Thursday evening The Amazon
If the woman was trying to blend in, she wasn't very good at it. It'd taken Michael Quinn no more than five seconds to pick her out in the dim, crowded interior of O Diablo Dos Ángels, a rickety roadside barra in the bustling market town of Coroza, Brazil. He'd been traveling for two days now, working his way through the stifling, humid depths of the Amazonian rain forest, and it showed in his haggard appearance. Two days that felt more like weeks, each passing hour grating against his nerves like a rusty nail, until he was in what could only be classified as a category-five, off-the-Richter-scale, completely uncharacteristic foul mood.
Not that he was usually cheery. Normally Quinn just…existed. It'd been years since anything, or anyone, had managed to touch him or throw him off his firm, even keel—and now this. He couldn't explain it, but from the moment he'd been given Saige Buchanan's photograph, his cool, steady calm had begun to fade, slipping away from him like water spi-raling slowly down a drain. And in its wake, he'd been left with this seething intensity… this gripping tension.
What made it even worse was the fact that Quinn hadn't even wanted the assignment—had, in fact, been adamant in his refusal. And yet, here he was, with his damp shirt sticking to his skin, the heavy scent of tobacco and sweat making his head hurt, while something piercing and uncomfortably sharp slithered through his system at the sight of his prey.
Huh. So this is little Saige, he thought, moving along the wall, away from the door, careful to avoid her line of sight as she sat at a small table on the far side of the room, a bottle of water held in one delicate hand. At her side sat a young man who couldn't have been more than nineteen, his dark skin, hair and eyes attesting to his Brazilian heritage. The boy's lips were moving, and though Quinn's hearing was far better than a human's, he couldn't make out the words over the raucous cacophony of sound coming from the crowd.
It seemed a strange setting for an American woman and her young companion, and yet, no one bothered them. Not even the drunks. Was she a regular, then? Under the owner's protection? Or was there some other reason the locals kept their distance?
Whatever the answer, it couldn't be from lack of notice. Saige Buchanan stood out among the weathered patrons like a neon sign in the midnight pitch of night, glittering and bright.
Quinn rubbed his palm against the scratchy growth of stubble that came from going several days without a shave, then slowly shook his head, already revising his analogy. No, the reportedly brilliant anthropologist wasn't brash or bold, like neon. As bright as she shone, there was a soft, almost tender aura about her, which probably made her stick out even more than that angelic face, lush body or unusual shade of hair. Neither red nor brown, it hovered somewhere in between, picking up the soft, hazy glow of light that spilled down from above, struggling against the lengthening evening shadows.
A heavy wooden door suddenly slammed behind the bar and Quinn locked his jaw, marveling that the ramshackle structure didn't crumble down around them in a pile of mortar and bricks. Flicking a quick glance upward, he was surprised the stained ceiling actually managed to remain in place, even with the various thick support beams wedged between it and the sawdust-covered floor. Without a doubt, this place made him uncomfortable. He didn't like being closed in, confined, preferring the outdoors and the endless freedom of the sky.
And why don't you stop moaning and just get on with it? The sooner you get your hands on her, the sooner you can get out of here.
Sound words, and yet, now that he'd found her, the last thing on earth Quinn wanted to do was touch her— to get his hands on her. Not that he was concerned he couldn't handle her if she decided to be difficult. Saige Buchanan may have been more than an average human female, but then he was hardly an average man. He could scent that her Merrick had yet to fully awaken— and until it did, he would be able to retain the upper hand when it came to physical strength.
Later, after her awakening… well, he'd never gone head-to-head with a Merrick female before, but he sure as hell hoped she wouldn't be able to kick his ass. If that ever happened, his friends back at the compound would never let him live it down.
As a member of the Watchmen, an organization of shape-shifters whose duty it was to watch over the remaining bloodlines of the original ancient clans, Quinn had been taught a little about the Merrick, once one of the most powerful nonhuman species to walk the earth. And since the crap that had recently gone down with Saige's older brother, Ian Buchanan, he now knew even more. But Saige was…different. Unlike her brother, who experienced certain physical changes when the Merrick blood in his veins rose to the surface of his body, it was believed that Merrick females, while gaining in strength and agility and heightened senses, didn't change in appearance. She wouldn't sport talons on the tips of her delicate fingers. Wouldn't bulk up with thick, massive muscles. And her nose wouldn't alter its dainty, feminine shape.
