Shark’s Edge
Shark’s Edge: Book One
ANGEL PAYNE &
VICTORIA BLUE
This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2019 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press
Cover Photographs: Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
David Duck, on our twenty-fifth anniversary, how appropriate to write a book with the very name you playfully gave me one summer night, long, long ago? We’re the proof that love stories do exist. That real lives have colorful characters, black moments, and happily ever afters. Join me for another twenty-five?
XOXO SHNSHRK
—Victoria
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For the man who swims all the depths with me . . . and always protects the dolphin in me. My beautiful hero, Thomas. I am so grateful for you.
—Angel
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Special Dedication
In loving memory of our dear friend Ceej Chargualaf, who gave us so much of her heart and generous, loving, kind spirit each time she beta read for us. She’s left an empty place in our lives and our hearts, and we will carry a part of her with us every day, especially when we need to feel brave or sassy about something we’re not particularly confident doing. Ceej would encourage us to move on that way.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Continue the Shark’s Edge Series
Excerpt from Shark’s Pride
Acknowledgments
Also by Angel Payne & Victoria Blue
Also by Angel Payne
Also by Victoria Blue
About Angel Payne
About Victoria Blue
Chapter One
Abbi
I was hot.
Sweaty. Aching. Breathless.
Just how a girl should feel after being jolted awake in the middle of a naughty dream.
“Uhhh.” I shut off my phone’s alarm, fell back into my pillow, and glared at the time display through squinting eyelids.
Getting up at four thirty in the morning just wasn’t sane.
Wasn’t. Sane.
My screen flared to life with a text message from a sender whose profile picture was a skull-and-crossbones Chuck Taylor high-top.
Rio.
I couldn’t help but grin. My sister-in-law and right-hand woman loved to message me when she knew I should be getting up. She usually offered some bullshit reason for the predawn communiqué, but I saw right through her game. I had a terrible habit of oversleeping, and everyone in my family knew it.
Did I interrupt a good dream?
I forced my eyes open enough to tap back a reply.
As a matter of fact, yes.
I hit Send, hurled the phone into the covers, and draped the crook of my elbow over my face. “Oh, God.”
The entirety of my dream crashed over me.
It had been another one of those dreams.
A dream in which I really had been hot and gasping, sweaty and stripped . . .
With Sebastian Shark.
Sebastian. Freaking. Shark.
The CEO of my catering company’s biggest account. He who sat in his penthouse high in the Los Angeles skyline, ruling his kingdom with the subtlety of a Mack Truck. He with the body of a modern-day pharaoh—and the allure of one too.
That dark, dangerous allure.
Another moan tore up my throat. Shark. He was the last person on the planet I should’ve been harboring these cravings for, but he was the one my subconscious refused to forget. I couldn’t ignore his hypnotic sensuality, his raw animal attraction.
If only my dream mind would listen to my awake mind.
Sebastian Shark liked the fact that he shared his name with a predator, and he made damn sure the entire world knew it, each and every day. And today would be no different.
“No different,” I repeated to ensure my psyche got the message—and to prepare myself for the ordeal.
And yes, that was the right word. Though I was only going to be delivering lunch to him, the experience was always an ordeal. On good days, he’d give me an obligatory nod from behind his computer monitors. On the rare occasions when he decided I deserved a hello—never an actual smile, though—I relied on the breathe-deeply-and-count-to-ten method to deal with the war in my senses. And yes, that was the right word too. It was a war in there. My raging libido versus my frustrated logic.
Because I knew I wasn’t imagining the way the air thickened between us. An unmistakable call of his body to mine like mating animals in the springtime sun. Invisible strings pulled between us. And from the way he tracked my every movement with fixed attention while I set up his lunch each day, I knew he felt it too.
It was insanity.
“No.” I brought my feet down on the rug next to my bed, but this morning the trendy shag pile was useless. The polished concrete floor of my “Bohemian Charm” condo felt like an ice block. Right now, that was a good thing.
“You’re a glacier with that man, Abbigail Gibson,” I growled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Glacier. Cold. Glacier. Calm.”
No more letting Sebastian Shark under your skin.
No more letting Sebastian Shark into your damn dreams.
After quickly showering and dressing for the day, I threw my long hair into a high ponytail and headed out the door for the large commercial-grade kitchen I rented in Inglewood. Fifteen minutes later, I parked my F-150 next to the van we used for deliveries—but stopped short when a distinct smell hit my senses. Savory. Earthy. Cheesy.
