Page 57 of Shark’s Edge

Fortunately, the elevator was already open. While riding it down to the next floor, I hurriedly tucked the dolls into an empty cup holder on the top of my cart—fighting not to think about all the expectations that had been offered along with them.

What a day-brightening surprise . . .

They’re special, like you . . .

I’d like the chance to know what’s under your layers, Abbigail . . .

Thank God a lot of the Blake employees were out getting ready for the company’s summer beach party today. I finished delivering to the building in under an hour and was never happier to hear the melodic ding that signaled my return to street level. I shoved my empty cart up into the van, fired up the engine, and pushed the speed limit to get away from the place as fast as I possibly could.

My record delivery time at Blake Logistics was a welcome dovetail into the day’s bigger plan. I was fifteen minutes ahead of my planned schedule—meaning a good forty minutes earlier than my normal delivery time—when I pulled the van up to the usual cutout in the curb on Hope Street.

“Sandwich goddess.” Maddon strolled up as I loaded the preorder bins into the delivery cart. He wore his normal grin along with a curious stare. “This is a surprise.”

“Hey there, Mads.” My reply was breathless but friendly. “Not really a surprise, buddy. Just the usual, though a few minutes early.”

“Uh, yeah. Early.” For the first time since I’d known the kid, he appeared jittery. He averted his gaze while shifting his weight, conveying nervous energy that hadn’t even been there during the media circus after the Tawny Mansfield incident. “Did, uhhh, Mr. Shark ask you to switch up the schedule?”

“Nah. Just running ahead today and thought I’d—”

“So his office doesn’t know you’re here? Like, right now? You didn’t call his assistant to tell her—”

“Maddon.” I hopped down to the pavement and then punched the button for the lift to lower the packed cart. “You seriously think Terryn wants to be bothered with this?”

“Yeah,” he cut in, showing authority for the first time. Ever. “I do.”

Regrettably, I believed his paranoia—mostly because he mentioned Terryn. The woman probably had nightmares in which she’d neglected to tell the cleaners that Shark wanted heavy starch in his shirts, not medium. But I also knew that if Terryn was put on alert that I’d arrived, she’d find some way to alert Sebastian.

Not. Happening.

“Come on, Mads.” I laughed it out this time. “I’m delivering lunch, not state secrets.”

And if I just happened to have a chunk of indignation to get off my chest, along with two dozen questions for which I was really entitled to some answers . . .

Terryn had to stay out of this picture.

Time to break out the heavy artillery.

“But rather than calling upstairs, do you have time to sample a new menu item and tell me what you think? I could really use an outside opinion.” It was all I could do not to singsong the temptation, especially when the young guy jogged up a brow. “Nutella and caramel cheesecake . . . with vanilla wafer crust.”

The guy groaned at once. “Damn. I love Nutella.”

“Perfect, then! I had no idea.” Too easy.

Okay, fine. Maybe scrolling the guy’s Instagram feed counted as having an idea. But I wanted to cover every possible roadblock. I’d attempted the same to learn Terryn’s sweet tooth weak spot, but aside from a bland LinkedIn account, the woman had zero social media presence. Which, in a modern world for a twenty-something young woman, was creepier than Viktor Blake and his nesting dolls.

It was go time. Time to get in front of Sebastian and settle this . . . this . . . what? Situation? Problem? I didn’t even know what to call it.

The one thing I did know was this time when that particular Shark smelled blood in the water . . . it would be his own.

Chapter Ten

Sebastian

Secrets were hiding in the intricate crosshatch pattern of streets that wove between downtown buildings in Los Angeles. Old and new tales waiting to be told, if you just stopped long enough and listened.

Dawn broke just after five thirty that morning, and the sun rose fully twenty minutes later. By then, the whispers stopped, and anyone interested in hearing the riddles would have to wait until tomorrow for another chance to get in on the magic.

It was my favorite part of the day, and it was well worth getting up early to experience it. My driver had learned years ago to fuel up the car the night before, and he did the same for himself, stocking his cup holder with a venti Americano for the journey.