Why is he so determined to resist me?

She could see he made an effort and yet, at the same time, couldn’t completely hide his desire for her. As he’d carried her along—with effortless strength—she’d felt the erection he couldn’t hide, pressing against her core. Seen the spark of something in his eyes. Yet, he didn’t once try to kiss her or toss her to the ground and have his wild wicked way with her.

Once they reached the better lit part of the path, he finally set her down, and her ass missed the firm grip of his hands. Even more astonishing, he let her walk away. Not a single slap to her behind or whistle at her sassy strut.

How disappointing.

The man was such an enigma. Self-assured. Sparse with his humor and lacking in common sense and taste. Really, he should thank Stacey for saving him from the claws of that simpering Jan. The resort employee obviously saw him as a ticket off this island to better places. Gold digger.

Stacey disliked her with a passion usually reserved only for knock-off brands. Was it any wonder, when she’d seen Jan with Francois, she’d almost pounced her and torn her face off? She’d definitely uttered a very unladylike growl that caused a few party-goers on the terrace to eye her askance.

Good thing Stacey had a reason to drag him away before he and Jan could drift off into the night doing things that made Stacey’s claws pop out without even thinking of it.

Why do I care? No mistaking it bothered her, which could mean only one thing.

I’m jealous. What a novel concept and for a man she didn’t even like.

Like his fine body.

Okay, her inner feline had a point. The man was built like a brick house. Having sex with him would be like riding a mountain, all hard ridges and firm thrusting—

Bad kitty. Her mind just couldn’t stop veering into naughty places. Perhaps she should get this insane lust for him out of her system. Seduce him, scratch her erotic itch, and then they could both move on.

If I wasn’t so preoccupied with Francois and what he was doing, I could cozy up to some male guests and see if they know anything. Or even get close to Maurice. He’d be easy enough to seduce. Francois had a point about pumping the employees for information. Stacey could handle the men, the straight ones at least, while Francois could pretend an interest in the female staff members. Encourage their flirting and…

“Do you hear growling?” he asked from behind her.

“Must be something hunting in the jungle,” she snapped, irritated that, once again, he managed to get under her skin.

And this after only one day. She barely knew the man, and yet he irritated her more than that incursion of fleas they’d suffered that year at the lakeside cottage.

Arriving at her room, she slapped her wrist against the door, and it clicked. Pushing it open, she went to enter, only to have Francois butt in ahead of her.

“Manners,” she sang. “They’re not just for everyone else.”

“Stupidity, not just for heroines who shower in haunted houses,” he grumbled back.

She blinked as she absorbed the fact that he’d made a joke. Hot damn.

“How is you shoving ahead of me a good thing?” she asked, entering and closing the door.

“I was checking for signs of an intruder.”

“I would have smelled one just fine on my own.”

“The same way you smell me?”

“I smell you just fine. Although I have to say, Old Spice, aren’t you too young for that?”

“It makes me smell human.”

“And what do you smell like without it?” Because she’d heard his kind had no scent at all, which to a feline seemed preposterous. Everyone had a scent. A unique one. Surely he did too? Then again, his boss, Gaston, had no scent. But he played with dead things. Probably better no one could smell that.

“Maybe one day I’ll let you smell me after a shower.”

“Or we could just share a shower. You know, to conserve water.”

He didn’t reply. Pity. She could have used a sluice off and someone to soap her back.

“The room is clear,” he announced. “No signs of tampering.”

“I feel so much safer.” She held a melodramatic hand to her forehead. “Whatever did I do before you came into my life?”

“I can tell you what I did, not listen to a smartass.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Calling me smart. Not everyone recognizes it. They usually just think I’m pretty.”

He glowered.

She smiled. “If you’ll give me a second to slip into something comfortable, we can read over what Melly sent.”

His reply was a grunt, which was why she was perhaps a touch naughtier in her selection of an outfit than she should have been. She emerged from the bathroom wearing simply a short negligee. No panties, no robe, nothing but white silk trimmed in lace.

He still wore his khaki slacks and shirt. And he’d already removed his socks and shoes.

What he couldn’t remove was his expression. Had she thought him incapable of anything other than scowls and disapproval?

How wrong. His face remained stony in expression, but his eyes…his eyes smoldered, the depths of them glowing with a red heat.

“Why don’t you grab a spot on the couch, sweetcheeks, so we can both read what she sent at the same time.”

“I don’t mind taking turns.”