I hurried toward the door adorned with the words Abstract Catering, noticing the prep area lights were already on. Inside, a petite woman was folding serving containers and humming along to the radio.
“Morning.” My greeting was lifeless but accomplished the job.
“Morning, sister friend!” Rio called out in return.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you mean slacker?”
The whiskey of her irises flashed to gold. “Abs, you’re a lot of things—but a slacker isn’t one of them.”
“Says the woman who probably sent me a wake-up text from here.”
She smirked. “I couldn’t sleep. Big deal.”
Again?
I kept my question to myself for two reasons. One, it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Rio had her demons, and she made it clear the one time she told me about them that it would also be the last. Two, we had an insane morning ahead of us. On top of our regular lunch-order routine, we had to prep for a private party tonight in Brentwood.
“You’re crazy,” I said.
“But you love me.”
“Yeah, well . . . nobody turns veggie loaves into an art form like you. They’re
my biggest seller on the lunch runs.”
“I don’t think art has anything to do with it,” Rio said. “More like all those health nuts in the skyscrapers would kill their own mother for something that tasted anything like meat.”
“Which is why I love what you do with those.” I nodded toward the row of loaves she’d just pulled from the oven. Their smell was savory to the point of mouthwatering.
“Yeah, well . . . ” She moved to transfer the cakes to the individual serving containers, working to preserve as much of their heat as possible. “I know my meat, even when it’s the fake stuff.”
I spilled a wry giggle. “Not sure you want me touching that one.”
She scooped up a bottle of Abstract Catering’s secret sauce and swirled the amber goo over the boxed loaves. If there was anything customers loved more than Rio’s veggie loaves, it was that damn sauce. Never would I reveal that the special recipe was a simple mixture of ketchup, mustard, and—gasp—garlic mayonnaise.
“So . . . ” The woman’s suggestive tone put me on high alert. “It’s Wednesday, which means your route includes Viktor Blake’s office, yes?”
Clang, clang, clang. And there went the alarms.
“You know it does. But that means nothing more than my delivering his yummy veggie loaf promptly at eleven thirty, and that’s it.”
And it really was. Rio knew this drill already. I’d never be more than the lunch delivery girl to any of the high-powered executives on my downtown route, and that was by my design.
“Abbi—”
“Rio.”
“We need to talk about this.”
“We’ve already talked about this, which means you know how the conversation is going to end.”
“Jesus Christ on cornbread.” She capped her retort with a frustrated tilt of her head. “Unfortunately, I do. Also unfortunately, it won’t be with you and that beautiful hunk getting horizontal.”
While I let out an awkward laugh, Rio folded her arms and pouted. The woman was a force of nature when it came to scheming for everyone’s Happily Ever After.
The idea of Viktor Blake wasn’t horrific. Quite the opposite. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed hottie who honored his sinewy Russian heritage so well, he’d been offered a promo deal with Stone Global’s fitness supplement division.
If getting horny and horizontal with someone were my main goal right now, the man would be in the top three on the list. But still third. One of the spots would always be filled with Chris Hemsworth’s name. And the other?
Sebastian Shark.
Viktor Blake was no Sebastian Shark.
A fact that neither man mourned, if the rumors about their professional rivalry were true.
“Come on. Getting horizontal with Viktor the Golden God has to have crossed your mind, Abbi. No disrespect to your brother, my amazing husband, but it crossed my mind when I covered for you that afternoon last month.”
I raised a firm hand. “See it and talk to it, Rio. Shit like that is not going down between Viktor Blake and me.”
“But—”
“Leave it.”
“But—”
“Leave. It.” I could hear the next but already churning in her throat. “You know my rules, okay? I didn’t just make them up for my health. Or even for . . . How do you always say it?”
“Misplaced nobility.” Her tone was wry but incisive.
“Ahhh, yes. My misplaced nobility.”
My own tease earned me a huff from my sister-in-law. She folded her arms, facing me like a lawyer in cross-exam mode. “Why don’t we just call it what it really is?”
“And why am I scared to ask what it really is?”
“Because you know what I’m about to say.” She filled the air with tinny clangs as she tapped a fingernail against the table. “They’re self-erected walls between you and humanity.”
“Self-erected wa— I don’t erect anything!”
Rio turned her hand over with splayed fingers. “Dropping the mic. My work here is done.”
I pressed my lips together, holding in a retort. All right, fine. Maybe I was fond of walls. But sometimes—a lot of times—the world needed walls. They kept life organized. Created boundaries where they were needed.
