West had taken off as early as he could and gotten home as quickly as possible. He was eager to meet the MeetYourMate girl, Winnie. If she looked anything like her photos, it would be a challenge to keep his hands off her. His blood burned at the mere thought of her—abundant, beguiling, and fresh as a flower.

He quietly stepped into his entrance hall. No sign of the girl. Would she be in her room? Somewhere else? He could hear his chef, Amy, cutting carrots in the kitchen.

And then he heard something. A piano note. Then another one.

C twice. E once. E. He recognized the tune.

Slowly, he came into the receiving room. There, at the piano, playing slowly, was Winnie Wednesday.

She was utterly lovely. Her hair was as rich, thick, and wavy-blonde as it had looked in her pictures, and her skin was as pale and clear as milk. The profile of her face was feminine, perfect. And her body . . .

“When in Love?” he asked, interrupting her playing. She stopped abruptly and looked up, her face white with surprise. There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a voice full of natural honey. She had a slight Southern accent, as musical as her playing. “I shouldn’t have touched your piano.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, charmed. “It’s not behind glass.”

She gazed at him, color coming back to her beautiful face. Her features were his image of perfection, with lusciously pouty lips, high, full cheeks, a flawless little nose, and a well-defined, heart-shaped jaw. And her eyes. Her eyes were a bright, living blue. They reminded him of . . . of springtime. Yes, that was it. They really were blue like a spring sky.

Although . . . that was a little strange. Shifter girls usually had a ring of some fey color in their eyes, silver, copper, or gold. She had none. They were just blue. He’d never seen that before.

“I’m out of practice,” she said. “I haven’t really played since high school.”

“You sounded fine. When in Love is a duet, though.”

She cocked her head, and he saw the beginning of a smile on her kissable mouth. “Are you offering to help?”

Suddenly, Amy popped into the room. She was never intrusive, but somehow, she always made herself noticed. He and Winnie both looked at her, standing there in her crisp white uniform.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Mr. Croft.”

“Thank you, Amy.” He could tell it was because dinner was the only thing he could smell. Shifters had much, much better powers of scent than humans, and from the moment he’d stepped off the elevator, his nose was filled with flank steak, strawberry and avocado salad, and thyme-roasted carrots. “We’ll be there in a moment.” Amy disappeared again.

Winnie stood up from the piano bench, and his senses reeled from her beauty. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress made of cheap black velvet and a silver necklace with a half-heart pendant. Her chest was big—bountiful—and her waist was small, while her hips were round, wide, and achingly female. She had the best figure he’d ever seen. Her breasts straining the fabric of her dress made his pulse thicken.

She looked a little shy, like she was afraid of a negative reaction. Men had probably overlooked her before. Human men seemed to like their women in whatever the latest vogue was, following trends—thin, thinner, thin-but-hourglass—instead of instinct. Shifter men’s desires never changed. They liked their women as succulent, as feminine, and as strong as possible, always, without change. It was instinct. The bear in him thrilled to the richness of her body.

A girl like her could weather a winter, bear cubs, defend her den, keep him warm . . . he had to think cold, unsexy thoughts to keep himself soft.

“You’re as beautiful as your photos,” he said honestly. “Can I call you Winnie?”

“Thank you, and yes,” she said, coloring slightly and blinking her huge blue eyes. “Just Winnie. What should I call you?”

“West. Everyone calls me West.” He gestured her closer. “I’m happy to have you here.”

“West,” she repeated, coming toward him. “Thank you for having me. I appreciate your being my host.”

“Not at all,” he said, but as she reached him, something registered in his brain. He could smell her now—and she smelled wrong. “What’s your Clan, Winnie?”

She looked puzzled. “I’m sorry? What do you mean?”

“Ah.” She had a wonderful natural scent—it was like smoked honey, matching the honey of her voice—but it was missing something. It was . . . human. Humans smelled different from shifters, softer, and unless his nose had suddenly failed him, she was no shifter at all. It took a minute for him to speak again. “I’m a brown bear. Does that mean anything to you?”

She looked at him like he was speaking a different language. “A brown bear?”

She’s not a shifter.

It was horrible, absolute knowledge.

She isn’t one of us.

There had been a mistake. Humans weren’t supposed to use or know about MeetYourMate, and yet she did and she had, and here she was. Maybe there had been a problem with the website’s privacy controls, exposing it to the wider web, to browser searches. She could have stumbled on it and used it innocently, like any matchmaking service.

So. What should he do now? Send her away? Make her leave?

She was watching him with her lovely, blonde-lashed eyes. Human women and shifter men didn’t mate. It just didn’t happen. The correct thing to do would be to put her in a car back to the airport. Send her home.

Problem. He didn’t want to.

She wasn’t a shifter, and a shifter was what he needed in a mate, but . . . she was his guest. And she was a beautiful guest. He thought he’d never seen a more beautiful girl. He didn’t want to send this vision away.

“Pardon me. It was a sports question,” he lied. I can’t turn her out. Not tonight. Not in a city she doesn’t know. I need to keep her for the evening, at least.

“Oh! I don’t really follow sports, so . . . I don’t support anyone, if that’s what you were asking. Except the Cowboys. Sometimes.”

He smiled. “Are you hungry, Winnie?”

“Yes. Thanks for taking care of dinner for us. For me.”

Viscerally, he felt there was a lot he might do for her. And to her.

“It’s my pleasure. You can go in and sit down,” he said, loosening his cuff. “I’ll be at the table in just a few minutes. It’s through that door and then to the left. All right?”

She nodded and smiled. The animal inside him wanted to rip off her pretty black dress, throw her on the couch, and mount her. With discipline, he resisted the urge.

He went to his room—it was sparser, more modern than the rest of the apartment—and whipped out his phone, his traitorous cock straining at his slacks. He texted Asher one line.

She’s human.