The Master Shark's Mate (Fire & Rescue Shifters Book 5)

by Zoe Chant

  The undercurrent to her words was clear: I am the matriarch of a vast, powerful clan. What can you give me?

  An unaccustomed wave of uncertainty washed over him. He was the Master Shark, and the Empress’s Voice, true. But his wealth was copper to her gold. Though all the sharks of the sea owed him fealty, it was a cold, formal relationship. Nothing compared to the love and loyalty of true family.

  What did he have to offer her?

  Only himself. But a woman as powerful and desirable as her could have her pick of males, as indeed she clearly had done in the past. He was her true mate, yes…but what if land-shifters didn’t feel that bond as intensely as the people of the sea did?

  A strange, cold feeling gripped his heart. It was an emotion he had not felt in so long, it took him a moment to identify it.

  For the first time in decades, he was afraid.

  Chapter 6

  Martha sat on the beach and fumed.

  She’d nattered on inanely about her grandkids until the poor girls at the spa had been practically cross-eyed with boredom, and yet he still hadn’t taken the hint. He was still following her around as if she was some short-skirted cheerleader instead of a respectable grandma. What did she have to do, whip out some needles and start pointedly knitting a scarf at him?

  Leave me be! she wanted to yell at her hulking shadow. Stop making me feel things I’ve got no business feeling at my time of life!

  But that would involve talking to him. And so far, he still hadn’t said more than that single word—“You”—to her.

  And there was another thing. If he wasn’t going to leave her alone, why in the name of all the saints didn’t he just talk to her? What was he playing at, following her around in silence like this? He was bad as a tomcat lingering at a door, neither in nor out.

  She risked a peek at him, relying on her oversized sunglasses to conceal the direction of her gaze. He’d parked himself a little way down the beach, strong features in profile to her, his face turned toward the sea. Though the private cove was amply provisioned with deckchairs and parasols—not to mention a charming open-fronted hut containing a fully stocked bar—he sat cross-legged and straight-backed directly on the white sand, in the full glare of the scorching midday sun.

  Sniff him, her inner coyote said.

  “For crying out loud,” Martha muttered to herself. “I am not going to sniff him, you fool beast.”

  Her coyote nipped at her mental heels. Sniff!

  From experience, Martha knew that her animal could be a right pain in the psychic backside when it was in this sort of mood. Rolling her eyes, she gave way to her coyote’s insistence. It was either that or be unable to hear herself think for the next two hours.

  Martha had always had a good nose, even for a coyote (a nose for trouble, her own long-suffering abuela had muttered on more than one occasion). Surreptitiously, she turned her face into the breeze, catching the man’s scent.

  Oh, dear Lord.

  Salt and sea and a fierce, coppery tang that made her knees go weak as a day-old colt. If some fancy perfume house could distill that scent, it would come in jet-black bottles and cost five hundred dollars an ounce. He smelled of pure, primeval power.

  And not sunscreen, her coyote pointed out pragmatically.

  Martha blinked. Her animal was right. The man had barely a stitch of clothing on, and yet his pale skin gleamed with nothing more than sweat. The damn fool wasn’t even wearing a hat.

  “Oh, for the love of-“ Flinging down her magazine, Martha marched over to the beach hut.

  As well as a mini fridge full of drinks, it also contained a basket of complementary beach necessities. She rummaged around until she found a bottle of extra-strength sunscreen. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she stalked over to the man.

  “Here.” Ungraciously, she thrust the bottle out at him. “You’re white as a fish’s belly. You’ll burn faster than you can heal, in this sort of sun.”

  A flicker of something—surprise?—flashed across those storm cloud eyes. He looked at her offering for a moment, not moving a muscle. Then, as carefully as if it was made of spun sugar, he took the bottle.

  “Thank you.” The deep, dry rasp of his voice made her toes curl involuntarily into the sand.

  Martha gave him a curt nod. She’d intended to take her fool self straight back to her deckchair, but something about the way the man held the sunscreen bottle in his huge hands made her pause.

