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

by Zoe Chant

  Maybe I should tidy up just a little.

  Shaking her head free of the silly notion, she left the room exactly as it was. The fact that her baggy underthings were on full display meant that she’d have to think twice before issuing any…impulsive invitations. She needed all the help she could get to keep a leash on her fool inner animal. Her coyote was frisking like a pup with anticipation already.

  “Settle down, you,” she muttered as she closed the door behind herself. “It’s just a dance. That’s all.”

  The stars were just starting to gleam in the deep turquoise sky, but the full moon had already climbed high above the horizon. Night-blooming jasmine filled the air with a heady, hypnotic scent. Despite her attempt to rein in her coyote’s exuberance, Martha couldn’t help feeling practically giddy herself as she followed the curving, white-graveled path that ran from the guests’ cottages to the main part of the resort.

  Oh, it’s been too long since I last went dancing.

  She’d used to go practically every week, before she’d gotten married. But Manuel, bless his soul, had possessed two left feet and the sense of rhythm of a stunned duckling. After the kids had come along, it just didn’t feel right to ask him to spend their few precious date nights doing something he hated.

  I hope he doesn’t hate it. Martha felt a twinge of guilt at her own mischievousness for setting her mate this challenge. Though he probably will.

  She didn’t imagine that a person who didn’t even have feet most of the time would care for dancing. Or have much experience of it.

  Well, it’ll serve me right if he breaks all my toes.

  Candles in colored glass jars flickered among the tropical shrubs, guiding the way to the main building. The French windows lining the dining room had been folded back for the evening. Her pulse kicked up a notch as a sudden intoxicating roll of samba drums came from inside. A few other couples had already gathered on the veranda, laughing and chatting as they waited for the musicians to finish tuning up.

  Breath coming short with anticipation, she hastened up the veranda steps. Her heart fell a little as she peered through the French windows. It was immediately apparent that he—she still couldn’t bring herself to think of him by that frankly ridiculous title—hadn’t arrived yet. A man of his dimensions couldn’t hide in even the thickest crowd, and the dance hall was still mostly empty.

  “Looking for someone, ma’am?”

  She jumped. Breck had managed to sneak up without her notice, soft-footed as a cat. The waiter had a silver tray of champagne flutes, and a rather wicked gleam in his eye.

  “Is everyone in on this?” Martha said in exasperation. “You all need some more excitement in your lives if you find other people’s business this fascinating.”

  “Here at Shifting Sands, we pride ourselves in taking a keen personal interest in the happiness of our guests,” Breck said, not looking the slightest bit repentant. He offered her the tray. “Please, take two. And if you will allow me to make a suggestion…I can highly recommend the view at the far end of the veranda.”

  Martha glared at him, which had absolutely no effect on his exceedingly smug smile. “You people clearly watch too many telenovelas. All this fuss over nothing.”

  Nonetheless, she took two of the champagne flutes, heading back outside. She found herself going against the tide, as other guests were heading into the main hall in expectation of the start of the dance. She didn’t recognize many of the faces; more people must have boated over from the mainland just for the evening. Martha’s skin prickled with the electric, feral energy of so many shifters gathered in one space.

  Careful not to spill the drinks, she edged her way through the crowd, emerging back onto the veranda. The soft evening breeze should have been like a glass of cool water after the heady, pheromone-filled air inside…but the singing in her blood didn’t diminish one whit. Instead, the fizzing excitement in her veins only grew, sparkling like the champagne.

  Settle down, you fool dog, she told her coyote firmly as she followed the curving veranda. Honestly, it was ridiculous. No man justified this much panting anticipation, not even-

  Then she rounded the corner of the building, and saw him.

  She damn near dropped the champagne glasses. He was standing half-turned, his face in profile to her as he looked out to sea. The light of the full moon highlighted the stark, rugged planes of his features, and touched his iron-gray hair with pure silver. It gleamed from the vambraces encasing his powerful forearms, and from the massive, intricately-wrought steel plates protecting his shoulders.

  He was, quite literally, a knight in shining armor.

  Or no, not a knight—something more primal, more powerful. He looked like some hero out of ancient sagas, a demigod of war. If she hadn’t known he was a flesh-and-blood man, she would have thought him made of marble and iron; a guardian statue, eternally ready to defend the island from any evil.

  He’d told her he’d once been a king. Now, she believed it.

  He turned his head, and his vast chest hitched as if he too had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. She shivered as his hungry gray eyes swept over her, slowly, from head to toe and back again.

  “Thank you.” His rasping voice was even hoarser than usual, just a scrape of stone on stone.

  It took her two attempts to unstick her own tongue from the roof of her mouth. “For what?”

  He made the slightest gesture at her own body. “For this memory.”

  He was impressed by her appearance? Martha stepped closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. She could scarcely believe that he was real. Only the fact that she still had both hands full stopped her from reaching out to touch him.

  Although his armor covered his forearms and shoulders, only wide leather straps crossed his chest. His bare torso gleamed underneath, pale as marble in the moonlight. Where the straps met, over his heart, was a broad disc of silver, set with a single huge pearl clutched in the talons of an engraved sea dragon.

