Page 65 of Shark’s Edge

No dancing dots this time.

I was pierced by disappointment and victory at once. Guess I was the winner of this round.

It was time to focus on the next downtown delivery. King Holdings was a smaller office with easier drops, and I looked forward to getting in and out of a building without navigating overbearing assistants, sobbing strangers, or men with agendas other than what they’d hired me for.

After the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my smart pad and started focusing—well, attempting to—on the orders I’d need to load up for the King building.

I got as far as scanning the first batch before looking back up, perplexed about why the elevator wasn’t moving. I’d pressed the damn button, but the car hadn’t moved an inch.

“What . . . the . . . ”

“Ms. Gibson?”

I jumped a little and then whirled around. “Wh-Who is—”

“Apologies, ma’am.” The voice was a professional baritone. For a second I wondered if God was using the elevator speakers to rebuke me for every filthy thing I’d imagined about Sebastian Shark over the last hour. But God didn’t usually apologize and probably would have used my full name.

“Wh-What’s going on?”

“Are you Abbigail Eileen Gibson?”

Shit.

“I swear, only a couple of the visions got really carnal. And I promise I’ll go to confession on Sunday—oh, dammit—I mean darn it—I’m going to be out of town on Sunday. Can Monday be okay? Confession is open then too, right?”

“Please just answer the question,” the voice cut in.

“R-Right . . . ” I hauled in a deep breath. “Yes. I’m Abbigail Gibson. Is there a prob—”

A loud buzz erupted from the speakers, indicating my holy intervention had ended. Probably a good thing, since a new string of shit-shit-shits spilled out of me as the elevator moved at last.

Shooting straight up instead of down.

Holy crap.

What was going on?

My careening mind supplied a few ideas. Option A: Someone had keeled over after eating lunch, and the Abstract Catering box was already being blamed. And B: Sebastian Shark had a higher operations clearance in this building than God himself and had ordered that my elevator destination be overridden.

As the elevator doors opened again, I was definitely rooting for Option B.

Light flooded into the car, and as I shielded my eyes from the glare, a perfunctory voice yipped out at me.

“Ms. Gibson.”

I jumped inwardly but plastered on a friendly smile. “Hi there, Terryn. Long time no see.”

My sarcasm didn’t amuse her. As she turned and began clacking her heels along the marble, she twirled a finger in the air. “Come along,” she instructed. “Bring the cart if you need to. He wants you again.”

“Oh . . . all right.”

Better than all right.

I followed Terryn into Sebastian’s innermost haven, and he shoved back from his position near the window, stealing my breath as he moved with alpha-wolf stealth. On his way over, he tossed aside a report he’d been reading. Though his stare never left me, the report swooped to a perfect stop in the middle of the conference table.

“Thank you, Terryn,” he murmured. “That’ll be all for now.”

“Of course, Mr. Shark.” Only now did I realize Terryn had been holding her breath too. “Oh! Your water pitcher is empty. Let me fetch you some more—”