  “You do know what to do with that, right?” she asked.

  His gaze slid sideways. Though his face remained impassive, Martha had the oddest feeling that he was embarrassed. He didn’t say anything.

  “You rub it on. Like this.” Taking the bottle back from him, Martha shook a good dollop into the palm of her hand.

  She’d intended to put it on her own arm in demonstration…but she’d spent forty years sunscreening up wriggling, protesting kids. Out of sheer force of habit, she slapped her palm down onto the man’s shoulder.

  She froze. He…didn’t exactly freeze, seeing as how he’d previously barely been breathing, but he reached a new, practically rock-like state of stillness.

  The simple contact reverberated through every inch of body. She felt like the desert blooming under the first touch of rain, new life springing up from dry, dusty ground.

  Blushing furiously, she started to pull her hand back—but the man moved first, twisting in a blur of motion too fast to follow. Before she knew what was happening, his hard, callused hand trapped her own, holding it pinned against his skin.

  Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were the barest ring of iron around deep, black pupils, dark and hungry with desire.

  The man blinked, once. She could feel his shoulder hitch as he drew a ragged breath. “I…my apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t.” Martha’s heart was pounding, but it certainly wasn’t with fear. She cleared her throat, trying to pretend that they were having a perfectly normal conversation. “I-I’ll do your back for you. Can’t reach it properly yourself, after all.”

  Slowly, he released her hand, though he stayed twisted round, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

  Avoiding his gaze, she bent to her task. Much as she fought to keep her touch brisk and impersonal, she couldn’t help the heat rising in her blood as she smoothed the lotion over the dips and swells of his muscled back.

  “I’m Martha,” she said, since it seemed rude to be rubbing a man without even introducing herself. “Martha Hernandez.”

  “Martha.” He repeated her name softly, as though tasting it on his tongue.

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything further. “And you?” she prompted.

  He turned his head away, staring out to sea once more. “You know who I am.”

  Mate, her coyote whispered. Our mate.

  “Nope,” Martha said, stubbornly ignoring her inner animal. “The staff wouldn’t tell me.”

  He whipped back round, staring at her, and she flushed as she realized that she’d inadvertently let on that she’d asked after him. She occupied herself with squirting more sunscreen into her hand, avoiding his eyes.

  “You…” he said slowly. “You don’t know who I am? What I am?”

  She shook her head. “Never smelled anything like you before. Couldn’t even begin to guess your animal.”

  His face locked down, impassive as a tombstone.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she added hastily, though in truth she was eaten up by curiosity. “I know some shifters don’t like to share their secrets with just anyone.”

  He said nothing, for so long that she started to wonder if he was ever going to speak again.

  Then, so quietly she barely heard him: “Shark.”

  No wonder she hadn’t recognized his scent. “Huh. Great White?”

  “No.”

  She waited, but apparently that was all he had to say on that topic. “Well, you got a name, or should I just call you M
ister Shark?”

  He looked away again. “Master.”

  “What?”

  “Master Shark. Not Mister.”

  She snorted. “If you think I’m calling you that, you got another think coming.”

  He said nothing. His shoulders stiffened in a tense, straight line.

  “Wait.” Martha stared at the back of his head. “Seriously? You aren’t kidding? You’re what, the king of the sharks or something?”

  “Not king. Not anymore. Just the Master Shark.”

  Not anymore? Implying that he had been at some point? Martha’s mind reeled.

  “If you didn’t know…” He still wasn’t looking at her, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Why did you run from me?”

  Her wedding ring glinted up at her in accusation.

  Martha snatched her hands away from his back. She rubbed her greasy palms down her own thighs, wishing she could scrub away the memory of touching him along with the residue of the sunscreen.

  She cleared her throat. “There you go. All done.”

  His massive muscles shifted under his pale, gleaming skin as he turned to face her. She was trapped again by the sheer power behind his iron-gray eyes.

