Rough Waves: The Shark's Double Secret, #1

By Cleo Peitsche

Shark shifters and romance! First novel in a hot new trilogy.

 

When Tara accepts a free trip to the Caribbean, she's expecting azure ocean and powdery beaches. Instead, she gets trapped in a mansion with Spencer, the enigmatic biotech billionaire. The same man she had an ill-fated fling with. Soon, Tara stumbles onto Spencer's dark secrets.

 

Spencer has been gambling with his life, trying to find a cure that will save shark shifters from a dangerous toxin in the ocean. He needs time and luck, and to avoid all distractions. Instead, he gets Tara, the brilliant, stubborn woman he's been trying to forget. He wants her more than ever, but if he gives in, many innocent marine shifters will die.

 

Desperate, Spencer proposes a deal that will keep Tara far away from his bed and his secrets. But it backfires, leading to an explosion neither could have predicted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pouch Productions
• Release date: Sep 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215436745

Cleo Peitsche

If Cleo isn't writing (or reading!) erotica, she's probably sitting on her balcony, watching the wind blow through the trees. She loves snowstorms, piña coladas, horses, and pasta primavera. If she won the lottery, she would hire an assistant to take care of the technical side of e-publishing so that she could write all day.Some random facts about Cleo:1. Thinks life's too short to forgo HEAs and HFNs.2. Sprained an ankle joining the mile-high club. (Never again!)3. Favorite writers include Cormac Mccarthy, Junot Diaz and Rachel Caine.4. Gets weak-kneed for bookish guys who know how to fix things with their hands. *swoons*

Book preview

1

The beach bonfire burned hot and bright in the darkness, and gusts whisked smoke and embers into the air. Waves bit violently into the beach. Far off the coast of the Caribbean island, a storm was brewing, but it wouldn’t arrive until morning.

Spencer would be taking his yacht into the storm.

Circumstances dictated that he go alone, in secret. But for the first time in months, he was thinking about something other than his covert battle.

Because she was here. Tara. The human from New York.

The woman who made him regret the life he’d been forced to choose.

Of course she had come. When Koenraad and Monroe threw a party, no one turned them down. Not even Spencer, though he wasn’t there for the celebration. He wasn’t even there for Tara.

The wind kicked up, carrying the scent of her rosemary and mint shampoo along with the sharp odor of fuel in the tiki torches and fried food at the beach bar, crowded with partygoers.

Spencer didn’t need the wind to tell him which direction to look; he’d already spotted her.

Burning hotter than the fire, Tara was the one closest to the musicians. They were playing a version of Kokomo. The tempo sped up, turned sinfully slow, sped up again. Tara danced, her shoulder-length hair whipping as she spun, the hem of her white dress floating to the tops of her thighs, her hips rolling in rhythm with the drums. The sensual way she gave herself over to the music reminded him of a human fertility rite.

Some things transcended the gap between human and shifter.

Like your attraction to her, shark.

He ignored the thought. Their one-night stand in Manhattan had been both enthralling and torturous, with Spencer battling his animal nature, fighting his need to claim her as his. When a shark shifter claimed a mate, it was for life, and Spencer’s life wasn’t his to give.

Hell, Tara didn’t even know that shifters existed. Most humans didn’t.

Are you going to stand there all night, scowling? You’ll frighten the guests and send my wife into premature labor. Koenraad had spoken from some thirty feet away and at normal volume, but Spencer had no problem hearing him despite the drums and the crash of the surf.

With a sigh, Spencer stepped down from the paved walkway and onto the beach. Powdery sand shifted under the soles of his deck shoes.

Avoiding his best friend, Spencer took his time working the crowd, saying hello to the locals he knew—human and shifter alike.

It didn’t matter which direction he was facing or who he was talking to. His attention was on Tara.

A weaker man would have given in, would be at her side already, hands on her curvy hips, pulling her perfect body against his. But years of hard academic and laboratory work had taught Spencer nothing if not how to deny the needs of the flesh.

