THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
The next week and a half didn't yield much in the psychic reading department. Caryn hadn't shown her face since I arrived. Not surprising considering she'd been just as erratic when she was alive. Sometimes she'd disappear for days at a time without a word. God only knew if she'd ever come back.
In the interim, I planted wireless bugs, EVP recorders, temperature gauges, and thermal imaging Minicams on the first and second floors, all of which fed into my laptop. The library, den, kitchen, and second-floor hallway were the strongest emotional hot spots.
As for the mysterious Dr. Frost, he spent the majority of his time gardening, running errands, or doing whatever it was he did beyond those creepy French doors. This pretty much left me with the run of the house. Well, most of it anyway. I'd yet to figure out how to break into his suite. Short of attaching a stick of dynamite to the knob or shooting the damn door open, I wasn't getting in there.
Between interviewing moving companies and real-estate agents, as well as my many pathetic attempts to lure Caryn out of hiding, I barely saw Frost, and when I did, he all but ignored me. Most of our conversations took place over the intercom or during the two or three minutes of small talk I initiated while serving his meals. Despite this, we quickly settled into a makeshift routine.
Though he rarely emoted, I was still able to discern enough to anticipate many of his needs before he voiced them. It may not have been much, but to me, it was one more small step in my campaign to get to know him.
However, he threw me a serious curve ball two weeks in. He left in the pouring rain carrying another crate of flowers, only to return just after one in the morning.
I didn't see him. I smelled him. It was the scent of death. The odor mimicked wet earth and he'd left it behind in the second-floor hallway.
Death had two odors, what I called First-Person and Residual. First-Person surfaced if I had direct contact with a corpse.
In contrast, Residual happened whenever I encountered a person who'd recently been around something dead. This was the first time I'd smelled the scent on him.
What the hell had he been doing?
I didn't cross paths with him until nearly a week later, and once again, he smelled like wet earth. I'd just left the kitchen toting a bag of popcorn with a couple books tucked beneath my arm. My nose was buried in a thick paperback when we literally crashed into each other, and the collision was catastrophic. On impact, my index finger bent the wrong way and everything went flying.
"Miss Reed? What the- - -"
"Sorry, sir." I bit my tongue to keep from screaming as I massaged my throbbing finger. "I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."
"Indeed," he said with a harsh sigh, brushing irritably at the popcorn littering his sleek black coat. His thorny gaze cut to my hand. "Do I need to look at that?"
Moments after I gave my head a panicked shake, his eyes slowly narrowed. The man wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what I was thinking:
Dr. Death wants to examine me? Um, no... Just...no.
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.
* * *
Denieve
____________________________
My finger healed, but my frustration grew as the days passed. Since getting a deep reading on Frost was damn near impossible, any plans I had for wrapping this case up early flew out the window. I needed emotions to weigh his words for truth, but he wasn't talking, emoting, or anything. Hell, the man usually said more with his eyes than his tongue.
Even while he seemed oblivious to my presence, I felt his questioning gaze whenever I turned away, but then he'd resume ignoring me once I turned back around. From what little I could glean from him, he was curious and intrigued, yet suspicious and unsure. A couple times I caught him staring at me with the weirdest expression, like I was a riddle he couldn't puzzle out. I got the sense he hadn't a clue what to make of me, especially as I continued to fulfill his needs without being asked.
All it took was a little observation. So I found ways to be around him, to get close enough to catch something. Though he'd stuffed his deepest emotions behind a veil, I was still able to pick up stray vibes.
For instance...
When he spent more than an hour outside in the garden, I brought him freshly squeezed lemonade. Other times I'd sit quietly in the gazebo pretending to read, just to be near him while he tended his plants. When he was engrossed in his work inside, I intercepted the calls to his cell phone. When he hit a brick wall in his research, I sensed his black mood and returned with his favorite tea. When he grew hungry in between meals, I had snacks at the ready. And when he seemed tired during the day, I turned his bed down for a nap.
This silent interplay soon became our new normal.
Weirder still? I looked forward to serving him, watching him, trying to figure him out, despite the fact he paid me little, if any attention, and the few times he did, it was usually to say something rude. But I noticed a change in him also. He'd come to expect my intuitiveness, and one time, I could have sworn I'd even caught a ghost of a smile touching his lips because of it.