“Are you afraid of me?” She might have batted her lashes.

A true male could never turn away from a challenge. He sat down hard on the couch, and with a canary-eating grin, she took a spot beside Francois, tucked close against him, her head leaning against part of his shoulder and chest. A rock-hard location, and yet, she found it oddly comfortable.

She held up her phone and then proceeded to enter a series of checks—finger scan, code, another scan, another code.

He sighed. “Is all this subterfuge really that necessary?”

“Melly takes pride security seriously. Let’s see what she’s got to say.”

The first thing to pop up in the report Stacey opened was a brief paragraph. Found some stuff on the disappearing women. Turns out this has been going on for longer than we expected. At least a few years. The other resorts just haven’t advertised it. And it’s not just ladies who go missing; sometimes men do too.

A bisexual predator? Fascinating.

The message went on. I analyzed the video further. Ran it through some filters and stuff. Couldn’t get an identity on the guy, or ascertain if it was a mask or real. But I did spot a few things.

Being Melly, her message couldn’t simply tell Stacey; it showed her.

The video box had a giant triangle that when pressed began to play the clip. The footage was clearer than before, but that wasn’t the only modification. When the liotaur entered the clearing, the playback slowed, enlarged, and showed his wrist.

Francois jabbed his finger at the screen. “This is the famous video that sent you here?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize it’s probably some guy playing a prank.”

“Then, if it is, he’ll be easy to catch and take care of.” She pointed to the liotaur’s arm. “He’s wearing a wristband.”

“Three-quarters of the people on this island are wearing wristbands because they’re either a guest or employee. There is no way to tell which resort that band belongs to.”

Good point, but she still considered it a clue. The video kept playing, rolling slowly, only enlarging again a moment before the liotaur and his prize exited the screen. The circle around his upper shoulder and a zoom in of the area showed a black smudge.

“He’s got a tattoo,” she noted aloud.

“Again, describing a fair amount of people.”

“Do you have tattoos?” She had to wonder, given he kept himself covered neck to toe. Even his sleeves were long. He’d opted to remain in his clothes rather than those she’d bought for him. Shame. She’d picked up some sweet swimsuits for him.

“Any marks I have on my body are my business, not yours.”

“So you do in other words?” She bounced up on her knees. “Show me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not a sideshow freak for you to stare at.”

“You’re going to have to strip eventually.”

“If I do, it will be in my room with the door locked.”

“Is that a challenge, sweetcheeks?”

“Can we get back to the rest of the report?”

“Chicken,” she muttered under her breath. She settled back against him and frowned at the next bit of text. She read it aloud. “There is a very old legend the islanders pass down verbally from generation to generation. It speaks of the lion-headed people who live in the mountain.”

“Shifters?” he queried. “It could be the island had some but they died out.”

“But they called them lion-headed. Shifters can’t do partial shifts.”

He disagreed. “Not entirely true. While rare, some shifters can do a partial transformation, keeping their human shape but the rest of their body becoming animal like.”

“It is super rare. I mean the most I can do without going all furry is my claws. To do only a head, a complete lion head and nothing else…” Her turn to play devil’s advocate. “The more likely scenario is a tribe who hunted lions and used their trophies as headdresses.”

“Wearing the head of their kill as a hat?”

“More like a mask, and there is precedent. The ancient Egyptians were big on using animal heads to make themselves seem like gods. But back to Melly’s report. Apparently, in the olden days, these lion dudes were considered to be gods and, as such, were given tributes in the form of fresh catches from the sea, fruits and vegetables, and, once a year, the offering of a virgin.” She peered up at Francois. “Do you think someone is reenacting the old stories?”

“More like someone is using the old superstitions to get his rocks off. It’s a hoax. Some guy obviously thought it would be funny to recreate these supposed ancient gods and is using it to get laid.”

“Except people aren’t offering the women. He’s stealing them.”

“Is he really stealing them? The woman in that video isn’t really fighting.”

“She looks scared.”

“Scared and excited. As if she expected something to happen. The fear was probably from being told to run through the woods while something chased her. And when he did, the fear got swallowed by her anticipation.”

“You really think this is a hoax? Then why hasn’t Shania contacted anyone?”

“It’s been how many days since she went missing? Three, four?”

“Three as of tonight.”

“It’s not too farfetched to imagine she might still be involved in an orgy of the senses.”

“A three day orgy?” She pursed her lips. “Who the hell is that good in bed?”