I wasn’t indifferent and unfeeling. I was ambitious and focused. Separating professional and personal relationships was good business. And good business led to great business. And great business was the measure of my success.
And success—the resounding, undisputed kind—was where I was bound. No matter what it took. Including lifelong celibacy.
Since arriving here four years ago, just a month after high school graduation, I’d worked to build my name in a city where every other person owned a restaurant or catering outfit. Some of LA’s most prominent companies—and with their notable leaders—relied on me. Crossing the line with any of those clients would be killing my dream before it began.
Speaking of that dream . . .
“Not so fast, dear sister. Your work here also means prepping the appetizers for the private party tonight.” I smacked my hands together. Back to the grind. Best subject change in the world. “Chop-chop. We’re running behind on the pesto.”
“And you’re running behind on the erections.”
“Burning daylight, girlfriend,” I hollered while turning and punching the button for the roll-up door, preparing to load the van with the lunch delivery boxes.
“Wasting your va—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Rio!”
I looked back into the kitchen from the loading dock and saw a glazed stare overtake Rio’s face. I thought it was my threat that brought her crass retort to a grinding halt, but I was mistaken.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as I got closer. Eyes riveted to the TV in the corner.
I rushed back into the prep area as fast as I could. Though the verbal expression was one of Rio’s favorites, there was something extra in it that jolted every hair on my neck. “Holy shit what?”
We’d typically watch the local morning news during our meal prep hours to stay informed about weather and traffic conditions, but it wasn’t Cy the Commute Guy on the screen. Rio was staring at a fresh-faced blonde, newly arrived from Omaha, who’d clearly never had to deliver difficult news. But she had to now, as the word suicide scrolled across the bottom of the screen, accompanied by video footage depicting emergency responder trucks next to a large expanse of water and a massive suspension bridge.
“Oh my God. Is that the Vincent Thomas?”
“Yeah,” Rio rasped.
“Holy crap. Did someone—”
Rio finally located the remote and turned up the volume. “The woman, identified as twenty-seven-year-old Tawny Mansfield from Inglewood, leaped off the iconic bridge in San Pedro during the early morning hours. A dock worker who witnessed the event called 9-1-1. Her body was recovered from the water within hours.”
The newscaster paused to take a drink of water. I didn’t blame the woman. At last, she set down the water bottle and continued.
“The woman, wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, had an airtight plastic bag wrapped around her torso, in which the police located a suicide note with details about Mansfield’s recent breakup with local businessman Sebastian Shark.”
And suddenly I was the one craving a drink.
Maybe two or three.
Within seconds, I was overheated. Aching and agitated. Unable to find the rhythm of my heart, the cadence of my thoughts, or the feeling in my toes.
Because that was what a single mention of Sebastian Shark did to me.
Oh, God. That had to make me the most messed-up person in this city. This state. Maybe in the entire world.
It changed nothing.
“Oh, hell. Sebastian Shark. Why am I not surprised?” Rio said.
Her comment, a bizarre mix of fascination and irritation, affected me like a fist to the gut. I was compelled to defend him. Demand she be fair and not accuse him of something we knew nothing
about. All I could think about was how the news must have hit him.
Who the hell was I kidding?
He’d likely hit back even harder. Like he always did. With fire in his eyes, thunder in his swing, and ambition that’d likely be called inspirational in some future news piece.
“Shark, the enigmatic owner and CEO of Shark Enterprises, amassed his substantial fortune in worldwide logistics and shipping.” Cindy was clearly more comfortable with these details of the story. “However, his business portfolio has expanded throughout the years. Recently, he announced plans to construct Shark’s Edge, on target to be the tallest and most luxurious skyscraper in the LA skyline.
“Through our exclusive sources, Spotlight News has learned that Miss Mansfield’s note made references to Shark’s obsession with breaking ground on the building as soon as possible. There were several other items found in the airtight pouch, but as this is an ongoing investigation, those items have been collected as evidence and are confidential at this time.”
Rio sniffed. “Oh, I can imagine what that’s about.”
I backhanded her shoulder. “Stop. Someone’s dead.”
“Exactly. Most likely after that man tossed her out of his life like rotten coleslaw.”
“Coleslaw?”
“Clearly you haven’t had to toss out an old batch lately.”
“For which I’m grateful.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. She returned the embrace, but as we pulled apart, she hurled her next blow to my gut. “So how long do we wait before dropping Shark Enterprises?”
Shark's Edge Page 1