Finally, he decided to put an end to the self-torture and tracked Ralph to the open bar. The short and stocky Tureyguan entrepreneur sat atop a keg, swinging his legs merrily. His dark hair, twisted with blue yarn, was pulled back from his face, and his mouth split into a grin when he saw Spencer. Hey, Doc. Where’ve you been hiding?

Massachusetts.

It wasn’t true, but everyone knew about Spencer’s biotech startups in Boston. He’d been on so many magazine covers that his mother had stopped framing them and now just tossed them into a keepsake box, which she liked to pull out during his annual holiday visit to San Diego.

Ralph nodded sagely. It’s past time someone took control of the situation.

Spencer froze. What do you mean?

That cure for dementia. You pull that off, they’ll rename the Nobel prize after you.

Relieved, Spencer gave a good-natured laugh. Of course Ralph didn’t know about his research into the toxin in the ocean.

In fact, no one knew what Spencer had been working on, not even other shifters. The Council had made sure of it.

But now the toxin was mutating again, becoming more dangerous for shifters.

The Council didn’t want to hear it.

They didn’t want to know, and they didn’t want him investigating.

And so Spencer had been acting quietly, on his own. He’d devised two plans of action and felt confident that at least one would pay off. He needed help, but it had to be someone with the right connections, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Ralph was spinning one of his stories, something about a tourist on crutches who’d insisted on renting a sailing dinghy but couldn’t even wrangle it into the water. The band began playing a Tureyguan song that was shooting up international charts.

When Ralph paused to signal for another beer, Spencer leaned against the bar. Benson Ulsterwood, he said, the name bitter on his lips. Where is he?

You tell me. Ralph made a disgusted sound. Last time I saw him, he had some sob story about needing money for a cab. Said he lost his phone and wallet. I was gonna loan him a twenty. He insisted on taking a hundred, swore on his grandma’s grave that he’d pay me back within a day. Have I seen him since? Hell, no.

Spencer sighed. Benson was the sole heir of a wealthy family. But he was cheap.

No, not merely cheap. Benson got a kick out of manipulating others.

Every bull shark Spencer had ever met was an ass. Despite what humans believed, bull sharks—the animals, not the shifters—were responsible for more human deaths than great white sharks were.

A bull shark was as happy to hunt in the turbid muck of a freshwater lake as in the depths of the ocean. A bull shark would surge up onto the sand to get its prey. They were territorial and easily offended. As shifters, they weren't much better. They tended to take things… personally.

Spencer hated them. Even Koenraad, who was friends with everyone, wouldn’t hunt with them.

But to achieve his goal, Spencer would have embraced shark hunters if need be; he was that desperate.

I have to talk to him, Spencer said. Could you give him a call?

Ralph frowned.

Message him, Spencer said, taking out his wallet. Here’s the money he owes you, and if he pays you back, keep that, too. Contact him. It’s important.

Ralph, never one to pass up an opportunity, accepted the crisp bills. What do I write?

Tell him— Spencer began. Somewhere on the beach, Tara was singing as she danced, and suddenly he could hear nothing but her breathless exhalations, her little laughs.

It hit him in the gut. He should be with her, not plotting this crap. He wished he could shift into something incapable of anguish.

His resolve hardened. He was doing this for her, too.

Tell him I’ve got a business proposition. That ought to tempt Benson into open water.

You could do business with me.

Not this, Spencer said. Trust me.

With a shrug, Ralph pulled his phone from one of the pockets in his baggy cargo shorts and began tapping out a message.

Spencer turned to the bar, filled a water glass with tequila because the bartenders were busy, and chugged the whole thing. Unfortunately, alcohol wouldn’t do anything for him in such small quantities.

Ralph wiggled his phone in front of Spencer’s face. Spencer can call in thirty min, better not waste my time

Thanks, Spencer said, memorizing the number. He poured himself another tequila—a normal amount because Ralph was facing the bar now—and stared out over the crowd.

Was avoiding Tara a mistake? Would it be so bad to just say hello?

Don’t do it.

