Page 23 of Shark’s Edge

“Sorry, Bas, couldn’t be helped. I’m on my way, brother. I’ll call you if I can’t manage for some reason.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Dub.” Cassiopeia, her birth given name, represented the W-shaped constellation in the night sky. Hence the “dub” moniker. My sister hated the childhood nickname, so I used it precisely for that reason. Brothers reserved the right to do annoying things like that.

“See you soon,” she said, her voice gentle as she ended the call.

God, please be soon.

As soon as I felt well enough, I’d have a bone to pick with one Abbigail Gibson.

Chapter Five

Abbi

“Okay, how many more of these little buggers are there?”

Rio’s sarcasm, blending with the sea-salted morning air, was another layer of a much-needed balm on my tattered senses.

Yes. Needed.

Especially because I was still recovering from my latest run-in with Sebastian Shark.

Run-in? More like run-over. In every startling, wrenching way.

Not that I could speak with authority about it or anything—after reliving it five hundred times in my mind’s eye.

Oh, God.

The man wasn’t considered the world’s most dangerous billionaire because he’d signed a deal with Lucifer. He was Lucifer. And heaven help me, even now, I longed to strip naked and swim in his lake of fire—a fantasy only given more juice by the satellite radio station Rio had picked for our bag-stuffing party on her and Sean’s front porch. The sensual European instrumentals had sound effects that came way too close to unraveling my composure. The memories of being pressed up against his office door . . . my body molded by his, my groans blending with his . . .

Dammit.

No more.

Please . . . no more.

The Queen Mary’s ten a.m. horn drifted down the coast from Long Beach, supporting my effort with its distinct bellow. The sound traveled on balmy breezes through a crystalline sky, which provided a perfect backdrop for Rio’s tinkling laugh.

“Okay, wow.” She raked a stunned stare over the piles of goodies intended for the bags we were stuffing. “There’s more stuff here than a trip to the goodie room at the Oscars.”

I added my chuckle to hers. “And you know that . . . how?”

“Hmmm. I have my ways.” She winked impishly.

I bet Sebastian Shark went to the Oscars every year. His was the kind of recognizable face that would actually make the how we tally the votes part bearable. And he’d accomplish it in a tux that fit him to a T, accentuating that carved face, that tapered torso, and those ungodly long legs.

The same legs that had pinned mine to the back of his office door yesterday.

“We’re making forty total,” I said, despite every tender inch of my pussy pleading me to take it home and take care of this fresh ache. Like I hadn’t done just that this morning. “But officially, we only have thirty-two girls in this chapter of the Intrepids. The extras are for top performers with this quarter’s fundraiser—running the snack stand at the Westside Junior Soccer League.”

Rio tilted her head, her version of an affirming nod. If she discerned how desperately I was fighting off wicked fantasies of Shark beneath my chipper shell, she didn’t show it. Thank God. That meant my effort of keeping it all stuffed down was a success.

“Success” being relative.

Did I want to tell her everything that had happened yesterday? More than anything. But I was still too damn upside down about it right now, and a Rio-style grilling would make it worse. Right now, Abbigail’s Walls were the better choice.

“The Intrepids.” Her echo was my saving goat hook out of that emotional mire. “That’s short for what again?”

“The Intrepid Entrepreneurs.” I supplied it while reaching for another empty goodie bag. I had to admit, she was right. We’d secured a generous haul of donations from local bookstores, beauty shops, and office supply warehouses. “The program is designed to hook up local female business owners and community leaders with middle and high school girls interested in the same. We’re there to motivate and encourage but also to mentor and advise.”