  “Why?” he repeated.

  He’d been honest with her, even though he’d thought that it would scare her off. She owed him the truth in return.

  She held up her left hand, showing him her ring. “I’m already mated.”

  “No.” His voice was flat, utterly certain. “You are not.”

  “Well, I was.” His arrogance raised her hackles. “Thirty years we were together. He was loyal to me, and I’m still loyal to him, and that’s all there is to it.”

  He held her glare for a long moment. Then he looked down, absently running a hand over his short, bristling hair. It was the first time she’d ever seen him fidget, or move with less than total confidence. It made him more real, somehow. Her hands ached to reach out to him again.

  “Do you need someone killed?” he said abruptly.

  Her mouth hung ajar. “Excuse me?”

  “I cannot fight the dead. Give me a living foe, a way I can serve you. Is there some insult to your honor that demands vengeance?”

  Her inner coyote’s ears pricked up. Tell him about the shih tzu that keeps peeing in our yard.

  Martha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you out of your fool mind?” she said, to both of them.

  “I would fill the sea with blood for you, if you asked.” Though his harsh, toneless voice never changed, one corner of his mouth twitched up a fraction, as if he was fully aware of how ridiculous his words were. “But I suspect that you will not.”

  “You got that right,” Martha said firmly. “I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but up here on land, we don’t go around murdering our way into people’s hearts. If you like a lady, you offer her flowers, not a bloodbath.”

  He glanced at the manicured jungle edging the beach, eyes narrowing.

  “That was just a hypothetical example,” she added, before he marched off and uprooted a whole shrub. “I don’t need any flowers.”

  One of his hands flexed a little, fingers clenching in the white sand. “Then what do you need?”

  “Nothing,” Martha said, trying to stop her ears to her coyote’s whining. “I had my husband, and no matter what you do to try to impress me, nothing is going to change that. Please, just let me be. I’ve had love enough in my life, more than anybody could ask for. I’ve got my memories. I’m content enough.”

  “I know I am…I am not what you need. Or want.” His voice roughened even further, harsh as sandpaper on skin. “But let me do something for you. Anything. Let me have a memory, that I once did something that pleased you, and I…I too will try to be content.”

  Her heart broke for him. It wasn’t his fault that his one true mate had already been claimed. Life had handed him a whole bushel of lemons, and all he was asking for was one spoonful of sugar.

  “All right then. But I don’t need anyone murdered, thank you very much.” She racked her mind, trying to think of something she could ask him to do for her.

  It can’t just be some make-work fluff. A man like him needs a task he can be proud of, a real honest-to-God challenge.

  If it’s a difficult feat he’s after… Her coyote’s tongue lolled out in a trickster’s grin. There is one thing we could ask him to do.

  Despite herself, her own lips curved as well. “Can you dance?”

  Chapter 7

  The waiter looked at Tex, then back up at the Master Shark. The expression on the small land-shifter’s face very clearly stated: I am going to die.

  “Come on, Breck.” Tex twanged an encouraging chord on his guitar. “You’ve always claimed that you could teach anyone to salsa. Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

  “You’ve got the easy job,” muttered the other man Tex had summoned, who the bartender had introduced as Travis. He was attempting to measure the span of the Master Shark’s arms, which was somewhat difficult in the limited space within the vacation cottage. “We’re going to need a bigger tape measure. Tex, there is no way in hell I can adjust a shirt to fit this mons- uh, gentleman. Not by tonight, anyway.”

  Tex scratched the back of his neck. “What if you started with something of Chef’s?”

  “I’d have to start with something of Magnolia’s just to have enough fabric to fit round his chest.” Travis cocked a wry eyebrow up at the Master Shark. “And I’m not sure that pink floral would give quite the effect you’re looking for, sir.”

  The Master Shark considered it. “I am not attempting to appear intimidating. Dry-landers consider pink an unthreatening color, do you not?”