This particular incident happened at one in the morning- - -a night when he'd gone out with another flower crate and returned once again smelling of wet earth. I'd greeted him from the kitchen while making tea for myself. He'd stalked in and just muttered, or in this case, grumbled a hello and disappeared upstairs. Having been here about four weeks now, I'd grown accustomed to his frosty attitude. But tonight was different.
I had a plan.
So I went right into action, and ten minutes later, I poked the intercom. "May I come up, sir?"
"For what?"
"I have something for you."
I didn't wait for permission. I headed straight upstairs, tray in hand and found him sitting on the sofa in his suite, tearing through a medical journal. I set the tray down but hid a small basket behind my back.
He glared up at me. "What's this?"
"Tea and a hot blueberry muffin."
He paused for a beat. "I didn't ask for anything."
"No, you didn't."
"So why are you here, Miss Reed?"
"Because you're hungry."
"I never said I was hungry."
"You didn't have to, sir. You skip breakfast as a rule, you barely touched your lunch today, and you haven't eaten any dinner. I'm assuming as much because when you came in downstairs, I heard your stomach growl."
Then it happened. Miracle of miracles: a hint of a smile touched his lips, one that seemed to appear and disappear at the same time. He stared longingly at the muffin. "You're quite observant," he murmured, his vivid blue eyes lifting to mine.
They were as warm and deep as they were intense. For a second I got lost in them, but I recovered soon enough. "And you, sir, are starving," I said as I picked up the saucer with the muffin and handed it to him.
Frost's gloved finger brushed mine as he took the plate. We both looked away, with me trying to ignore the warm tingle spreading over the back of my hand. Meanwhile, he tore into the muffin, his complete attention focused on it.
Just after he'd devoured the last piece, he said, "You wouldn't happen to have ano- - -"
But I was already handing him the basket of muffins I'd hidden behind me.
* * *
Denieve
____________________________
The following Monday, Frost came barreling down the steps wearing a pair of gray pajama bottoms and a tightly belted black robe. Still foggy from sleep, he glowered at the enormous grandfather clock next to the staircase and squinted. It was seven a.m.
I was sitting in the middle of the second-floor hallway in a panic, surrounded by the fallen pieces of his suit of armor. A leg here. An arm there. God only knew where the head had rolled.
"What the devil is going on?" he demanded, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes.
"I didn't mean to wake you, sir."
"Miss Reed- - -"
I gestured at the mess. "Don't worry about this. I'll...ah...I'll get this up as soon as I find his head- - -"
"Miss Reed!" He darted a finger at one of the legs. "Why is my antique suit of armor splayed about the floor?"
"Um, the whole thing collapsed when I tried to move it. I'm organizing things for the packing company."
He glared daggers at me.
The truth? The suit of armor creeped me out and I was tired of looking at the damn thing. I wanted it gone. "So much needs to be catalogued up here. I just thought I'd start in the hallway."
Still silent, he continued to stare down at me, his face cold and unreadable.
"I-I'm sorting everything by theme- - -for the movers. I want to put all the medieval pieces in one room, Greco in another. Same with the African, Japanese, and Egyptian art. I plan to leave the other furniture and knickknacks alone. Most of it falls in the Victorian, French provincial, and Queen Anne period. They were close enough in style that- - -well, anyway, I was trying to move this piece to one of the guest rooms when he just fell apart. I barely even touched him."
He straightened. "Leave these things to the packing company. That's what I'm paying them for."
I glanced around, helplessly. "I know, but there's just so much er...stuff."
Oh, no, no, no, no. Although I'd said "stuff" I was thinking junk, and junk is what came out in my tone of voice and body language. In as much as I'd learned to read him, Braeden Frost had gotten pretty damn good at reading me as well.
His mouth thinned. "This stuff'" he said, pronouncing the S-word concisely, "is the culmination of my worldly travels. Each of these pieces represents a cherished memory. Something I went out of my way not to forget. For instance...." He snatched one of the armor's thighs from the carpet. "I got this from the queen herself after I was knighted."
My eyes rounded in surprise.
Frost grabbed a figurine from the shelf next to him. "This was given to me many years ago by a very gifted artist."
