The waiter looked at Tex, then back up at the Master Shark. The expression on the small land-shifter’s face very clearly stated: I am going to die.

“Come on, Breck.” Tex twanged an encouraging chord on his guitar. “You’ve always claimed that you could teach anyone to salsa. Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“You’ve got the easy job,” muttered the other man Tex had summoned, who the bartender had introduced as Travis. He was attempting to measure the span of the Master Shark’s arms, which was somewhat difficult in the limited space within the vacation cottage. “We’re going to need a bigger tape measure. Tex, there is no way in hell I can adjust a shirt to fit this mons- uh, gentleman. Not by tonight, anyway.”

Tex scratched the back of his neck. “What if you started with something of Chef’s?”

“I’d have to start with something of Magnolia’s just to have enough fabric to fit round his chest.” Travis cocked a wry eyebrow up at the Master Shark. “And I’m not sure that pink floral would give quite the effect you’re looking for, sir.”

The Master Shark considered it. “I am not attempting to appear intimidating. Dry-landers consider pink an unthreatening color, do you not?”

Tex, Breck, and Travis gazed at him for a long, wordless moment. Even though they were all different sorts of shifters—and thus shouldn’t be capable of communicating telepathically with each other—he had the distinct impression that all three of them were sharing the same mental image.

“The temptation is almost overwhelming,” Travis murmured.

“No,” Tex said firmly.

“Spoilsport.”

“Come on, it’s his one true mate. Let’s give the poor guy a chance.” Tex idly picked out a plaintive, wistful melody on his guitar. “I promised we’d help him out.”

“You’re a sucker for doomed romance.” Travis snapped his tape measure shut with a sigh. “I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing I can do. Even I can’t pull super-sized formalwear out of my ass at two hours’ notice.”

The Master Shark tilted his head. “Tonight’s dance is a formal occasion?”

Travis shrugged. “Well, it’s not white tie or anything, but we do encourage guests to dress up a bit. You’re going to need a little more than swim shorts, sir.”

“I have formalwear.” He pulled open the small wardrobe in demonstration.

There was a small, stunned silence.

“Oh, my tail and whiskers.” Breck let out a long, low whistle. “Well, I for one would pay good money to see him wear that.”

“Yeah, but on a dance floor?” Tex said dubiously.

“I think it’ll work.” Travis rubbed his chin. “If we lose some of the…accessories.”

* * *

“Accessories,” Magnolia said, pursing her lips in consideration. “You need just a tiny splash of color. Aha! I know the perfect thing.”

“Oh, no,” Martha protested, as Magnolia plucked a vibrant red hibiscus blossom from the vase on the dresser. “I can’t go around putting flowers in my hair like some slip of a girl. I don’t want to draw attention to my gray hairs.”

“Now, why would you be ashamed of these beautiful silver streaks?” Magnolia put her hand on top of Martha’s head, foiling her attempt to duck away. “Hold still.”

For a soft-looking person, Magnolia had a grip like a bear trap. Martha could only submit as the other woman carefully pinned the flower behind her left ear.

“There.” Magnolia stepped back, admiring her handiwork. “Wonderful. You shall go to the ball, Cinderella.”

Martha studied herself in the mirror critically. She had to admit, Magnolia’s deft touch had worked wonders. Martha would never have dared to use such bold eyeliner, but the smoky tones made her copper-brown eyes look as bright as new pennies. The scarlet hibiscus flower somehow transformed her salt-and-pepper hairdo into something elegant and sophisticated rather than short and sensible.

“You’ve got real style,” she said to Magnolia in admiration. “You can even make an old desert dog look presentable.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can claim credit for the pink in your cheeks,” Magnolia said with a shamelessly lewd wink. “I’m pretty sure that’s down to a certain Mr. Tall, Pale, and Sharkish. Now, promise you’ll find me at breakfast tomorrow and tell me all the juicy details.”

“Won’t be anything to tell,” Martha said primly as she searched for her shoes amidst the piles of rejected clothes scattered across the floor. “You’ll be at the dance, after all. You’ll see everything for yourself.”

Magnolia let out a rich, throaty chuckle. “You say that now, but you haven’t seen his outfit yet.”

“How on earth would you know what he’s wearing?”

