Savage Transformation: Savage Australia, Book 2

by Lexxie Couper

  The very man she’d caught looking at her inside the airport terminal yesterday. The same man who’d driven away from the airport car park in a black Audi an hour later.

  The same man she’d seen standing under a snow gum at Pyengana’s cemetery.

  Cold fury ripped through her. “You’ve been following me.” She bunched her fists by her side and took a step closer to him, fixing him with an unwavering glare. “What the hell have you done with Delanie?”

  A tiny dimple creased his left cheek beside lips curled into a small grin, giving Jackie the impression he knew a secret he found entirely humourous. Dark honey-blonde hair fell over his forehead in a tousled mess, brushing straight eyebrows a shade darker. “I have, Detective Huddart. But I’m afraid I haven’t taken your friend.”

  He studied her from behind impenetrable black sunglasses, the intensity of his unseen but wholly felt inspection making Jackie want to shiver.

  And smash her fist against his far too square jaw.

  “I’ve seen you three times in the last twenty four hours and now my best friend is missing.” Her heart thumped hard in her throat. “That’s not coincidence. Who are you and how the hell do you know who I am?”

  She could hear her control cracking, hear the violence of her animal’s soul cutting each word she said, but she didn’t care. He—whoever he was—had the advantage over her. She didn’t like that. Not as a cop. Not as an animal. She didn’t like it at all.

  He however, seemed unaffected by her obvious aggression. His lips curled into a broader grin. “Marshall Rourke, at your service.”

  Jackie didn’t return his smile. “You’re American?”

  Long, straight fingers came up to tip an imaginary hat. “Texan, actually, but it’s pretty much the same thing.”

  “Enough of the charm, Mr. Rourke.” Jackie snapped. Damn, she wished she had her gun. And her badge. She’d wipe that far-too-sexy grin from his face in two seconds flat. “Time to tell me why you’re following me, how you know who I am and where the hell Del—”

  Her best friend’s name slipped from her lips before she could stop it and she bit back a sharp curse. Damn it, cop law 101—don’t give away information not already revealed. She clenched her fists, glaring at Marshall Rourke.

  “I know you have no reason to trust me.” He removed his dark sunglasses, and Jackie’s chest squeezed. His eyes were stunning. Piercing light blue the colour of Antarctic ice. “But if you want to see Delanie McKenzie alive again, I recommend you come with me.”

  Delanie lifted her head from the cold, dirty floor. At least, she thought it was dirty. What felt like grit ground into her right cheek and jaw, like tiny stabs from an even tinier blade, but the room was too dark to make out exactly what scattered the floor. If in fact it was a room.

  Pressing her palms to the cold surface, she pushed herself partially upright, wincing at the sharp pain stabbing through her head and down across her shoulders. Damn it, she’d just finished a bout of chiropractic sessions. Now, she’d have to start all over again.

  Start all over again? Is that what you’re worried about? Someone you still haven’t seen knocked you out, you wake up in a dark bloody room on a cold bloody floor and you’re worried about more sessions with Dr. Templeton?

  Biting back a groan of agony and a growl of exasperation, she pushed herself farther into a sitting position and peered about. Dark. Very dark. Looming shadows in the darkness that may or may not be boxes, a window high off the floor to her right, boarded up from the outside by the look of it, weak slivers of red light spearing through the miniscule cracks. Cold floor. Cold, gritty floor.

  Which you’ve already established, Del. Focus. You’re in serious trouble here.

  Ignoring the uneasy knot trying to tighten in the pit of her belly, Delanie shifted onto her knees and sniffed. A musky, slightly rotten odor threaded into her breath and she crinkled her nose. The room smelt like a long-forgotten kitchen.

  “So, why would someone clock you on the back of the head in the hotel car park and bring you to a kitchen, Del? They want you to cook them dinner?”

  Stop it, Del. You need to take this seriously.

  Delanie scowled at the dark thought. She was taking it seriously. Someone had abducted her. But whoever that someone was, they weren’t that smart. For starters, they hadn’t tied her up. Her wrists and ankles were still free, which meant she could kick the shit out of whoever came near her, or scratch their face off. Secondly, they hadn’t taken her keys from the back pocket of her shorts, effectively leaving her with a weapon—of sorts. Clench her car keys between her fingers while making a fist and she had a pretty decent way of taking out someone’s eye. Or puncturing their neck. Thirdly, they’d snatched her from the car park while she was with Jackie.