But you're forgetting the fangs.
Ahh, right. Evidently, that was one of the changes the Merrick women did experience, in order to feed the primitive parts of their nature. Lifting his hand, Quinn rubbed at an odd tingle on the side of his neck, as if he could already feel the pleasure-pain of Saige Buchanan sinking her pearly whites into his flesh, taking the hot wash of his blood into her mouth, at the same time she took him deep into her body.
Whoa…
Scowling, he lowered his hand, fingers curling into a tight fist, and wondered what was wrong with him. Had the heat gone to his head? Had going without sex addled his brain? Or was he truly losing his mind?
Leaning his elbow against the small counter built into the side wall of the bar, Quinn shook off the irritating thoughts and signaled a stout, middle-aged woman who roamed the room with a tray, delivering drinks while she chatted with the customers. As she stepped closer, he could read the name Inez embroidered onto her apron, and despite the friendly way she'd handled the crowd, she leveled a cold, chilling look at him. Her dark eyes were wary now, and as they slowly inspected him from his scarred boots, up over his dirt-streaked jeans and damp black T-shirt, he said, "Uma cerveja, por favor."
"Tell me," she replied in heavily accented English, the corners of her wide mouth pinched with suspicion. "Why do you watch our Saige like you are hungry?"
Quinn locked his jaw, angry that he'd revealed the focus of his attention to those watching him.
"Well?" she persisted with an air of command that made him suspect she was more than a barmaid.
"No idea what you're talking about," he countered in a low, graveled voice, returning her hard stare. When it was obvious he wasn't going to back down, she muttered under her breath and turned around, making her way back to the bar.
Mentally kicking himself in the ass, Quinn purposefully withdrew his attention from the American and looked around the barm. In a strange way, he felt as though he'd walked onto a movie set. It was that surreal, complete with braying donkey outside the front door, the veil of smoke from cigarettes and cigars so thick you could all but slice it with a knife. The only thing that made it bearable was Saige. Her scent wrapped around him like a soft, clinging vine, enticing and warm and sweetly addictive. It was like…like a rain shower, refreshing and clean, washing away the suffocating grime. It even eased the tension he felt at being in such a crowded, noisy, closed-in space. With a conscious effort, Quinn focused on that mouthwatering scent, drawing more of it into his lungs, desperate to block out the rest of his surroundings.
Unable to help himself, his gaze slid back to Saige, greedily soaking up the visual details, hungry for the data. For the way her wavy hair fell around the delicate angles of her face. That impish sprinkle of freckles and the lush shape of her provocative mouth as she spoke with the young Brazilian.
Even without the photograph tucked into his back pocket, Quinn knew he'd have recognized her the second he set eyes on her. Though her coloring was fairer than her brothers', her feminine frame slight compared to their brawny strength, she still bore the marks of the Buchanan bloodline. Despite the thick smoke that filled the room, he could see the dark, deep blue of her eyes as if he were sitting at her side. And there was something about the angle of her jaw that attested to the Buchanan stubbornness he'd dealt with on a firsthand basis since meeting her siblings.
The small, tight T-shirt she wore fit her body like a glove, hugging a pair of lush breasts that were surprising on a frame as slight as hers, and his mouth almost curved with an appreciative male grin. Just because he didn't plan to touch, didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the view. The frayed khaki shorts and flannel shirt tied around her waist did nothing to disguise the womanly curve of her hips, and Quinn found himself wondering if her ass would be as enticing as the rest of her. He guessed her height to be somewhere around five-six, and though that wasn't overly tall, she looked smaller, somehow fragile. Still, her muscles were toned beneath the peaches-and-cream complexion, testament to the fact that she lived a physical life. She probably spent her time crawling in and out of archaeological digs, climbing up the treacherous sides of mountains, traipsing through the rain forest—all places where a fey little creature like herself didn't belong.
The corner of Quinn's mouth twitched as he pondered her reaction to that chauvinistic observation. The impudent set of her chin told him that Saige Buchanan was the kind of woman who went where she wanted, when she wanted, her safety and the opinion of oth...
