Her Jaguar's Temptation Read online

  Her Jaguar's Temptation

  By Zoe Chant

  Copyright Zoe Chant 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Nicolas

  Mandy

  Epilogue

  A Note from Zoe Chant

  More Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant

  If you love Zoe Chant, you’ll also love these books!

  Special Sneak Preview

  Mandy

  Mandy winced as she stretched out her arms and legs, waiting at the baggage claim in the tiny Los Cazadores airport. Her gorgeous, petite daughter Aimée sometimes forgot that her mother was larger than she was; the seats on the airline were tight for anyone above a size zero. But Mandy couldn't complain. Her daughter had bought her a ticket out to the California coast, and the kind of vacation she'd never been able to afford herself.

  Mandy was proud of her daughter. She'd gone to college early, and been snapped up into some kind of internship at one of the big East Coast investment companies – an internship that paid a salary, which blew Mandy's mind. She was earning more than Mandy ever had. If nothing else, all Mandy's fears about not being a good mother, not giving her daughter the tools to succeed, had been proven wrong. But now Mandy had time to look at her own life, and wonder what she was going to do.

  She'd never had a college experience. She'd dropped out of high school to have Aimée, and while all her friends went on to party and learn and get careers, she'd changed diapers and wrangled child care and looked for jobs that would only keep her during school hours. And now friends who had grown as distant as strangers showed up on Facebook with their newlywed photos, while she wondered who would want someone like her.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she reached in to silence it. Given the time zones back east, it wouldn't be Aimée. And the only other people who would text her weren't people she wanted to hear from.

  All around her in the airport were people who probably had their lives together. Tourist couples and businessmen and the like. When the conveyor belt rumbled and brought her old, faded purple luggage to her, she grabbed the suitcases and hurried out the doors.

  Los Cazadores! Aimée had said that the place was magical. That it had a reputation for helping people find exactly what they needed.

  Mandy didn't believe that. She'd left magic behind when the magical boy of her high school fantasies had turned out to be a dud, and run from the responsibility of raising their daughter. But the town was pretty, she'd admit that much.

  The streets were wide, and palm trees swayed in the streets' islands. The houses were mostly white stucco and adobe, glowing in the near-equatorial light. Many of them were crowned with the red shingles she'd been able to glimpse on the flight in.

  The air was fresh, carrying the smell of the sea. The sky was a deep blue that almost looked like she could dip a paintbrush in it.

  It felt like a city for young people and movie stars.

  Since leaving high school, she'd always felt old. Older than her peers, at least: a stranger to them. They'd had college and careers and bright new futures; she'd had motherhood and a GED and relying on her parents far more than she'd ever wanted to. She loved her daughter more than life itself, but fate had set Mandy's feet on a path none of her then-friends had walked down. And as a result, she was alone.

  What was Los Cazadores supposed to offer her?

  It was a lovely little town, but it was like every other lovely little town. The concrete parking lot outside the little airport was no more magical than any other parking lot, and the gas station across the street wasn't, either.

  But even if it wouldn't be the answer to all her desires, Mandy could at least enjoy her vacation.

  First things first: she was hungry. She'd refused to pay exorbitant prices for mediocre food on the plane, or in the airports. She reached into her purse to reassure herself that the gift credit card her daughter had given her was still there, and then walked up to a cab waiting at the airport for new arrivals.

  "Is there a good place to eat nearby?" she asked, through the window. "Inexpensive."

  The driver smiled broadly at her. He was dark-skinned, with a turban curled around his dark hair, but his English was impeccable.

  "First time in Los Cazadores? I know just the place, ma'am. Please, hop right in."

  Nicolas

  Nicolas Roja dug his fingers into a ball of dough, feeling the firmness and resilience of it in his strong hands. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell, and both the great and subtle distinctions from the rolls he'd made that morning. Even though his bakery and deli was successful enough that he could have hired chefs to take care of all of this, he'd rather be in the kitchens. He loved the heat of the ovens, the smell of baking bread, the joy of watching a rustic loaf or an elegant pastry come together under his expertise.

  Inside him, the spirit of a jaguar reclined, watching the world from bored but comfortable eyes.

  His jaguar didn't care much for his chosen profession. For most of the day it rested, content and unbothered, deep within Nicolas's core being. Sometimes he would be seized by yearning for the forest trails on the other side of Highway 1, or catch a waft of the fresh air from the open window in the back of the kitchen, but his jaguar knew it would get its chance. The work day was only so long.

  He knew it was getting on in the afternoon when the evening manager-in-training pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. "What are you working on?"

  Nicolas grinned. The evening manager, a young woman named Cheli, sidled to the side, as if sensing the predator in his smile. She knew him well enough to know he'd never hurt her, and he'd loved her like a little sister since she'd come begging a job at the deli three years ago, but she was a deer shifter. Her inner deer regarded his jaguar with natural wariness.