Magnolia waggled her eyebrows mysteriously. “My spies are everywhere. Now, I’ve got to run and meet my own date. I’ll drop in at Housekeeping on the way and ask them to come tidy up in here while you’re out.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Magnolia had rather torn through Martha’s limited wardrobe like an incredibly fashion-conscious tornado, but Martha hardly wanted to be bothering the poor staff at this time of the evening. “I’ll sort it out myself later.”

“You might be busy later.” Magnolia shot her a sly glance over her shoulder as she headed out the door. “And it never hurts to be prepared for visitors. Or rather, a visitor.”

She disappeared down the path in a flutter of silk before Martha could think of a suitably scathing retort. Growling under her breath, she slipped on her shoes. She hesitated at the door, casting a last glance back at the room.

Maybe I should tidy up just a little.

Shaking her head free of the silly notion, she left the room exactly as it was. The fact that her baggy underthings were on full display meant that she’d have to think twice before issuing any…impulsive invitations. She needed all the help she could get to keep a leash on her fool inner animal. Her coyote was frisking like a pup with anticipation already.

“Settle down, you,” she muttered as she closed the door behind herself. “It’s just a dance. That’s all.”

The stars were just starting to gleam in the deep turquoise sky, but the full moon had already climbed high above the horizon. Night-blooming jasmine filled the air with a heady, hypnotic scent. Despite her attempt to rein in her coyote’s exuberance, Martha couldn’t help feeling practically giddy herself as she followed the curving, white-graveled path that ran from the guests’ cottages to the main part of the resort.

Oh, it’s been too long since I last went dancing.

She’d used to go practically every week, before she’d gotten married. But Manuel, bless his soul, had possessed two left feet and the sense of rhythm of a stunned duckling. After the kids had come along, it just didn’t feel right to ask him to spend their few precious date nights doing something he hated.

I hope he doesn’t hate it. Martha felt a twinge of guilt at her own mischievousness for setting her mate this challenge. Though he probably will.

She didn’t imagine that a person who didn’t even have feet most of the time would care for dancing. Or have much experience of it.

Well, it’ll serve me right if he breaks all my toes.

Candles in colored glass jars flickered among the tropical shrubs, guiding the way to the main building. The French windows lining the dining room had been folded back for the evening. Her pulse kicked up a notch as a sudden intoxicating roll of samba drums came from inside. A few other couples had already gathered on the veranda, laughing and chatting as they waited for the musicians to finish tuning up.

Breath coming short with anticipation, she hastened up the veranda steps. Her heart fell a little as she peered through the French windows. It was immediately apparent that he—she still couldn’t bring herself to think of him by that frankly ridiculous title—hadn’t arrived yet. A man of his dimensions couldn’t hide in even the thickest crowd, and the dance hall was still mostly empty.

“Looking for someone, ma’am?”

She jumped. Breck had managed to sneak up without her notice, soft-footed as a cat. The waiter had a silver tray of champagne flutes, and a rather wicked gleam in his eye.

“Is everyone in on this?” Martha said in exasperation. “You all need some more excitement in your lives if you find other people’s business this fascinating.”

“Here at Shifting Sands, we pride ourselves in taking a keen personal interest in the happiness of our guests,” Breck said, not looking the slightest bit repentant. He offered her the tray. “Please, take two. And if you will allow me to make a suggestion…I can highly recommend the view at the far end of the veranda.”

Martha glared at him, which had absolutely no effect on his exceedingly smug smile. “You people clearly watch too many telenovelas. All this fuss over nothing.”

Nonetheless, she took two of the champagne flutes, heading back outside. She found herself going against the tide, as other guests were heading into the main hall in expectation of the start of the dance. She didn’t recognize many of the faces; more people must have boated over from the mainland just for the evening. Martha’s skin prickled with the electric, feral energy of so many shifters gathered in one space.

Careful not to spill the drinks, she edged her way through the crowd, emerging back onto the veranda. The soft evening breeze should have been like a glass of cool water after the heady, pheromone-filled air inside…but the singing in her blood didn’t diminish one whit. Instead, the fizzing excitement in her veins only grew, sparkling like the champagne.

Settle down, you fool dog, she told her coyote firmly as she followed the curving veranda. Honestly, it was ridiculous. No man justified this much panting anticipation, not even-

Then she rounded the corner of the building, and saw him.

She damn near dropped the champagne glasses. He was standing half-turned, his face in profile to her as he looked out to sea. The light of the full moon highlighted the stark, rugged planes of his features, and touched his iron-gray hair with pure silver. It gleamed from the vambraces encasing his powerful forearms, and from the massive, intricately-wrought steel plates protecting his shoulders.

