The Darkest Frost, Volume 1 of a 2-part serial (EXCERPT)

CHAPTER 4

Silent crickets filled the void as outrage played across his handsome face in degrees. But his icy expression went from subzero to lukewarm once his eyes shifted to my open robe. The tops of my breasts were exposed, and damn if my nipples didn't pebble beneath his dazed inspection.

Mortified, I tugged my lapels together. He followed by inhaling sharply and looking away. But my skin still tingled as if his attention never left me. The space between us seemed to shrink, making me more physically aware of him than ever. Mere seconds passed, yet it felt like minutes.

His weren't the only eyes that had wandered. I'd gotten a good look at him as well. His coat lay open, and beyond the first two buttons of his white dress shirt, glossy black hair peeked out from the T-shirt beneath it.

Frost swallowed and spoke to the wall. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I nodded just as I remembered the mess on the floor. I dropped to my knees and started shoving handfuls of popcorn into the ruined bag. Meanwhile, he loomed above me, tall, dark, and intense.

Seconds passed, but before the silence got too loud, Frost cleared his throat and tossed a question at me. "It's three in the morning. What are you still doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," I said to the carpet. "Uh...can I get you something, sir?" I continued stuffing the bag. "Coffee? Tea? Brandy maybe?"

Frost ignored the question and knelt beside me to collect the fallen hardbacks. His hands, gloved as always in kid leather, were large enough to grip all three with ease.

He slowly got to his feet and scrutinized the titles, turning the books over one by one. The most peculiar expression sullied his face, an unsettling mix of bemusement and disdain.

"Poetry?" He'd said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Strange, considering I'd taken the books from his library. Keats, Wordsworth, Austen, Bryant, Yeats, Hughes, Byron and scores of others lined the shelves.

Frost had one of the most impressive literature collections I'd ever seen, and I'd been exposed to many, thanks to my father. Having served as an English professor at Georgetown, he'd cultivated my love for poetry and prose.

I balled the popcorn bag closed, grabbed the paperback, and stood with as much dignity as I could muster. If I had any hope of closing this case, I needed to engage the man in conversation whenever the opportunity arose. Even at three a.m. Even when he behaved like a condescending prick, which, incidentally seemed to be the norm.

"Yes, poetry," I said, without shame. "I guess it's not your cup of tea then."

His expression shaded even more. "Not particularly." He inspected the spines. "Have the movers box all the nonfiction for Canada, but keep these for yourself if you like, or any of the other literature you fancy. Donate the rest."

I blinked. "All of it?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No, I just.... Can you at least tell me why, sir?"

He gave a haughty sniff and handed me the books. "1 Corinthians 13:11. Words to live by." And with that, he started down the hallway, his gloved hands clasped tightly at his back. "Goodnight, Miss Reed," he threw over his shoulder. "Sleep well."

Braeden Frost quoting scripture was as bizarre as the pope quoting Ayn Rand. As far as I knew, my enigmatic employer was an agnostic.

The second he disappeared upstairs I headed straight to my room. Since my bible was still collecting dust in my apartment, I googled the passage he'd cited. Once I found it, I didn't know whether to feel insulted or to pity him.