Page 90 of Shark’s Edge

And if this letter was fake, was Tawny Mansfield’s suicide note fake too? If not, then what had happened behind the woman’s suicide? Was it a suicide?

Most urgent, why was Sebastian getting pulled into these occurrences? I was broken out of my perpetual questions loop when Sebastian finally stashed the letter into one of his back pockets. He swept his phone out from the other one.

“What are you doing?” I asked softly. Was I overstepping by asking him who he was calling? Everything was so undefined.

“Sending a note to Elijah that Sarah needs a shadow bodyguard for the next few weeks. Now that she knows about this—about someone using her persona and name—she might be a target.” He hit Send, and I was grateful to hear the little bloop of the text message shooting into the atmosphere.

“And now,” he continued, “a second message for him to find out her last name so I can cover the rest of her tuition bills.”

I couldn’t launch myself at the man fast enough or get my lips back on his soon enough. And I really, really couldn’t believe that less than eight hours ago, I’d planned to stay mad at him for the rest of my life.

Such a silly, silly plan.

So useless against this amazing, dazzling man.

At last, after I’d ravished his lips and tongue and mouth through the first few stanzas of Sarah’s routine—she was dancing to an “updated” forties medley with synthesizers and guitars—we reluctantly drew apart. Sebastian’s stare was full of light-blue fire but dark-blue regret, as if this was the hottest kiss of the night and couldn’t be topped.

Well, it was time to show him differently. In a lot of different ways.

“Mr. Shark?” I pleaded, hovering my face just half an inch from his.

“Yes, Ms. Gibson?” he flowed out.

“Please, would you be so kind as to get me the hell out of this place?” I slanted another long kiss across his eternally stunning mouth and then tugged him toward the hallway. “Before Hank finds out I’m still here and drafts me to dance to something like that.”

I was deliberately goading him, but my teasing laughter got drowned out by the deafening music in the hallway. The tension in his neck and the ferocity in his eyes told me that he probably growled, but there was no chance for a repeat of my answering giggles. They were replaced by a stunned shriek when I was hoisted off my feet and then all the way over the muscled plane of his right shoulder.

“Ahhh! What the—”

“Just a little preview of what you can expect if you ever get up on that stage, young lady.”

“You have an odd way of defining little, Mr. Shark.”

“Just be thankful I haven’t imprinted my hand on your sweet ass yet, Ms. Gibson.”

Sharp gasp—mostly as an effort to diffuse the new zing of heat to my pussy. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

“Just try me, baby.” To rub that in, he did the exact same with his forceful fingers across my backside. “Oh, how I’d love you to try me.”

I was a new collection of both sighs and snickers as he walked through the club, continuing to possessively palm my upended butt.

By the time we hit the front doors, I wondered if I wanted him to put me down again. Ever. Dear God, what he was doing to me with the take-no-prisoners treatment. I was becoming just that. A hostage of his aura and power. A willing captive of his protectiveness and passion. If Sebastian wanted to haul me all the way back to downtown like this, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t complain.

“Okay, there are no dance poles in sight anymore. I’m fairly sure I can walk the rest of the—oh, holy shit!”

I almost chastised myself for being melodramatic but realized Sebastian had yelled out at the same time—and his words matched exactly what had exploded from his driver’s lips.

“Get down!”

A person shrouded all in black had seemingly manifested out of nowhere. Or the parking lot pavement. Or maybe straight from hell. None of us had any way of knowing, since the invader raced up to us so quickly and unexpectedly.

Sebastian pulled me down beside him and then pressed me to the side of the town car. He wrapped himself around me, his hands covering mine and his breath a frantic firestorm in my ear. I was breathing a similar cadence. My lungs pumped with dread.

Was this the same lunatic who’d sent the bogus suicide threat from Cinnamon? If so, were they also connected to the food poisoning? What if this was something new? A desperate street punk who figured the guy in the town car had some major flow—or, holy shit, a holy extremist ready to take down one of the “infidels” who’d been at the sullied strip joint? What if we’d been caught in the middle of a gang turf war? Or what if—

“Mr. Shark? Oh, dear God, Mr. Shark, are you okay?”

A second of total silence passed.