The heavy rain tapping against the Frosts' villa's wide glass panels was nothing compared to the storm already brewing inside the living room.
Heston Frost stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the edge of the marble mantle, the other swirling a glass of untouched bourbon. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His jaw twitched. In front of him stood the two men responsible for keeping his daughter safe.
Well... supposed to be.
"Say that again," Heston said, his voice even but dangerous.
The older of the two guards, Brenner, hesitated before speaking. "She insisted, sir. Told us she didn't want company. Said it was personal and that she had it handled."
"You work for me, Brenner. Not her. She says jump, you ask how high? Is that it?" Heston barked.
"No, sir," Brenner said quickly. "But she was persuasive, and—"