  "A new experiment," he said. "British pork pies." He set out the dough he'd made yesterday: it had been chilling in the fridge overnight, and had just come back up to room temperature. Now it was time to roll it out, shape it into stout little cups, and fill it with the seasoned meat mixture he'd made earlier. It was a lot of work, and the final steps wouldn't be done until the next day, but he had always been patient.

  "Is that what the stink's been about?" Cheli asked, wrinkling her nose. He'd been boiling pork bones and hocks in the big industrial crock pot, and she'd moved it into his office. Now his office was permeated with the smell of fresh rendered pork gelatin, which he didn't mind, but had caused her to start giving the door a wide berth.

  "Are you going back to vegetarianism?" he asked.

  "Are you trying to convince me to? You have feet in there."

  Nicolas laughed. The dough took shape under the rolling pin, and his shoulders rolled as he worked.

  He'd started to experiment with different pastries when he found a mentor who was a traditional Mexican chef, producing bolillos and tortillas and empanadas and polvoróns and buñuelos in his homey kitchen. He'd hoped it would be a way to connect with a culture he'd never been exposed to, growing up.

  He hadn't found what he was looking for in the cuisine of Mexico, but he had found a love of cooking. And while he didn't think knowing how to bake a British pork pie would make him feel like he had a place in the world, it might at least make the customers in his deli happy. And his deli was the place where he felt most at home, these days.

  Cheli came up to his side, looking at the countertop wher
e he worked. "Are those going to be ready for the dinner rush?"

  "No," he said. "These won't be ready until tomorrow. That's why I have those baking off." He nodded to the big commercial oven.

  Cheli bounded over and peered into the door, and a laugh escaped her mouth. "What are those?"

  "Poires en Cage," he said. He'd made them before: poached pear halves baked in lattices of light, buttery puff pastry. He'd poached the pears in spices and rum, and he was planning on filling them with an airy whipped cream when they cooled.

  "Oh, those will go fast!" Cheli said. "I think we'll have a new regular offering soon."

  All Nicolas's experiments went into the fun case: a set of handsome display shelves with feedback ballots placed prominently to one side. Regular customers of Nico's Deli always came by to check out the items in the fun case, unpredictable as they were. The ballots let them vote on whether or not to add the treat to the regular offerings.

  Nicolas was reaching for a circular cookie cutter when the bell at the front door jangled.

  Nico dusted off his hands, and went over to the door. The counter was staffed, but he always like knowing what was going on inside his deli... his domain. If it was a regular he liked, he might come out and chat for a while.

  Instead, he saw an unfamiliar woman, pale skin suggesting that she hadn't spent much time in the Los Cazadores sun. She was pretty, Nicolas thought. Strong legs and wide hips and generous curves, tantalizingly hidden by her modest T-shirt and jeans. She dressed like she was completely unaware of her own looks.

  Her own beauty: she turned, glancing over the employee at the counter and up to the menu on the blackboard above him, and Nicolas caught a glimpse of her eyes. Just a glimpse, but it drew him out of the doorway and up to the counter to get a better look.

  "New in town?" he asked, with a disarming grin.

  The woman looked down, and her eyes met his. And Nicolas's heart stuttered.

  His jaguar, who had been lying languid in his core, roared to life.

  My mate, he thought. This woman is my mate.

  Mandy

  The deli, Nico's Deli, was reassuring. It was clean and well-maintained, and the people in there looked like a good mix: young and old, with California diversity, and mostly looking like they were enjoying themselves. The menu had familiar offerings like BLTs, ham and swiss, and grilled cheese, and some combinations she wouldn't have thought to put together: roast beef with fig compote and caramelized onions; baked apples, cheddar, and maple bacon on brioche. The prices weren't as bad as she'd been afraid they would be, but she was still glad her daughter had given her a gift card.

  She looked at the boy behind the counter: college-age, probably, and maybe working here between classes. But the door behind him swung open, and another man stepped out. Her eyes were caught immediately.

  The man was gorgeous. Forearms and hands that looked like he could rip telephone books in half, though at the moment they were just toweling flour off his skin. Shoulders broad enough to frame well in a doorway, hips narrow enough to get an arm around. His skin was tanned a golden bronze, and his clean-shaven face was chiseled. His features were sharp and compelling. His eyes were brown, but bronze around the edges of the iris.

  And those bronze-ringed eyes were staring right back into hers.

  She colored. He looked straight out of Hollywood, or maybe a telenovela. And she was... well, her. She thought even the boy at the counter looked better than she did.

  But before she could look away, the man tucked his towel into his belt. "I'm Nicolas Roja," he said, holding out one strong hand. His voice was warm and velvety and his words were gilded with a faint Spanish accent, but he spoke with assurance, fluency. "Are you visiting Los Cazadores? Moving here? Newly arrived?"

