Jack was fit, but didn’t have Grant’s ardent devotion to muscle building and punching things. Most people thought of Jack as the brains and Grant as the brawn of their pack, but the truth was that Grant had brains—and Jack had brawn.
It was strange how people needed to label—to put things and people into neat boxes so they could comprehend purpose. He knew some things, some ideas, didn’t fit perfectly into anywhere. Take this hunt for their mate as an example: He and Grant had journeyed to Las Vegas because the pack’s psychic Elsa had been adamant.
Well, according to her, dearly departed Matchmaking Matilda was the one who’d insisted. And this is what they got for listening to a woman twenty years dead.
You’ll find your mate, drifting in the desert, her fiery heart the sign she belongs to you both.
Somehow, Elsa had figured out—this time with the help of her crystals—that the Drift Resort in Las Vegas was the “drifting in the desert.” The rest she’d been unable to interpret, but all the same, he and Grant had booked the trip and spent a lot of time looking around for women who might display fiery hearts.
The Earth Pack werewolves were peace-makers. Some liked think they were lovers, not fighters, but those people were wrong. The Earth Pack members worked hard in every aspect of their lives, including training in self-defense and martial arts. The policy was mediate first, and if that didn’t work, then kick ass. Grant was mostly in charge of kicking ass because he liked the physical aspects of the alpha job. The data computation, chart-marking, and number-crunching were Jack’s specialties.
They needed a mate who could balance reason and logic with empathy and action.
Matchmaking Matilda might’ve gotten this one wrong. Maybe being dead had messed with her mojo. Three days had passed and they hadn’t made any progress. He hadn’t connected with any female, shifter or human, who stirred his loins or infiltrated his thoughts. Grant had dismissed every female they met because “Insert Stupid Grant Reason Here.” Too thin. Too blonde. Too young. Too brainless. Okay, okay. So Jack felt stupid for being here, too, but he was less vocal about it. He knew Grant was ready to go home. Damn it. They were getting desperate enough to sign-up on a shifter dating website.
Jack shuddered.
Enough thinking, already. He rose and dusted sand off his legs. The swim he’d taken earlier had stretched his muscles and burned off the beer calories earned the night before. Man, he was starving. He started down the empty, fake beach, heading toward the exit. He’d get some breakfast and find Grant. They’d agreed to one more day of looking for their fiery-hearted woman. Then…hello shifter dating sites.
“Excuse me!” cried a female voice. “Hey, you!”
Jack looked around, trying to determine where the voice hailed from and if, in fact, she was speaking to him. He spotted the woman in a small grove of fake palm trees. When he got closer he realized: She wore a black bikini.
She was tied up.
She was gorgeous.
And she had a tattoo just beneath her collarbone: a small red heart pierced by a sword of flames.
Whoa.
A fiery heart.
Her breasts were spilling out of the bikini top and, for a moment, he was mesmerized by all that soft, beautiful flesh. She had the reddest hair he’d ever seen, and there was lots of it, wavy and long. She was all lush curves and radiated pure sex. He wanted to fill his hands with her, take her into his mouth, part her thighs, and slide into her.
He wanted to feast on her.
Defiant green eyes stared him down. “Can you untie me?”
“Who did this?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
“Not unless you count wounded pride. I shouldn’t have been caught off-guard so easily.”
“That sounds like a story.” Jack worked out the knots and the rope fell away. As she stepped from the tree, she rubbed at the lines in her wrists. She flashed him a grateful smile that revealed dimples. He felt as though he’d been knocked on his ass. His pulse stuttered, and his libido revved into high gear.
“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate the rescue.”
“Believe me, it was my pleasure. I’m Jack.”
“Roxie.”
Even her name was beautiful. He wanted to … to … to lick her.
“Thanks again, Jack. See you around.”
“Wait! You’re leaving?”
“Tied to a tree, remember? I don’t want to be here when my abductor shows up with her cohorts.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“My name should be trouble,” she said. “Trust me, Jack. You don’t want any of my drama.”
Jack’s gaze landed on the fiery heart tattoo. Well, he couldn’t forsake Matchmaking Matilda’s words now. Roxie was his mate. Grant’s mate. She was the one who could complete their sacred triad and insure harmony for the Earth Pack. His nostrils flared as he scented her, tasting the air around her.
Werewolf.
She put her hands on her hips—her lovely, lovely hips—and stared at him. Her breasts jiggled enticingly, giving the impression they might fall out of the top.