There were more dancers now, but he could still see flashes of Tara, an outflung arm joyfully swinging through the air, a heel digging into the powdery Caribbean sand. No delicate, pointed toes. She danced like she fucked. Hard. Relentless. With all her body and soul.

What he couldn’t see at the moment, he could imagine: the way she planted her weight, pivoted her hip. The wavy mass of dark-blonde hair falling in front of her eyes before she pushed it away with an impatient gesture.

I need one other favor, Spencer said to Ralph, who was bobbing his head along with the music. Can you look after my house for the next year or so? A monthly walk-through would be enough.

Ralph’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t voice his surprise at the length of time. I’ll handle anything you need me to, and if you think of something else while you’re in Boston, you just pick up the phone, man.

I appreciate it. Spencer didn’t need to add that he would pay. It was understood. He had billions, and while most humans weren’t privy to that information, they were aware that he had plenty. His mansions and yachts gave it away, as did the private planes.

Flying. He was going to miss that. Especially his vintage aircraft, as loud and pungent as they were. They deserved better than to rot inside a hangar. He’d have to arrange for them to be donated to charity.

There were so many things he wanted to do one last time… but only one of them could be remedied right now.

Only one of them truly mattered.

He could at least talk to Tara. Maybe dance. Take that memory with him.

Already breathing easier, he pushed away from the bar.

But then he saw Monroe cutting through the crowd. Monroe’s hands caressed her midsection, greatly swollen with her first baby.

He had a bad feeling from the determined way she was walking…

His spirits sank when Monroe grabbed Tara’s wrist and pulled her away from the musicians. Away from him.

Use your beer belly like a snowplow, Tara said, and the two friends started laughing.

Spencer turned around just as Koenraad stepped into the space that Ralph had occupied. You really like her. Don’t deny it.

Like who?

Are you holding back because she’s human? Monroe’s human, and we’re doing great.

That’s not it.

You’ve got a fan club. A couple of women in tight minidresses, their eyes glassy from too much booze, were edging closer. They cast furtive, hungry glances. One smiled with sparkly red lips and touched her hair, preparing to make her move.

Spencer clapped his friend on the shoulder. I’m gonna grab some food.

Twenty minutes passed.

Spencer spent them chatting with various acquaintances while pretending he wasn’t waiting for Tara to reappear.

He knew she’d be back soon; he’d overheard Koenraad telling another shifter that Monroe had been craving Thai red curry.

But not soon enough.

Spencer left the party and walked up the beach toward the parking lot, disappointment dogging his footsteps.

He dialed as he slid into the driver’s seat of his hard-top convertible. The top was on, and with the door closed, only a shifter standing nearby would be able to overhear the conversation.

The phone rang, rang, rang, then went to voicemail.

Spencer stared stonily out at the rising clouds of bonfire smoke. Maybe Benson was jerking him around.

He dialed again. After several tries, Benson answered. This had better be good. Music played in the background. For a moment Spencer thought Benson was nearby, but then he realized it was electro-pop, different music.

I’ve stumbled into a business opportunity, Spencer said. If you’re interested.

Keep talking.

I’m setting up a company to study the effects of toxin in the ocean water. The research—

Stop right there, Benson said, and Spencer had no problem imagining him in a suit on Wall Street, about to defraud retirees out of their pensions. I’m not interested in trying to save the world.

It’s not about saving the world, Spencer lied. The toxin has medicinal potential, and that makes it valuable.

What kind of money are you talking?

Thirty-seventy split. It wasn’t an amount, but Spencer was counting on Benson’s greed to overwhelm his powers of critical thinking.

Thirty percent? Benson said. You know, I was always under the impression you didn’t like me. Cause I dated Hera. Sexy little piece of ass, am I right?

Hera and Spencer had hooked up right after high school, and it fizzled out when Spencer was away at college. From what he’d heard, ever since her fling with Benson, she only dated other dolphins. And Spencer could guess why.

Male shark anatomy was… brutal.

A fresh wave of hatred washed over Spencer. Maybe he didn’t despise all bull sharks, just Benson and his crew.

