Saige Buchanan travels the world studying her dark past, guided by a strange gift that enables physical objects to tell her their secrets. Yet nothing can protect her from her family's sadistic enemies. Until—in her hour of greatest need—she encounters a mysterious, impossibly sexy shape-shifter. Sent to find the woman whose darkness has yet to awaken, Michael Quinn battles his primal hunger for Saige. He alone can help her lay claim to her full powers. Yet in doing so, he will destroy her innocence, and mark her as his forever…. Rhyannon Byrd is a longtime fan of romance and the author of more than thirty paranormal and erotic titles. She has been nominated for three Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards, including best Shape-shifter Romance. After having spent years enjoying the glorious sunshine of the American South and Southwest, Rhyannon now lives in the beautiful, but often chilly county of Warwickshire in England with her husband and family. Visit her website at www.rhyannonbyrd.com. Thursday evening The Amazon If the woman was trying to blend in, she wasn't very good at it. It'd taken Michael Quinn no more than five seconds to pick her out in the dim, crowded interior of O Diablo Dos Ángels, a rickety roadside barra in the bustling market town of Coroza, Brazil. He'd been traveling for two days now, working his way through the stifling, humid depths of the Amazonian rain forest, and it showed in his haggard appearance. Two days that felt more like weeks, each passing hour grating against his nerves like a rusty nail, until he was in what could only be classified as a category-five, off-the-Richter-scale, completely uncharacteristic foul mood. Not that he was usually cheery. Normally Quinn just…existed. It'd been years since anything, or anyone, had managed to touch him or throw him off his firm, even keel—and now this. He couldn't explain it, but from the moment he'd been given Saige Buchanan's photograph, his cool, steady calm had begun to fade, slipping away from him like water spi-raling slowly down a drain. And in its wake, he'd been left with this seething intensity… this gripping tension. What made it even worse was the fact that Quinn hadn't even wanted the assignment—had, in fact, been adamant in his refusal. And yet, here he was, with his damp shirt sticking to his skin, the heavy scent of tobacco and sweat making his head hurt, while something piercing and uncomfortably sharp slithered through his system at the sight of his prey. Huh. So this is little Saige, he thought, moving along the wall, away from the door, careful to avoid her line of sight as she sat at a small table on the far side of the room, a bottle of water held in one delicate hand. At her side sat a young man who couldn't have been more than nineteen, his dark skin, hair and eyes attesting to his Brazilian heritage. The boy's lips were moving, and though Quinn's hearing was far better than a human's, he couldn't make out the words over the raucous cacophony of sound coming from the crowd. It seemed a strange setting for an American woman and her young companion, and yet, no one bothered them. Not even the drunks. Was she a regular, then? Under the owner's protection? Or was there some other reason the locals kept their distance? Whatever the answer, it couldn't be from lack of notice. Saige Buchanan stood out among the weathered patrons like a neon sign in the midnight pitch of night, glittering and bright. Quinn rubbed his palm against the scratchy growth of stubble that came from going several days without a shave, then slowly shook his head, already revising his analogy. No, the reportedly brilliant anthropologist wasn't brash or bold, like neon. As bright as she shone, there was a soft, almost tender aura about her, which probably made her stick out even more than that angelic face, lush body or unusual shade of hair. Neither red nor brown, it hovered somewhere in between, picking up the soft, hazy glow of light that spilled down from above, struggling against the lengthening evening shadows. A heavy wooden door suddenly slammed behind the bar and Quinn locked his jaw, marveling that the ramshackle structure didn't crumble down around them in a pile of mortar and bricks. Flicking a quick glance upward, he was surprised the stained ceiling actually managed to remain in place, even with the various thick support beams wedged between it and the sawdust-covered floor. Without a doubt, this place made him uncomfortable. He didn't like being closed in, confined, preferring the outdoors and the endless freedom of the sky. And why don't you stop moaning and just get on with it? The sooner you get your hands on her, the sooner you can get out of here. Sound words, and yet, now that he'd found her, the last thing on earth Quinn wanted to do was touch her— to get his hands on her. Not that he was concerned he couldn't handle her if she decided to be difficult. Saige Buchanan may have been more than an