Tropical Tiger Spy (Shifting Sands Resort 1)

The path wandered past several cottages that were far, far too grand for the title. Amber had booked one of the budget options that the resort offered, and even that felt like a ridiculous luxury; she wondered what the prices were on these larger cousins, with their second stories, stained-glass windows, and shrouded private porches.

Her own cottage was the perfect size–a charming little fairy-tale house, with a vine-covered entrance. A key waited for her in the front door, and she entered with a flutter of anticipation.

The front room had a comfortable bent-wicker couch and matching chairs, upholstered in tropical florals, and an antique-looking writing desk with an anachronistically modern office chair. A steamer chest acted as the coffee table, and there were brightly painted wooden masks along most of the walls.

The downhill side of the room was a row of glass siding doors with screens that opened onto a narrow covered porch. A table and two chairs were off to one side, where she could just see down to the ocean. The porch passed a wall of more sliding doors that opened into the bedroom, and wrapped around to the jungle side of the cottage, with one chair as an afterthought poised to look out over the thick foliage.

Amber stepped into the bedroom and gave the king-sized bed an experimental bounce. It was an exceptionally good mattress, and a tall dresser with a matching vanity promised room for an entire closet of clothing. Amber dumped the contents of her carry-ons into two of the drawers, where they looked tiny and insignificant and untidy.

Amber thought about heading down to the beach or the dining hall, but the peace and quiet let all of her travel exhaustion catch up with her. After the endless drone of the flight from San Jose, and the bumpy road with Jimmy-who-wouldn't-shut-up, it was so lovely to be alone and still for a while.

She thought about how warm and muggy it was, about purring contentedly, and then she was stepping out of loose clothing in her mountain cat form and leaping up onto the big bed for a delicious nap.

Chapter Four

The manager, Scarlet, was not in her office when Tony got there.

Jimmy, the sharp-faced man who apparently did all manner of odd jobs, was hauling an impressive collection of matched luggage out of the shuttle.

“Scarlet is probably down at the pool lounge,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “We lost our bartender last week, and she's had to stand in.”

“Lost your bartender?” Tony asked– too intensely, he realized.

“Moved back to Minnesota to take care of a sick mother or something,” Jimmy said, dropping a gigantic suitcase on its side and wrestled it back upright.

Tony used a foot to stop the suitcase from rolling down the slight incline, and let Jimmy grab its handle.

“I could use a drink,” he tried to say casually. He was supposed to be just another rich slob on vacation, he reminded himself.

“You and me both,” Jimmy said jovially. “That's my first stop after I deliver these. There's this hot new cat shifter that's just arrived, and I'm hoping she'll be the ... social type.”

Tony had no interest in chasing tail, no matter how literal that phrase was here, and left Jimmy with a grunt to stomp down the trail to the bar at the pool. By this point, the sun had set over the ocean, and twilight was making its brief stay before full night took hold.

Scarlet was indeed at the bar, pouring and delivering drinks for a few tables of groups and couples who were laughing together.

“What can I get you?” she asked stiffly, with a scowl that Tony recognized from the mirror. She was no more suited to the social aspects of bartending than Tony was to relaxing on vacation.

Voice down, with a glance at the nearest table of revelers, Tony suggested, “You can get me the information I requested days ago. I'm sure you've had time to check my credentials by now.”

Tony had not suspected that Scarlet's face could get colder, but it did.

“I haven't had time to spit in a pot,” she said sharply. “If you haven't noticed, I am not exactly sitting at my desk playing solitaire all day.”

“I need that information,” Tony growled at her.

“And I need to protect my residents' privacy,” Scarlet answered just as fiercely. “You'll get your answers when I have proper assurance that you are who you say you are.”

Keeping his temper had never been a strong point, and everything about Scarlet rubbed Tony wrong. “I've been very nice about asking,” he said through bared teeth. “I could get the records myself.”

Scarlet did not appear to be in the slightest bit intimidated. “I doubt you could,” she said scathingly. Tony couldn't decided from her tone if she was dubious about his ability to force her to turn them over, or his ability to manage the most basic of alphabetic filing systems.

Tony might have answered more heatedly, but Magnolia's voice from a far table called, “Scarlet, darling! Another margarita for me!”

Scarlet waved back, and asked Tony through gritted teeth. “Can I get you a drink? Or would you like to continue monopolizing my time for something I won't give you?”

“A beer,” Tony conceded. “And a shot of whiskey.”

If he wasn't going to be able to conduct any business, there was no point in acting business-like. Besides, it kept up his cover of being on vacation.