  Del squinted into the darkness, picturing her best friend. That latter reason was probably the best argument for the low intelligence quota of her abductor. Who would abduct a girl whose best friend was not only a cop, a bloody good cop at that, but a friggen’ were-Tasmanian tiger?

  But now you’re assuming the person responsible for this unexpected gloom and doom knows what Jackie is and who you are. What if it’s a random snatch-and-grab? Just some nutter who saw you in the car park and thought, why not? She looks like an easy target.

  Closing her eyes and clenching her fists, Delanie straightened to her feet. As scary as that scenario was, it was also unlikely. Not in Launceston, at least. The mainland, yes. Sydney or Adelaide, you betcha. But Tasmania? Nothing that random ever happened in Tasmania.

  No, this was premeditated. Which, given the fact she was on her feet and had her keys already in hand, made the situation not so much worrying, but puzzling.

  “Whatever is going on, I’m not happy.” Her grumble reverberated around the room, bouncing back to her in soft echoes. Delanie raised her eyebrows. The room was bigger than she thought. “So where am I?”

  “Far enough away from the hotel to make your friend shift.”

  The voice, low and deep and tainted with an accent Delanie could not place, sounded to her left and she turned. A shiver raced up her back and she clenched her fists tighter on her keys-slash-weapon. Someone stood in the darkness with her.

  “I have left a trail, as such,” the voice continued, disembodied by the deepening blackness of the room. Whatever was casting the red glow outside was going, leaving a cold lack of colour and light. “You may notice, when you stop thinking about tearing open my throat with those keys and how little light there is left in the room, that you no longer wear your watch, your necklace, your earrings or your bra.”

  Delanie jumped, her hands going to her wrist, throat and ears seconds before the unseen speaker listed the last item. She slapped her hands to her breasts. The feel of her nipples, pinched hard from the room’s low temperature, rubbing against her palms through her shirt, brought a wave of hot anger to her face. The bastard had removed her bra?

  “So, you are a pervert after all,” she shot into the darkness.

  A chuckle followed. “I did not look or touch, I assure you. I am not interested in you at all.” There was a pause, and Delanie got the feeling her newfound chum was moving. She couldn’t hear a sound apart from her own rapid heartbeat, but something about the way the calmly spoken words rolled through the darkness made her think he, whoever he was, was moving to her left. Slowly.

  “You are but a means to an end, Delanie McKenzie. Your bra was the only item of clothing I could deposit that would exude your scent and still leave you sufficiently attired.”

  Delanie narrowed her eyes, glaring into the black shadows. “A means to an end? My scent? What are you, a hunter?”

  Another chuckle rolled toward her. “Exactly. I am a hunter.”

  “And I’m the bait?” Delanie crossed her arms, doing her best to keep her voice disdainful. A hunter. In Tassie. Right when Jackie arrived? Not good. “The only thing you’ll catch with me as bait are debt collectors.”

  The chuckle came again.
Closer. And definitely on her left. “I think we both know what I will catch with you as bait, Delanie McKenzie.” Something touched her cheek and she flinched, disgusted shame flooded her face with heat.

  A finger, Del. That’s all. Just a finger. He’s trying to freak you out.

  “And what’s that?” she snarled, fisting her keys. “Brad Pitt? Sorry. We broke up last week. I dumped him for Hugh Jackman.”

  “A shape-shifting thylacine,” the voice answered, calm. “That’s what I will catch. The only shape-shifting Tasmanian tiger to survive man’s ignorance.”

  Delanie’s chest grew tight. She stared into the darkness, trying like hell to see the man concealed there. “I’m not sure what medication you’re on, mate, but I’d ask your doctor to cut the dose back a bit. A shape-shifting thylacine? As in a werewolf? A werethylacine? Seriously?” She laughed, a scoffing snort she hoped sounded believable. Jesus, how did he know what Jackie was? And why was he after her?