  Tex, Breck, and Travis gazed at him for a long, wordless moment. Even though they were all different sorts of shifters—and thus shouldn’t be capable of communicating telepathically with each other—he had the distinct impression that all three of them were sharing the same mental image.

  “The temptation is almost overwhelming,” Travis murmured.

  “No,” Tex said firmly.

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Come on, it’s his one true mate. Let’s give the poor guy a chance.” Tex idly picked out a plaintive, wistful melody on his guitar. “I promised we’d help him out.”

  “You’re a sucker for doomed romance.” Travis snapped his tape measure shut with a sigh. “I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing I can do. Even I can’t pull super-sized formalwear out of my ass at two hours’ notice.”

  The Master Shark tilted his head. “Tonight’s dance is a formal occasion?”

  Travis shrugged. “Well, it’s not white tie or anything, but we do encourage guests to dress up a bit. You’re going to need a little more than swim shorts, sir.”

  “I have formalwear.” He pulled open the small wardrobe in demonstration.

  There was a small, stunned silence.

  “Oh, my tail and whiskers.” Breck let out a long, low whistle. “Well, I for one would pay good money to see him wear that.”

  “Yeah, but on a dance floor?” Tex said dubiously.

  “I think it’ll work.” Travis rubbed his chin. “If we lose some of the…accessories.”

  “Accessories,” Magnolia said, pursing her lips in consideration. “You need just a tiny splash of color. Aha! I know the perfect thing.”

  “Oh, no,” Martha protested, as Magnolia plucked a vibrant red hibiscus blossom from the vase on the dresser. “I can’t go around putting flowers in my hair like some slip of a girl. I don’t want to draw attention to my gray hairs.”

  “Now, why would you be ashamed of these beautiful silver streaks?” Magnolia put her hand on top of Martha’s head, foiling her attempt to duck away. “Hold still.”

  For a soft-looking person, Magnolia had a grip like a bear trap. Martha could only submit as the other woman carefully pinned the flower behind her left ear.

  “There.” Magnolia stepped back, admiring her handiwork. “Wo
nderful. You shall go to the ball, Cinderella.”

  Martha studied herself in the mirror critically. She had to admit, Magnolia’s deft touch had worked wonders. Martha would never have dared to use such bold eyeliner, but the smoky tones made her copper-brown eyes look as bright as new pennies. The scarlet hibiscus flower somehow transformed her salt-and-pepper hairdo into something elegant and sophisticated rather than short and sensible.

  “You’ve got real style,” she said to Magnolia in admiration. “You can even make an old desert dog look presentable.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can claim credit for the pink in your cheeks,” Magnolia said with a shamelessly lewd wink. “I’m pretty sure that’s down to a certain Mr. Tall, Pale, and Sharkish. Now, promise you’ll find me at breakfast tomorrow and tell me all the juicy details.”

  “Won’t be anything to tell,” Martha said primly as she searched for her shoes amidst the piles of rejected clothes scattered across the floor. “You’ll be at the dance, after all. You’ll see everything for yourself.”

  Magnolia let out a rich, throaty chuckle. “You say that now, but you haven’t seen his outfit yet.”

  “How on earth would you know what he’s wearing?”

  Magnolia waggled her eyebrows mysteriously. “My spies are everywhere. Now, I’ve got to run and meet my own date. I’ll drop in at Housekeeping on the way and ask them to come tidy up in here while you’re out.”

  “Oh, don’t do that.” Magnolia had rather torn through Martha’s limited wardrobe like an incredibly fashion-conscious tornado, but Martha hardly wanted to be bothering the poor staff at this time of the evening. “I’ll sort it out myself later.”

  “You might be busy later.” Magnolia shot her a sly glance over her shoulder as she headed out the door. “And it never hurts to be prepared for visitors. Or rather, a visitor.”

  She disappeared down the path in a flutter of silk before Martha could think of a suitably scathing retort. Growling under her breath, she slipped on her shoes. She hesitated at the door, casting a last glance back at the room.