ought to be practical, that nobody could ever make a living with music, not in today's cutthroat world.

She'd kept right on loving him, despite his lack of support, thinking all he wanted was to protect her. And then he'd taken everything from her. For that she'd never forgive him.

She was lost in the song, and the set was over way too soon. The time spent lost in the music was too brief, and as the last notes died and the lights came up, reality made a harsh return.

She blinked as the musicians rose to take a bow with her.

Carson smiled and waved and nodded at the applause, and spoke words she couldn't recall later, thanking people for coming as she made her way back to her table.

Up ahead a couple got to their feet so suddenly that she was forced to swerve away from them in order to avoid a head on collision. Her hip bumped into someone's arm and she twisted to apologize, catching a glimpse of deep, dark eyes, and a strong, sensuous jaw.

A frisson of awareness hit her low in her stomach, but she hid it with a smile and called out a casual apology before twisting on her heel to hurry away.

Her skin was flushed as she reached Kat, who looked up at her, a wide, proud grin on her freckled face. She was playing with the little pink stirrer in her martini; she'd always said she was a stirred, not shaken, kinda girl.

"You killed it, babe."



Marek Sarkozy shifted in his seat and reached for the brandy, trying to calm the growing tightness in his groin. The rich golden liquid burned as it slid down his throat, but it didn't help one bit.

He set the glass back on the white tablecloth and looked back up at the girl on the stage, tugging his tie away from his neck and unbuttoning his shirt. The damn thing had been strangling him all evening.

Singers, or vocal artists, or whatever the PC code name was, had never appeared as more than just a blip on his radar. Seen one, you've seen them all. And he'd seen way too many in his time.

But when Carson Grant had stepped onto the stage, Marek's ability to breathe had ceased to exist. The dark silk encasing her curves shimmered as she walked, her hips swaying as she'd glided past him, mere inches from his arm.

The dress, demure from behind despite the low cut to the back, gave a whole new meaning to sexy when she'd stepped up onto the low dais. A thigh-high slit revealed a delectable expanse of creamy skin, however fleeting the view.

He'd seen her videos before, listened to her voice enough to know the depth and breadth of her talent. It was why he was here, after all. Her talent. So her physical presence should not have had such an effect on Marek.

But it did.

When she opened her mouth and began to weave her magic around him, she managed to stir more than just his attention.

The notes and the lyrics worked their magic, sending goosebumps across his skin, making him rock hard in places that had no business reacting to her.

Marek shifted in his seat, stiffening the muscles in his thighs, willing away the straining pressure in his groin. He narrowed his eyes, studied her, drawing a shutter over his rampant emotions. He was good at hiding his true self from people.

Even better at hiding how he felt.

It was par for the course. Life as a Sarkozy had always meant life on the fringes of society. Even as CEO of the family-owned security empire, Marek had to be careful of his choices. Add his species into the mix, and girls like Carson the Siren spelled trouble in big, dangerous, must-be-avoided packages.

The deal with her was just business.

Carson Grant was the right person for the job and the last thing he needed was to fuck it up.

He shook his head, tightening his jaw as his gaze slid from the curve of her breasts to hips that called out to be caressed. Her vocal talent made her the right person for the job, but her voice combined with the rest of that curvaceous package made her the worst person alive for the job.

Still, he had little choice in the matter. They were down to the wire, and the decision had been made. He was beginning to wonder if it was all worth it. What had begun as an effort to redirect the energies of a bunch of randy shifters had now become a major source of organizational and emotional problems.

But right now, all he could do was damage control. They needed her. So they would have her.

Carson's set ended far too soon, and Marek threw back the last bit of the brandy, enjoying the burn as it trailed a path to his stomach. She passed him on her way to her table at the back, her hip brushing sensuously against his arm as she tried to avoid bumping into a couple who'd gotten to their feet at the last minute.

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