It was a bust of an old man, exquisitely detailed, but it belonged somewhere else, in a place where it could be seen and appreciated. Not in a gloomy hallway next to an ugly suit of armor.
"It's beautiful," I said. "Where's the artist now?"
Frost frowned at the figurine, as if regretting his trek down memory lane. "In the ground. She's dead." He set the piece back on the table with care and all but dumped the armor leg into my arms. "These things may look like 'stuff' to you, but they mean the world to me." His voice was low yet sharp enough to echo. "Do you understand?"
I nodded, gaping after him as he marched upstairs. Crap. I'd made so much progress with him over the past couple weeks. Now we were right back to square one, with me on the outside looking in.
I had to do damage control and fast.
An hour later, I was in the middle of forming a plan when three menacing-looking guys showed up at the door unannounced. Stone-faced with Brylcreemed hair and manicured fingernails, they wore blue Armani suits, black ties, and matching oxfords. I hadn't buzzed them in, and neither had Frost, which meant they knew the gate code.
After Frost's terse "Show them up" over the intercom, they ignored my offer to escort them. All three had the same haughty air, like they owned the universe or something. They only stayed twenty minutes, but from the sour looks on their faces when they filed out, the visit hadn't gone well. Jaws tight, the men had marched down the stairs in single file and left, their soulless eyes cutting holes into me and everywhere else they looked. If that wasn't proof enough that they were pissed, the visual aura I saw- - -of flames dancing around their heads- - -said it all.
When lunchtime rolled around, I prepared his tray, mentally configuring the apology I had to give for the morning's armor debacle.
Make no mistake, I wasn't a doormat. The man had behaved like an ogre, but if I wanted to get things back on track, I had to fix this by any means necessary- - -my pride be damned.
"Dr. Frost," I said into the intercom. "Your lunch is ready."
"Come up."
His voice lacked its earlier sharpness, but there were no warm fuzzies in it either.
I heard him moving around his suite as I made my way down the hallway. Once I entered the sitting room, I found him bent over a crate of flowers. He turned to me as I set his tray on the credenza. Reading him was impossible. It was as if he'd stuffed everything behind an impenetrable wall. I didn't feel, see, smell, or taste anything except a coiled power that brimmed inside him, a potent energy he'd tethered somewhere deep and dark.
We both stood opposite each other, staring, with me trying to find the words I'd strung together on the walk up here, but the moment I looked at him, my mind went blank. There was so much in those eyes of his, so many contradictions. They were warm, questioning, and wary. They were mesmerizingly distant, yet sharp, and all-seeing. But the one thing they weren't was angry.
When we both spoke at once, he gestured at me to go first. It took me a few seconds to get my tongue working.
"I'm really sorry I mishandled your property, sir. The truth is, the armor- - -it makes me uneasy." I shook my head. "No, actually, it scares me. Especially the times I come upstairs late at night. I honestly didn't count on it being that heavy. I thought I could move it myself, but I swear, nothing's broken. I reassembled everything, so he's right where you- - -"
Frost waved a hand to quiet me before clasping both hands behind his back. He took a few leisurely steps in my direction until less than three feet separated us. Relief surged when I tasted chocolate. An aura! Finally, I'd gotten a positive emotion out of him.
Contrition.
"There's no need to apologize, Miss Reed."
He was looking at the floor when he said this, but then his gaze slowly trailed up my body. Strangely enough, the action didn't feel demeaning or insulting. On the contrary, it was more penitent than anything else- - -almost as if he were really seeing me instead of looking through me.
Then our eyes met and I flushed from the warmth I saw in them. Yes, they were warm again...just as warm as they'd been the night I gave him the muffins. His chest slowly rose as his lips parted, and once he spoke his voice was subdued and gentle. "As I'm sure you've probably noticed, I'm not a morning person, yet it seems you are." He sighed and glanced off. "That, however, does not excuse my behavior. Or the tone I used. Please accept my sincerest apologies."
With that, he nodded respectfully and quit the room. Didn't even wait for my response. Just disappeared behind the French doors.
It wasn't until the next morning, as I entered the hallway to begin cataloguing one of the guest bedrooms, that I noticed the suit of armor was gone.
---END CHAPTER 4---
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