Page 5 of His Brazen Mate

The following day was bright and clear in the way Megan had only found in Alaska. She hailed from Chicago and had raised strenuous objections when she’d been reassigned to the Anchorage Field Office. She had feared that she was being unofficially demoted, but that hadn’t proved to be the case. There was far more smuggling in, out, and around Alaska than there had ever been in the lower forty-eight.

She dressed in pressed jeans, mukluks, a cowl-neck sweater, and a down vest. She knew cowl-necks were out of style, but she loved this sweater, and it was warm. She tossed her Canada Goose expedition parka onto the seat of her rented SUV. She would have preferred her own vehicle, but it was the small things—like not having rented a vehicle—that could trip you up when you went undercover.

Megan drove to the Northern Lights Distillery and had to show her invitation and identification before the guards would open the gates. The massive iron gates swung open slowly to allow her to enter, and she was asked to park in the designated area until the sleigh returned to take her and several others up to the actual distillery.

She didn’t have long to wait before a large sleigh pulled by four reindeer stopped by her vehicle. Grabbing her parka, she got out of the SUV and climbed aboard. Sometimes being an ATF agent had the coolest perks.

“Welcome to Northern Lights Distillery, Ms. Reynolds.”

Being undercover meant people addressed you by a name that was not your own. She liked using her true first name as it made it easier to slip in and out of her undercover role. Her undercover last name—Reynolds—was close enough to her real last name—Reeves—that it, too, had the feel of familiarity and made it easier to answer to.

Megan’s enhanced sense of smell told her the driver was a shifter of some sort, but the caribou were not.

“Thank you for inviting me. I have been a huge fan of your bourbon from the very first time I tasted it.” It was also helpful when working undercover to stay as close to the truth as possible.

They picked up three more invitees and then headed toward the distillery, which they could see in the distance. It was set amongst what looked to be a compound of sorts. If all of Northern Lights Distillery’s people lived within the massive compound, Megan was pretty sure that they were all shifters, but what kind remained an unanswered question. Megan didn’t like unanswered questions.

The sleigh let them off at the distillery’s main building, which encompassed a store and a museum. They were greeted by employees who kept them occupied until the opening ceremonies.

“I wasn’t sure the event would happen as planned, considering the death of Magnus McAllister,” said Megan, as she and several others wandered through the museum with one of Northern Lights’ people.

“Magnus’s death has left a big hole for all of us, but Drake has resigned from the Navy and come home. We all feel there will be minimal disruption in any of the distillery’s plans. He was born and raised here and there’s been a McAllister leading our community since it was first built more than two hundred years ago.”

It was becoming clear that Northern Lights Distillery was owned and run by some sort of shifter clan. For Megan, that added a degree of difficulty to her official investigation: how to expose whatever illegal activity was going on without exposing the shifters themselves.

“Can I get you all to follow me? Drake McAllister would like to welcome you all in our central gathering hall.”

The young woman reminded Megan of the docents who worked in museums or historical buildings shepherding tourists to keep them out of places they weren’t supposed to wander.

They left the building they were in and walked a short distance to an enormous building from which the most amazing aromas were coming. As she inhaled deeply, once again she was assailed by a feeling of nausea and dizziness. She stopped for a moment, shook herself mentally, and then made her way inside. The hall was enormous, and the open-beamed ceiling was impressive.

“Welcome to Northern Lights Distillery,” said a tall, muscular, well-built man in the center of the room.

He had short, dark hair and a closely trimmed beard. It contributed to his rugged appearance. He had on a shawl-collared sweater, which appeared handmade, and a pair of distressed blue jeans that fit snugly, highlighting his muscular legs. He appeared both coolly confident and heatedly intense, with a focused expression on his face that he was trying to cover with the thin veneer of a smile of welcome. In his left hand, he held up a glass of bourbon. He was quite simply the most attractive man Megan had ever seen and her visceral reaction to his presence was extreme.

The nausea and dizziness had returned in full force. Oh hell to the no! She was old enough to know the physical symptoms of finding your fated mate. She didn’t need a fated mate. She didn’t want a fated mate. She wasn’t having a fated mate. Whoever he was, he could just bloody well do without her.

Megan found herself a place by the back wall where she could view the entirety of the room with relative ease. She stood scanning the crowd, watching to see if anything or anyone—other than the hunky Drake McAllister—caught her attention. The soft hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Her gaze settled on Drake, who stood across the room, engaged in a hushed conversation with a woman she didn’t know. Given McAllister’s military connections, she wondered if the woman might not be Jasmine Chen. McAllister’s usual confident demeanor was absent, replaced by a distracted air that piqued Megan's curiosity.

She noted the way Drake's eyes darted around the room, his hands gesturing agitatedly as he spoke. Jasmine's face was a mask of concern, her lips moving quickly as she replied. Megan made a mental note of their interaction, filing it away for later consideration.

As she began to move through the room, Megan mingled effortlessly with the other guests. Her professional smile and polite small talk masked her true purpose. She caught snippets of conversation, weaving together a tapestry of whispered concerns about quality control issues and market pressures. There was a rumor that the distillery’s latest batch, and some of its very expensive reserve labels, had not met the high standards expected by their clientele. From those rumors had sprung a concern for the financial stability of the distillery.

Megan's ears pricked up at a mention of the distillery's supply chain. She edged closer to a group of executives, pretending to admire a display of vintage whiskey bottles.

"If we can't sort out the supply issues, the entire operation could be compromised," one of them muttered.

Another nodded in agreement, adding, "It's the worst possible time for this to happen, with the market being as volatile as it is."

Filing away these potential leads for her smuggling investigation, Megan's attention was suddenly drawn to Michael O'Brien. The charismatic Irish businessman stood near the bar, a glass of amber liquid in hand. He was in the midst of a group, regaling them with a story that had everyone laughing heartily.

Megan's practiced eye saw beyond Michael's charm and easy demeanor. There was something about the way he carried himself, a subtle tension that belied his outward confidence. His eyes, though warm and inviting, seemed to hold a depth that spoke of secrets kept carefully hidden.

She approached the group, slipping into the edge of the conversation. Michael glanced her way, his eyes meeting hers with a spark of interest. "Megan, isn't it?" he said, his voice rich with an Irish lilt. "Join us, we're just sharing a bit of craic."

"Thank you, Michael," Megan replied, her smile genuine but guarded. "I've heard you have quite a talent for storytelling."

Michael chuckled, a sound that seemed to put everyone at ease. "Oh, I have a few tales up my sleeve. But tell me, what brings you to our little corner of the world tonight?"

---