“I once managed three.”

The reply startled her to the point she practically fell over trying to crane to see his face.

No smile. No hint of mirth that he teased. Just more of that simmering fire.

“Let’s say,” she said, trying to not focus on how much stamina a man had to have to manage to keep a woman satisfied for three days straight in bed, “that you’re right. That she did go willingly. Where did they go? He’s wearing a resort bracelet, and so is she. If they stayed in this resort, someone would have seen her or at least recorded her presence. According to Melly, the bracelets help track the location of guests as they use them on the property. But we haven’t had any pings. So if he stashed her somewhere on this property, then he must have removed her bracelet and somehow managed to keep her presence secret while managing to smuggle her in food. Or he was a guest somewhere else and he took her off property to another resort?”

“Or they shacked up at a place in town. Or he stowed her aboard a yacht. Maybe they’re even out in the wild camping. At this point all we have are suppositions without any facts.”

“Well, at least I’m brainstorming instead of shooting negative nellies at everything I say.”

“It’s called being the voice of reason.”

“I’m a lioness; we’re not always reasonable.”

“I know. It’s why you make awful pets.”

She gaped at him. “Did you seriously just relate my kind to that of domestic feline chattel?”

“You’re a cat. Cats have owners. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

One moment she sat next to him, and the next, she straddled him. “Take that back. I am more than just a pussy.”

“You’re an irrational female who throws herself into things to sate a curiosity that doesn’t make room for careful thought or consideration.”

“I do believe in your roundabout way that you just called me reckless.”

“I did.”

She smiled. “Thank you. And because I can’t be held accountable for my risky actions…” She pressed her mouth to his. Sealed his lips in a kiss and she was pleased to feel him suck in a breath.

Her breath.

He also didn’t shove her away.

Or protest.

So she kept kissing him. Slanting her mouth over his, tasting the firm line of his mouth, the cold and somehow mysterious texture of him that tasted of whiskey and nothing else.

How odd.

Determined to find his true taste, she parted his lips with her tongue, thrusting it into his mouth, sliding it along his. More whiskey, and a hint of something both cold and hot, but still no true flavor.

His hands gripped her ass cheeks, the fingers digging in, and he moved her, rubbed her against him, the turgid proof of his arousal pressing against her, even with his slacks in the way.

No hiding his lust anymore. He wanted her. She wanted him, which meant no way was she stopping.

Her hands gripped the wide strength of his shoulders, feeling the firm flesh. Their tongues danced together, sucking and sliding, while he palmed her ass, grinding her against him.

The frenzy in her built at the friction between their bodies. His lips halted their plunder and trailed across her jaw to her neck. He licked and sucked at her flesh, drawing a moan from her. A shudder clenched her sex as her excitement spiraled.

Down went his lips, blazing a path to the plunging neckline of her nightie. A nudge of his mouth moved the fabric over, baring a rosy tip. He sucked it, drawing it into his mouth, teasing the erect bud with his lips and teeth.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Suck it.”

He did. He sucked hard at her nipple, pulling it into a point before moving his attention to the other breast. He lavished it with attention, licking and sucking at her flesh, while she squirmed in his lap.

The heat in her boiled, molten desire racing through her veins. Awareness enhancing every touch, moan, and caress.

His lips left her breasts to once again capture her mouth, a hot and fiery embrace that saw her digging her fingers into his hair, tugging at it.

She bounced on his lap, excited. Close to the edge. Needing only a slight push to go over. He once again let his mouth wander, across her jawline to the lobe of her ear. He swirled the shell, and she sighed.

“More,” she moaned.

His lips traveled down and paused at her racing pulse. He nipped her neck, sharp enough that she let out a sound.

“That’s it, bite me. Bite me hard.”

Mark me. Take me.

Instead, he dumped her on the couch and fled faster than she could blink. Fled through the door separating their rooms, shutting it behind him. Odd.

Did he run to fetch a condom?

Click.

Surely that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he had to pee and didn’t want her walking in.

She waited.

Waited some more.

But he didn’t return.

Well damn. She’d never had a guy run out on her before. Now what? Her sex throbbed. All of her ached with unrelieved passion.

Should I go after him?

And beg he do something about the fire he’d ignited in her body?

Me, beg a man? Not likely.

Only one thing to do when a body screamed for relief and she was too proud to let her fingers do the walking.

Clear night. Hot breeze. Lots of nice smells.

She stripped before stepping out onto the balcony.