  This is not good, Del. Not good at all.

  “I applaud your loyalty, Delanie, but there is no need for artifice. The truth of Jacqueline Huddart’s true species is something I have known for quite some time. At this point in time, I would say I know Ms Huddart’s true nature better than you.”

  Delanie pulled a face, anger replacing her apprehension. “Is that so?” She glared into the deepening shadows. “Well, guess I don’t have to warn you then what Jackie’s going to do to you when she tracks you down. You know, the pain, the blood, the ripped open throat…that sort of thing.”

  The responding laugh sent a chill up Delanie’s spine and the hairs at her nape stood on end. It was an empty laugh. An insane laugh.

  A purposeful laugh.

  There was a slight scraping noise, a shifting in the air beside her, and suddenly a man stepped out of the darkness. A tall man with skin like leather, hair blacker than pitch and eyes the colour of a cloudless sky. A tall man holding a wicked knife roughly the size and length of Delanie’s forearm. “Ms Huddart is going to do exactly what I tell her to,” the man said, tracing the tip of the knife’s blade along Delanie’s jawline.

  Delanie’s heart smashed into her throat, but she held her ground, staring hard into the man’s cold blue eyes. “And what is that? What is the big, bad hunter going to make a tiny slip of a woman do?”

  “Why, roll over and show me her belly, of course.” White teeth flashed at her as he gave her a wide smile. “Right before I plunge my knife into her guts and mount her dead, stuffed carcass on my wall.”

  Chapter Three

  Marshall Rourke studied the woman glaring hard at him. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to tear him a new one, and going by the absolute fury radiating from her in pungent waves—like the smoke from burning brimstone—she’d come damn near close to doing so if he gave her the opportunity.

  Christ, he hadn’t been prepared for this.

  Didn’t prepare for how hard your prick is while watching her either, did you?

  No, he hadn’t. From the first second he’d seen her in the airport, her petite frame almost swallowed by the crowd, the ancient potency of her croi making his blood sing and his beast stir, his body had been in a constant state of semi-arousal. That he’d reacted so quickly to the woman was a problem. That his inner beast enjoyed the entirely carnal reaction was even more of a problem. It was a complication he could ill afford.

  When he should be thinking about the next stage of his plan, all he could do was think of the various ways he could press his body to hers.

  The pit of his belly stirred and his balls grew heavy.

  Damn it, Rourke. Get control of yourself.

  He stood motionless, doing everything he could to project an air of calm confidence. It only took one look at Jackie—one long, lingering look—to know she’d attack if she sensed even the slightest hint of weakness in him. Whether as a cop or an animal, he couldn’t tell.

  Do you blame her, Rourke? Her best friend’s been abducted. That wasn’t part of your plan was it?

  No, his plan had been to follow Jackie Huddart everywhere she went until Einar made his move. Then, after two freaking years of trying to catch the bastard, Marshall would finally take him out.

  Instead, Einar had abducted an innocent human and Marshall’s plan had gone to hell in a hand basket.

  The same hot guilt that had flooded through Marshall the moment he’d realized what Einar had done surged through him again. Delanie McKenzie’s abduction wasn’t part of the plan. But his damn lust had let it happen, and he couldn’t do anything about it now. Now, he had to rework the plan—the original plan, no matter how bitter and cutting the guilt flooding through him was.

  Is that why you’ve made yourself known to Jackie? Instead of following her as she tracked Delanie’s scent? That would have achieved your goal far more effectively. Follow her to Einar’s obvious trap and catch the bastard as he tries to catch her.

  Marshall stared at Jackie’s face, unable to miss the fear and pain in her eyes despite the fury burning there.

  That was why he’d approached her, why he’d thrown his well-organised plan to the wall. The agony and terror he’d seen in her eyes when she’d realized her friend had not just gone missing, but been abducted. Pain and fear he’d caused. That was why he stood before her now. The way his body stirred at the thought of comforting her, speaking to her, had nothing to do with it.

  Yeah. Sure. Right. Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of work, Rourke. You know that? A grade-A piece of—

  The contemptuous thought didn’t get the chance to finish. Before Marshall knew what was happening, Jackie attacked. So fast he didn’t see her move.