You’re right, Spencer said. "I don’t like you. But I need a business partner and you’ve got connections. We can make each other a lot of money. A lot of money."

Benson gave a delighted laugh. Switch to video.

A moment later, Spencer was staring at Benson’s oversized squarish jaw, pale lips stretched in glee, malicious little eyes shining.

I know you don’t need money. You want protection. Benson’s unspoken words hung in the air. Protection because you’re doing something illegal.

Not exactly. And there will be a financial buy-in.

Why? Benson looked mystified.

Because you’re an untrustworthy bastard who will go back on his word. Because then you’ll have skin in the game, he said instead. You have an hour to decide.

Or what? You’ll go to Koenraad?

I might.

No, I don’t think so. Benson scratched his jaw. Koenraad’s too by-the-rules. What you’re plotting must be shady. Is it drugs? Finally putting your prescription pad to good use?

Spencer didn’t answer.

I want half, Benson said.

An SUV pulled into the parking lot. The driver’s door opened and Tara dropped to the ground and darted around the vehicle to help her much taller friend maneuver out of the passenger’s seat.

Tara had pulled her hair into a ponytail at some point. Her full cheeks were flushed pink. She had short but thick eyelashes and wide-set eyes that Spencer knew could turn devilish under the right circumstances.

Wind gusted, pressing her dress against her body and outlining the shape of her hips and thighs. When she turned and bent over to collect a paper takeout bag from the back seat, Spencer dug his fingers into the steering wheel.

His heart thudded as he remembered the soft tangle of her hair through his fingers. She had a dirty mouth, too. I like it rough. Hold me down and fuck me if you want. Make me cry. Then she’d nipped playfully at his chest, rocked her hips against him. Prove those muscles aren’t just for show.

He’d held back, of course. Tara was small, and he was large. Rough for a human was a gentle caress for a shark.

And shark shifters had a few extra secrets in the bedroom.

Half, Benson repeated. Fifty-fifty. And I get to pick the company name.

Fine. I’m coming to you. Send your address. Spencer spoke automatically as he watched Tara rejoin the party. The center of the crowd quickly closed up, as if she had never been there.

If only his heart could do the same.

2

Several Months Later

Teeth chattering and a box of granola bars tucked under her arm, Tara hurried toward the Starbucks half a block from her office building. People wearing elegant coats shivered by, reminding her of windup toys.

Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it out of her cardigan pocket. It was her brother, returning her calls exactly when she couldn’t have a serious conversation.

That was, Tara knew, not a coincidence. Amos owed her a lot of money. Money that would’ve come in handy since her divorce. But financial hardship aside, Tara hated how the loan had changed their relationship.

Hi, Amos, she said. Can I call you back tonight?

Yes. Yes, great, that works for me. Sorry to bother you.

You’re not bothering—

But Amos was gone.

He’s not trying to hurt me. Later. I’ll deal with it later.

The sharp and bitter wind bit at Tara’s ears and nose. The opaque black tights covering her legs were no match for Manhattan’s unrelenting February cold.

No matter. She’d be inside soon.

She expertly maneuvered around puddles of slushy snow to stand in front of a man huddled over a vent.

There’s the sun! The grizzled man cocooned in filthy blankets winked up at her.

I was hoping not to see you this week, Tara said with a sigh, handing over the box.

Bless you. As Dale stashed the box inside the blankets, Tara realized she’d never seen him eating the granola bars. Maybe he sold or traded them for something he liked better. She was about to ask when he said, All right, miss. Time for your horoscope.

The cold was seeping into her bones, but she nodded. Dale didn’t know her birthday—she doubted he even remembered her name—but hearing the vague prophecies made her happy.

His forecasts were always cheerful, though of dubious accuracy.

Maybe he’ll tell me how to fix things with my brother.

"It’s for this month. It’s late, but not too late."

Is… that the horoscope?

Dale looked at her like she was speaking gibberish. He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and pronounced solemnly, You will take the first step of a long journey that will change your life forever. Follow your gut! Follow your gut and be true to yourself.

