“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?”