  A belt worked with an intricate design of inlaid silver waves circled his waist. Form-fitting black leather pants clung to the hard curves of his thighs…and to other hard parts as well. Martha tore her eyes back upward, heat rushing into her face.

  “Wh-what-“ She swallowed, and tried again. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted fractionally, the closest he ever seemed to get to a smile. “Nothing on earth. This is what I wear under the sea, on formal occasions.”

  She blinked at him. “Well, life under the sea sure must be different to up here, is all I can say.”

  “Yes.” There was a certain wry glint in his eye as he gestured at a couple of empty loops hanging from his belt. “Under the sea, I would go armed.”

  Holy Mother of God. Martha had a sudden vision of him with a sword in his hand, sweat-stained and savage, and felt weak at the knees.

  His shadow of a smile dropped away as he misinterpreted her stunned silence. “I am sorry. I have no other formalwear. If you no longer wish me to accompany you-“

  “No! I mean yes! Uh, that is, I definitely still want you. That. The dance. Um.” Keeping hold of a train of thought was proving somewhat difficult. Martha struggled to pull herself back together, even though all she really wanted to do was stare at him. And then lick him. All over.

  She cleared her throat, certain her own face must be flaming red. “Here,” she said, thrusting a champagne glass at him to cover her own confusion. “Let’s make a toast.”

  He hesitated, eying the glass without reaching for it. “I thought that was something to do with bread.”

  Her own mouth quirked. “Same word, different meaning. A toast is having a drink in honor of something.”

  “Ah.” Very carefully, he took the glass from her. “And what shall we honor?”

  Martha held her champagne up to him, and the moon. “To…memories. Old and new.”

  “To memories,” he echoed softly.

  Closing her eyes, Martha drank. The
champagne tasted like moonlight, spreading silver through her veins.

  To memories. The last time she’d drunk champagne as fine as this, it had been at her wedding. She remembered her husband’s shining eyes as he’d made his vows to her. The vows he’d never, ever broken.

  Oh, Manuel, Manuel. You were always faithful to me. Help me to be strong now.

  A splutter interrupted her fervent prayer. Opening her eyes, she discovered the Master Shark was clearly struggling to contain a coughing fit. He was usually so dignified, she couldn’t help but break into giggles.

  “Oh, my,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You aren’t supposed to chug it. Don’t you have champagne under the sea?”

  “No.” He put his now-empty glass down, still glaring at it with such mortal offense that it was a wonder it didn’t melt into slag on the spot. “A fact for which I am now very grateful. Is all alcohol so…bubbly?”

  “Only the good stuff.” Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she tapped a finger against one of the curving metal plates covering his forearm. It was, unmistakably, honest-to-God armor. “This must weigh a ton. Can you really dance in this stuff?”

  The gleam was back in his storm-cloud eyes again, though this time it was a distinctly predatory look. Without a word, he held out his hand.

  Setting aside her own champagne, she placed her hand in his. Her own looked very small, delicate as an autumn leaf against his hard, scarred palm. A thrill shot through every inch of her body as his powerful fingers closed, ever so gently, over hers.

  “Come,” he said, pulling her toward the dance hall. “I will show you.”

  Chapter 8

  He could feel his mate’s pulse thudding through her fingertips as he led her into the dance hall. Despite the excitement and arousal in her scent, there was an edge of apprehension as well.

  He suspected he knew the cause. He attracted attention at the best of times. Here, dressed as he was, he stood out even more painfully. He’d worn his formal armor to honor her, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He was used to drawing every eye, but he doubted Martha was.

  When he ducked through the door, it was even worse than he’d feared. One musician accidentally inhaled through his instrument, producing a loud, discordant bleat. Most of the couples on the dance floor missed steps, doing double-takes up at him.

  His shoulders tensed under his armor. If anyone dared to make his mate feel uncomfortable…

  “Don’t you dare,” Martha snapped, bristling at a woman who’d started to raise a cellphone. “Have you no shame? How would you like it if I took your picture and stuck it up online for everyone to leer at?”

  The young woman dropped her phone with a guilty expression. Martha tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm, squeezing his rigid muscles. Holding her head high, she steered him onto the dance floor, ignoring the stares with the icy dignity of a born queen.

  “Some people,” she muttered, glaring at the nearest couple until they looked away sheepishly. “Honestly. Gawping at a man like he’s an animal in a zoo.” Her fingers tightened, as if in reassurance. “Just ignore those idiots. Don’t let their bad manners spoil your evening.”

  She was concerned for him. Scarcely five feet tall, dressed in nothing more than thin silk over her soft curves, and yet she bared her teeth in his defense.

  She caught his eye, and cocked her head. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  He wanted to carry her off and claim her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and never, ever let go. He wanted to fight with her, back to back, the two of them against the whole world.

  But all he could do was lift her hand to his lips. Her breath hitched as he brushed her knuckles with the lightest of kisses. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the precise scent of her skin.

  When he opened his eyes again, hers had gone wide and dark. “What was that for?” she asked, breathless.

  “You,” he replied, lowering her hand again. He slid his other hand around her waist, as Breck had taught him. “Dance with me.”