  "I," she stammered. "Visiting. I needed a vacation." My daughter thought I needed a vacation. Her blush deepened, even though she knew she should be glad to have a successful daughter who could send her across the country. And she was, most of the time. But with this beautiful man looking at her, all her insecurities rose to the surface.

  "Well," Nicolas Roja said, and the word was rich as chocolate in his voice. "Welcome to my little deli. If there's anything I can do for you..."

  "Your deli?" Mandy asked, and then the penny dropped. Nico's Deli. Nicolas Roja. "Oh! This... it's a lovely little restaurant." And then she almost dropped her jaw in mortification. "I mean, not that it's little."

  But Nicolas only chuckled. "It is," he agreed, and his eyes flicked off hers for the barest of moments. There were seven small tables inside, all small circles that could seat four people if they were very good friends. A board and a line of short stools outside which could seat another seven. She guessed that it wasn't the kind of place which catered to swarms of tourists. "I wanted a place that was... intimate."

  Is he flirting with me? Mandy wondered. Surely not. Or, if he was, it was because he was the sort of man to flirt with everyone. He could pull it off. She swallowed and tore her eyes off his face and back to the menu. "Um. What do you recommend?"

  He leaned forward over the counter, and Mandy couldn't help glancing down. He wore a flour-dusted T-shirt with no apron, and the glimpse of skin would have started her blushing if she hadn't been blushing already. But as she was already rosy, she could let herself savor the curve of muscle through his collar.

  "Well," he said. "I wouldn't let anything onto my menu if I couldn't recommend it." He flashed her a grin, broad and sharp. "What's your taste?"

  Whatever I can afford, Many could have said. There had been months when she'd fed herself and Aimée pasta and canned pasta sauce and frozen veggies every night, because her dollars would only stretch so far. She didn't even know what some of the words up on the menu meant. What the heck was a calamondin coulis?

  "I... I don't know," she admitted. She had to be so far outside of his usual customers. Just some bumbling tourist with no culture. A gift card full of cash didn't make her a new person.

  Nicolas's eyes gleamed. For an instant, Mandy thought they flashed emerald as he turned his head. "Then," he said, "let me prepare you a tasting flight. A little sample of our best-sellers."

  "Oh," Mandy said. She glanced up to the menu. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

  Nicolas gave her a little bow – he actually bowed! – and retreated into the kitchen. And even if he did probably treat all his customers this way, Mandy still felt charmed. He hadn't mocked her, or made her feel like she was wasting his time or beneath his consideration.

  The tasting flight wasn't on the menu. She looked down to the boy at the register, who looked bemused by the whole exchange. "How much do I owe you?"

  "Uh," the boy said. He poked a few buttons on the register screen. Then he twisted around to look at the menu posted above him. "I don't know," he said. "He's never done that before."

  Nicolas

  Nicolas stepped back into the kitchen and immediately threw plastic wrap over his pie dough and slung it back into the fridge. Cheli was taking the pears out of the oven, and she looked at him curiously, but he paid her no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  His mate! His mate. He kept rolling the word around in his mind. He'd been told that all shifters had a true mate out there somewhere: someone who could complete them. He didn't know what it meant to be completed by someone, but he knew that he was in love already. The woman out there was beautiful and brave... he knew that just by watching her, standing her ground in an unfamiliar place, not pretending to be someone she wasn't, and not apologizing.

  He walked over to the bread baskets and plucked a cutting board off the rack on the nearby shelves. Then, with a flourish of a bread knife, he set to work.

  Slices of rare roast beef went onto a strip of ciabatta, topped with arugula and shards of sharp white cheddar and shavings of fresh horseradish. After a moment's consideration, he decided open-faced finger sandwiches would be best. More of a chance to show off the ingredients, and less to fill up on.

  H
e'd been so enchanted he hadn't even learned her name.

  "Boss?" Cheli asked, walking over to see him curl gravlax on a circle of pumpernickel, and top it with a dollop of crème fraîche and a sprig of fresh dill.

  "Mm," he hummed in answer.

  His inner jaguar was driving him. It was going to bring food to his mate, and she would be pleased. Sure, it might want to take to the hills and hunt, but if finger sandwiches were what it had to work with, it would still be satisfied.

  And Nicolas would ride the high of his jaguar's drive and the high of the new mate-bond, and do his work well.

  The raw, wild power of his animal side met the sophisticated intelligence of his human nature, and the magic which bound them together made him more than the sum of his parts.

  As a human, he was inclined to more love and devotion than any animal jaguar, and the mating bond that came from being a shifter made him crave his mate as a man might crave air. And the animal within him brought the bright life-or-death clarity of every moment to his senses.