The Ice King by Lee Brazil


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CPA Rafe Montaigne’s day is heading downhill fast and he hasn’t even had a decent cup

of coffee yet. What could make it worse? A secretary in a snit.

CPA Rafe Montaigne’s day is heading downhill fast and he hasn’t even had a decent cup

of coffee yet. What could make it worse? A secretary in a snit.

Elian is efficient, attractive and cold as ice toward his boss, and he has been since Rafe’s

ex stopped by the office.

Rafe is a sophisticated player, a businessman who knows how to have fun and he’s not

particular about whether his playmates are male or female.

It seems Elian isn’t quite so indiscriminate… What’s a boss to do when his secretary

won’t play nice?

The clack of computer keys signaled Elian’s return to his desk, and Raphael grimaced

as he realized he’d have to pass by that judgmental stare, those assessing eyes, to get to his own

desk and the coffee. Should have taken the opportunity while the man talked to his plants to dash

to his inner sanctum. He’d planned to be early, but one fiasco followed another, and of course,

super secretary beat his ass to the office again. He ran a hand through his curly black hair, trying

to make sure it was semi neat. Glanced down to check his clothes before he caught himself.

Fuck. He was drenched to the skin. There was no way he looked like anything but a drowned rat.

Who was the boss anyway?

He pushed open the heavy wood door that boasted Montaigne and Associates – though

really, it was just him and Elian – and breezed through to the inner sanctum. The room was

blessedly cool after the humid heat of the outdoors, and Elian had turned on the peaceful music

he favored. Rafe made to step past Elian, whose gaze was focused on his computer screen.

Immediately the typing stopped, and the long elegant fingers fell into his lap. Rafe found

his gaze locked on those hands, such soft, strong hands. Every nail was buffed to the perfect

shine, trimmed to the perfect length, shaped by God into a perfect oval of healthy pink. He

swallowed. He could nearly feel those nails digging into his muscles, scraping down his back,

leaving fiery trails of sensation to burn their way to his groin.

“Your messages.” Elian’s icy voice jolted him from his fantasy not a moment too soon.

Much longer and he would have been embarrassingly aroused, despite the fiasco of his morning.

More bad luck? In the beginning, Elian had addressed him in a much warmer tone. Once,

he’d even had a good morning and a how was your evening for his boss. Since that day, though,

it had been nothing but the cold shoulder.

Somewhere in a small town in up-state New York are a librarian and a second grade

teacher to whom I owe my life. That might be a touch dramatic, but it’s nevertheless one hundred

percent true.

Because they taught me the joy of reading, of escaping into worlds crafted of words.

Have you ever been nine years old and sure of nothing so much as that you don’t belong?

Looked at the world from behind glasses, and wondered why you don’t fit?

Someone hands you a book, and then you turn the page and see… There you are, running

from Injun Joe in a dark graveyard; there you are fencing with Athos; there you are…beneath the

deep blue sea- marveling at exotic creatures with Captain Nemo.

I found myself between the pages of books, and that is why I write now. It’s why I taught

English and literature for so many years, and it’s why my house contains more pounds of books

than furniture.

If I’d had my way, I’d have been a fencer…or a starship captain, or a lawyer, or a detective

solving crimes. But instead, I am a writer, and I’ve come to realize that’s the best thing in the

world to be, because as a writer, I can be all those things and more.

If I hadn’t learned to value the stories between the pages, who knows what would have

happened? Certainly not college…teaching…or writing.


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