Page 72 of Wilde and Deadly

He barely spared Frost a glance as he held out the tray, but Davey caught the question in his eyes.Need me to step in?

Davey gave the barest shake of his head.It’s fine. I got this.

Sabin gave the tray a slight tilt, offering the champagne with his usual lazy charm. “Drink, gentlemen?”

Damn, he was good. There was no hint of his Cajun drawl in his voice. He sounded like a born-and-bred New Yorker.

Frost exchanged his empty glass for a fresh one without so much as a glance at Sabin.

That was his weakness.

He looked through people he deemed below him.

Davey also took a glass—even though he didn’t plan to drink any of it—and the moment Frost’s attention locked back on him, Sabin slipped away, melting back into the crowd.

Frost swirled his champagne, smirking. “How are you enjoying the evening? This isn’t your usual scene, but I must say you wear a tux well. Though I imagine you still prefer combat boots to Italian leather.”

Another fucking move. Still trying to get that rise.

Davey didn’t bite. “I don’t hate it,” he said mildly, scanning the room.

Was Rowan still in the bathroom?

She’d been in there too long. Or maybe it just felt that way. His gut told him to check, to move, to do something?—

But he forced himself to stay still. Forced himself to hold the line, and returned his attention to Frost. “Good drinks, decent music. Shame about the company.”

Frost laughed, and it was the first genuine thing he’d done all night. “I like you, David. We could be good friends, you know.”

He took a sip of champagne—not because he wanted it, but because it forced a pause, forced Frost to wait. Then, smoothly, he set the glass down. “Given the circumstances, probably not.”

Frost raised an eyebrow. “And what circumstances would those be?”

Enough.

Davey turned to face him fully, his voice flat. “Someone put a contract out on my head. I followed the money straight to you.”

For the first time, Frost’s expression faltered. It was quick. So quick that if Davey hadn’t been watching for it, he might’ve missed it.

But he had been watching.

And that one flicker, that tiny misstep, told him everything.

Frost recovered fast. He took a slow sip of champagne, the very picture of amused indifference. “Now, see, that’s interesting. Because if I wanted you dead, Wilde, you wouldn’t be here enjoying these good drinks, decent music, and questionable company.” Then, with casual precision, he turned, surveying the glittering guests.

His gaze zeroed in.

Right on Sabin.

“Your men are hovering.”

Fuck.

A slow, tight coil of tension locked into Davey’s spine.

He’d been careful. Sabin had been careful. But somehow, Frost had known. Had been playing along. Letting Davey think he was steering this conversation when, in reality, he’d already mapped the board.

Davey’s pulse kicked up, but he forced himself to stay still. To stay in control. “They’re worried you’ll try to kill me.”

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