Page 25 of Shark’s Edge

Didn’t care. Couldn’t care.

A few million more repeats, and maybe it would sink in.

In the meantime, I was thankful for the footsteps and throat clearings that filled the bungalow’s tiny front yard, giving me an excuse to forget how my brother’s PDA was tearing me apart inside.

I turned toward the source, ready to smile at whatever neighbor had chosen to come by and exchange greetings with Sean and Rio. My brother and his wife knew everyone who lived within a six-block radius.

I was completely surprised to turn and find two police officers instead of the usual surfers or retirees that dropped by. The first officer was fitted in an LA County Sheriff’s Department uniform, and the second was wearing the colors of the Orange County Sheriff’s force. Both were beefy guys who could’ve been fitness models, their biceps bulging from their short sleeves as they hooked their thumbs into waist-level loops.

“Oh.” Rio’s little peep, which she delivered while stepping back from her husband, echoed my astonishment. My gut tightened with the instinct that these fine public servants were the bearers of disturbing news. Because, really, how often did cops just stop by to say hello?

“Good morning,” said Officer OC, adding a smile that dazzled like halogen in contrast to his dark sienna skin.

“Good morning, officers. Is there . . . some way we can help you?”

“My name is Deputy Silva, and this is my colleague from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Bourne.”

“Morning.” Bourne, who resembled his famous spy-film counterpart, ticked a fast nod.

Silva flashed his brilliant teeth again. I might have actually smiled back if I wasn’t so focused on maintaining my composure.

He walked forward a couple of steps while offering, “Sorry for disturbing your morning, but we’re hoping you can help us. Are you Sean Gibson?”

“I am,” my brother answered. “What can we do for you?”

Silva’s nod was a clear acknowledgment of my sibling’s acquiescence. “Deputy Bourne reached out for our help in locating a Miss Abbigail Gibson. He attempted to contact her at her home address in Torrance, but a neighbor informed us she might be at this address instead.”

“I’m Abbigail Gibson, officers. What can I do for you today?”

“Seriously?” Rio swung around, grabbing my elbow with her free hand. “Don’t you dare speak to them without an attorney present.”

Bourne clenched his jaw, though he softened the action by taking off his glasses in a smooth swoop. “We’re not here to take her into custody, ma’am.” He spread his hands out, palms down. “This is a fact-finding visit only. Mr. Shark insisted that we—”

“Dammit,” Rio muttered.

My pulse rate spiked. It was twisted and wrong, but hearing this burly alpha refer to my most trying client with such veneration . . . I liked it.

“He insisted on what?” I stepped closer to the cops, not hiding my intense interest in their reply.

Bourne pierced me with his gaze. “You really don’t know?”

Which was crap as far as explanations went. I told him so with my confused glower. “Know . . . what?”

“Mr. Shark spent several hours in the West Hills Hospital Emergency Room last night.” He narrowed his gaze even tighter in response to my stark gasp. “This is the first you’re hearing this?”

I gulped hard. “Is— Is he all right?” I stammered. “Wait. Is he hurt? What happened?”

“Did he trip over his own ego?”

“Rio.” I shot her a warning glare.

“What?” She gave innocence a solid attempt before Sean squeezed her hand.

Sebastian Shark consumed every inch of my imagination, but picturing him lying on a hospital gurney . . .

Impossible.

And unbearable.