He was, quite literally, a knight in shining armor.

Or no, not a knight—something more primal, more powerful. He looked like some hero out of ancient sagas, a demigod of war. If she hadn’t known he was a flesh-and-blood man, she would have thought him made of marble and iron; a guardian statue, eternally ready to defend the island from any evil.

He’d told her he’d once been a king. Now, she believed it.

He turned his head, and his vast chest hitched as if he too had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. She shivered as his hungry gray eyes swept over her, slowly, from head to toe and back again.

“Thank you.” His rasping voice was even hoarser than usual, just a scrape of stone on stone.

It took her two attempts to unstick her own tongue from the roof of her mouth. “For what?”

He made the slightest gesture at her own body. “For this memory.”

He was impressed by her appearance? Martha stepped closer, drawn like a moth to a flame. She could scarcely believe that he was real. Only the fact that she still had both hands full stopped her from reaching out to touch him.

Although his armor covered his forearms and shoulders, only wide leather straps crossed his chest. His bare torso gleamed underneath, pale as marble in the moonlight. Where the straps met, over his heart, was a broad disc of silver, set with a single huge pearl clutched in the talons of an engraved sea dragon.

A belt worked with an intricate design of inlaid silver waves circled his waist. Form-fitting black leather pants clung to the hard curves of his thighs…and to other hard parts as well. Martha tore her eyes back upward, heat rushing into her face.

“Wh-what-“ She swallowed, and tried again. “What on earth are you wearing?”

One corner of his mouth lifted fractionally, the closest he ever seemed to get to a smile. “Nothing on earth. This is what I wear under the sea, on formal occasions.”

She blinked at him. “Well, life under the sea sure must be different to up here, is all I can say.”

“Yes.” There was a certain wry glint in his eye as he gestured at a couple of empty loops hanging from his belt. “Under the sea, I would go armed.”

Holy Mother of God. Martha had a sudden vision of him with a sword in his hand, sweat-stained and savage, and felt weak at the knees.

His shadow of a smile dropped away as he misinterpreted her stunned silence. “I am sorry. I have no other formalwear. If you no longer wish me to accompany you-“

“No! I mean yes! Uh, that is, I definitely still want you. That. The dance. Um.” Keeping hold of a train of thought was proving somewhat difficult. Martha struggled to pull herself back together, even though all she really wanted to do was stare at him. And then lick him. All over.

She cleared her throat, certain her own face must be flaming red. “Here,” she said, thrusting a champagne glass at him to cover her own confusion. “Let’s make a toast.”

He hesitated, eying the glass without reaching for it. “I thought that was something to do with bread.”

Her own mouth quirked. “Same word, different meaning. A toast is having a drink in honor of something.”

“Ah.” Very carefully, he took the glass from her. “And what shall we honor?”

Martha held her champagne up to him, and the moon. “To…memories. Old and new.”

“To memories,” he echoed softly.

Closing her eyes, Martha drank. The champagne tasted like moonlight, spreading silver through her veins.

To memories. The last time she’d drunk champagne as fine as this, it had been at her wedding. She remembered her husband’s shining eyes as he’d made his vows to her. The vows he’d never, ever broken.

Oh, Manuel, Manuel. You were always faithful to me. Help me to be strong now.

A splutter interrupted her fervent prayer. Opening her eyes, she discovered the Master Shark was clearly struggling to contain a coughing fit. He was usually so dignified, she couldn’t help but break into giggles.

“Oh, my,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You aren’t supposed to chug it. Don’t you have champagne under the sea?”

“No.” He put his now-empty glass down, still glaring at it with such mortal offense that it was a wonder it didn’t melt into slag on the spot. “A fact for which I am now very grateful. Is all alcohol so…bubbly?”

“Only the good stuff.” Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she tapped a finger against one of the curving metal plates covering his forearm. It was, unmistakably, honest-to-God armor. “This must weigh a ton. Can you really dance in this stuff?”

The gleam was back in his storm-cloud eyes again, though this time it was a distinctly predatory look. Without a word, he held out his hand.

Setting aside her own champagne, she placed her hand in his. Her own looked very small, delicate as an autumn leaf against his hard, scarred palm. A thrill shot through every inch of her body as his powerful fingers closed, ever so gently, over hers.

“Come,” he said, pulling her toward the dance hall. “I will show you.”