  One minute he was looking at her, the next, he was flat on his back, the heel of her shoe pressing into the base of his neck as she rammed her foot against his collarbone.

  Holy smokes, how did she do that?

  “I’m going to give you two options, Mr. Rourke.” Her voice was even and smooth, like buttered whisky. She glared down the length of her petite body at him, eyes still unreadable, heel pressing harder to his throat. “You can tell me exactly where my friend is, or I can call the cops and have your Texan arse thrown into jail.”

  A cold ribbon of unease unfurled in Marshall’s chest. It wouldn’t do for the local authorities to be made aware of his presence in the country. He wasn’t in Australia on official business. In fact, he wasn’t on official business period. If his boss found out where he was, he’d face the dressing down of a lifetime, with a suspension and possible confinement period thrown in for good measure. The P.A.C. Unit Director had no tolerance for agents doing their own thing, no matter how right that thing was.

  He shifted underneath Jackie’s foot, the asphalt biting into his shoulder blades as he did so.

  Jackie’s heel shoved harder still to his neck, pressing on his windpipe and he stopped moving. “Time’s running out, Mr. Rourke.”

  A low growl deep in his dual existence rumbled through his chest. He may be experiencing an increasing level of discomfort, but his beast, the ancient, primal creature that it was, seemed highly amused by his situation. And aroused.

  Marshall stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Great. Just what he needed. A horny, laughing dire wolf tainting his judgment.

  “Listen,” he began, but her driving heel cut him short. Christ, she was going to asphyxiate him with her goddamn size-six shoe.

  Amber eyes regarded him. “Thirty seconds, Mr. Rourke.”

  “I know what you are.”

  Jackie’s eyes widened—a fraction. “And what am I, Mr. Rourke?”

  He looked up at her, her heel making it difficult to breathe, her sweet subtle scent making him want to drag in breath after breath after breath. “A were-thylacine.”

  Jackie Huddart didn’t move. She became a statue, her stare fixed on him, her knuckles white. “A were-what?”

  Despite the heel cutting off his air supply, Marshall grinned. She was good at hiding her surprise. With a face like hers—stunningl
y gorgeous and completely expressionless—she’d win a lot of poker matches. “A were-thylacine,” he croaked, curling his fingers around her ankle in a tight grip. If he needed to he’d flip her off him. “A shape-shifting Tasmanian tiger.”

  Her poker-face didn’t change. Neither did the position of her foot. “I think you’ve been watching too many movies, Mr. Rourke. This is Australia, not Transylvania.”

  He gave her another grin, the discomfort in his lungs beginning to turn into a painful burn. This was not how he’d seen this unfolding. “Transylvania is traditionally the home to vampires, Ms Huddart.” He shifted slightly, the minute action earning him a sharp increase in pressure on his throat. “Australia however, is the home to many vampires and werewolves, Declan O’Connell being one of them.” Her eyes widened again—the reaction to the Irish alpha wolf’s name almost undetectable. She was good at hiding her emotions. Very good. But he was better at exposing them. He pressed his fingers harder to her ankle, the fine bones like hot steel under his grip. “Tasmania however,” he continued, preparing his body, his beast, for whatever came next, “is the native habitat of the shape-shifting thylacine. To be precise, the last shape-shifting thylacine.” He let her see his teeth in a grin he knew was borderline wolfish. “You.”

  Once again, her reaction surprised him. He expected to be attacked. Or for her to shift into her other form and then attack. What he didn’t expect was for her to remove her foot from his neck and step back away from him.

  He snapped to his feet, brushing down his backside, still half convinced she was going to throw herself at him with that same preternatural speed she had before.

  Could be fun.

  He looked at her, ignoring the suggestive comment, as enticing as it was. Having Jackie Huddart throw her tiny little body at him in the right circumstances was downright appealing.

  “Tell me who has my friend.”

  Her voice was cold. Very calm, almost indifferent, but cold all the same. She stared at him, fists bunched, her small frame radiating an energy he understood all too well—pent-up fury and tenuous restraint. She was having difficulty controlling her inner beast. A state of being he existed in twenty-four seven.