  He was too tall for her to rest her left hand on his shoulder as the other couples were doing. Instead, she placed it in the crook of his arm, her warm fingers sliding under the cold plates of his armor. He could sense a hesitation in her touch. She was still unsure whether she could trust him.

  He wished he had the words to reassure her. But he was a shark. He was not made for speech. He was made for silence, and darkness, and the hunt.

  And to move.

  She gasped as he swung her into the music. He could sense his prey’s heartbeat from fifty miles away; following the loud, simple pulse of the drums was child’s play in comparison. He let the rhythm sway him as easily as the ocean’s currents.

  Martha laughed out loud as he spun her round, her astonished eyes shining with delight. He read her desires in the brush of her fingertips on his and the sway of her hips, guiding her in return with the barest touch on her waist or the slightest press on her shoulder. She responded to his wordless suggestions so eagerly, it was as if they were linked mind-to-mind rather than hand-in-hand.

  There was no breath for talking, thankfully. He could let his body say what his voice never could. She was the center of every circle, the focus of his every movement. No matter how she turned or twirled away, she always returned to him.

  And always, he was there ready to catch her.

  She was bright as the sun, alight with laughter and joy. He was a creature of cold water and colder blood, but every brush of her skin against his filled him with fire. He wanted more. He wanted to bury himself in her heat until she warmed him to the marrow of his bones. He wanted to bask in her warmth forever.

  But he only had one night. These fleeting touches were all he would ever have, could ever have.

  It will be enough. I promised that I would be content, if she would only give me one memory. I cannot ask for more.

  He tried to stay in the moment, a shark’s eternal now. He had to memorize every touch, every glance. He had to hoard enough of her heat to keep him warm for the rest of his life.

  It will have to be enough.

  But he knew it wouldn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Good Lord, the man could dance.

  Nigh on seven feet tall, broad as a barn and dressed in honest-to-God armor, and yet he put every other man there to shame. He moved as fluidly as water, every muscle under perfect control. No flourishes or fuss; every step, every turn had the smooth, economical grace of a hunting predator. He barely touched her, and yet led so effortlessly that Martha’s feet seemed to follow of their own accord.

  Dancing with him was as simple as breathing. It was life, it was light, it was pure joy. With her hands in his, she felt like she could dance the rest of her days.

  It felt so right, it took her most of the evening to realize that something was badly wrong.

  “Having a good time, ma’am?” Tex the bartender asked when she went to fetch more drinks.

  “Oh my word, yes.” Martha tucked her escaping flower back behind her ear, beaming at him. “I feel sixteen again. Though I bet my poor feet are going to be feeling every day their real age, come the morning.”

  Tex grinned back as he poured her a glass of ice water. “And, ah, is he enjoying himself, if you don’t mind me asking? Kind of hard to tell, if you know what I mean.”

  Despite the lively salsa music, a twist of unease stabbed her stomach. She did know what Tex meant. No matter how beautifully the Master Shark’s body moved to the rhythm, no hint of warmth showed in his face. She’d known rocks with more expression.

  Is he enjoying himself? she wondered with a twinge of guilt. Or am I just tormenting the poor man?

  She cast a glance back where she’d left him lurking in a shadowed corner—and caught a glimpse of his hulking, armored form ducking out the doorway. Her sense of unease grew.

  He’s probably just gone out to get some air, she tried to tell herself. He’s wearing inch-thick steel, fo
r crying out loud. No doubt he needs to cool down. He’ll be back.

  Nonetheless, her inner coyote nipped at her heels. Gathering up a glass of water, she hurried after him.

  “Uh, Master Shark?” she called out self-consciously—for Heaven’s sake, why couldn’t the man have a proper name? “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.” He’d retreated to the end of the veranda again, both hands braced on the wooden railing, his back to her.

  “I brought you some water.” A little tentatively, she set it down on the rail, next to his left hand.

  He didn’t look round. “Thank you.”

  Almost, her nerve broke. But damn it, she was an alpha coyote. She’d faced down rattlesnake gangs and poachers, screaming toddlers and sullen teenagers. She’d never backed down from a challenge. She wasn’t going to let a mere giant, brooding, armored shark king intimidate her now.

  “Hey.” She tugged on his arm, forcing him to look down at her. “Are you having a good time?”

  “It is the best night of my life.” Though his flat, toneless voice made it difficult to tell, she was pretty certain he sincerely meant it.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  Even as she said it, she knew exactly what was wrong. She knew what it was that kept his face still and expressionless. Much as she tried to deny it, she had the same cold, rock-like lump in her own chest.

  Light flashed from his armor as his massive shoulders rose and fell in a long sigh. “I am sorry. I did not want to taint your enjoyment of this night.”

  Because we only have this night.

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.” She looked down at her wedding ring, twisting it on her finger. “I wish-“

  The words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t lie to him. She couldn’t wish that things had been different, that she’d never married Manuel. She couldn’t regret her life with her husband, or her children, or her grand-children.

  She jumped at his touch. Interlacing his fingers through hers, he turned her hand so that her wedding band caught the moonlight.