His mate had gone back to pointedly ignoring him. Pretending indifference, he tipped his head back, closing his eyes. The sensation of firm fingers running over his instep was surprisingly pleasant, once he’d managed to subdue his instinctive urge to kick his assailant in the face.
“I’ve got five kids,” his mate announced.
He cracked open one eye, but she was still pointedly not looking at him. She appeared to be addressing her own attendant. Since she’d chosen to speak in English, however, he was confident that he was the real target of her words.
“Juanita, she’s my eldest, she’s mated to a lovely jackalope girl, just sweet as pie. They’ve got two kids of their own. My boy Nic, he and his mate have got one on the way too. Due in September. Can’t wait to smell that new-baby scent again. Grandpups are such a blessing.”
Ah. Another challenge.
She was indirectly telling him of her wealth—not in the sorts of unimportant trinkets valued by dragons, but true wealth. A shark knew that blood was the greatest prize of all. He listened as she so-casually mentioned name after name, treasure after treasure: children and grandchildren, sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews and cousins.
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.