The only trips in Tara’s future were between her shabby, unaffordable apartment and her office at Walk This Way. She’d been hoping for something about a tall, dark, handsome stranger.

Or maybe not a stranger.

How very poetic. I’ll keep it in mind. Stay warm. She gave Dale a little salute and hustled toward the warmth of the café.

A pedestrian traffic jam blocked the door. Pardon me. A woman wearing a ladybug-print coat and a sequined hat insisted on squeezing through.

Wrapping her arms tightly around herself for warmth, Tara glanced at the counter to see how bad the line was.

Her heart stopped.

Lee, her ex-husband, was inside.

Months had passed since she’d last set eyes on Lee, at Nya and Jerry’s Connecticut wedding, yet some part of her felt compelled to call out to him. Probably the juvenile, idealistic part of her that had once believed marriage meant forever.

And maybe it would have—so long as Lee got to stick his dick in anyone he wanted, max out their joint credit cards, and lie about it.

Actually, he’d lied about pretty much everything.

She had nothing to say to him, but her first instinct was to push through the café doors and place her order anyway, ignoring the little turd.

Lee didn’t hold a claim to that Starbucks. He lived forty blocks away, and his office was on the other side of Manhattan. This was her goddamned turf.

A pretty woman with glossy red hair tossed a prepackaged sandwich on the counter. Tara watched in horror as the woman snuggled up to Lee, who draped his arm around her to pull her close. He was even more muscular than before.

Bastard, Tara mumbled. She hated her knee-jerk reaction and tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. Lee had been dating other people during the year they were married. Of course he was making the most of being single again.

It doesn’t hurt. Both our lives are better.

The woman raised a hand to tousle Lee’s hair—thinning hair, Tara couldn’t help noticing with an unsportsmanlike spark of glee. Tara didn’t care either way about hair, but Lee was vain about his looks.

Something twinkled, drawing attention to the woman’s ring finger.

Tara recognized that diamond.

A prickling numbness descended over her. The disjointed sense of disbelief threw her back to the day she’d discovered Lee’s extracurricular activities.

As the café blurred, only one coherent thought cut through the haze in her brain: should have kept the damned ring. But it was an heirloom, and Lee’s mother was actually a very nice woman.

The crowd had dissipated.

Tara started to walk forward, then stopped. She wasn’t a coward, but she wasn’t masochistic, either.

Twenty minutes later, Tara emerged from a different café, clenching a cardboard tray of lattes with both hands.

She felt like everyone was staring at her, and it didn’t help that she was seriously underdressed. When she’d left her office, she hadn’t planned to walk any farther than the corner.

The brief almost-encounter with Lee looped through her head all the way back to the skyscraper where she worked. It followed her inside, and when the elevator spat her out, she was still thinking about Lee’s new fiancée.

He’d always had a thing for fiery red hair. All his favorite actresses had red hair, and Tara’s hair was blonde. Dark blonde now, getting long again, her face-framing curls turned to waves because she could no longer afford a good stylist.

What if he could be faithful to that woman?

What if the problem wasn’t with Lee, but with Tara?

She knew she was loud and opinionated and more stubborn than a rusted-on bolt, as her grandparents liked to complain. Before walking away from her job as a corporate attorney, those traits had served her well.

But they weren’t all that great for relationships. Would you rather be right or be happy? That was what Monroe had asked her once during an emergency grumble-fest after Lee had… Tara couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting over that time.

She was almost at her office before realizing the communal section of the workplace was deserted, chairs hastily pushed back, folders still open. Which meant the weekly video call must have started a few minutes early.

Tara joined her team in the conference room. She wasn’t late—Rinny was still setting up the screens. Tara quietly passed out the coffees before taking her seat at the table. She mentally made a note to remove herself from the drinks rotation. So what if it meant skipping her caramel lattes smothered in whipped cream? Maybe that was a good thing, especially since her stomach seemed a little sensitive lately.

She fiddled with her cup.