Free Frozen Grave by Lee Weeks

full of passion they were, so dark. Her skin was luminescent. Her hair was long and flowing around her shoulders in a mane of black and silver.
    ‘I’m not exhibiting locally at the moment. My agent in London is taking everything I can produce. I can show you some of my canvases – works in progress.’ She reached out
a hand as he came near. ‘I appreciate you coming all this way.’
    He looked at her hands; they looked older than the rest of her – the years of oil painting had dried them.
    ‘It’s no trouble. I have an appointment in Exeter this evening, just finalizing a really big order for five yachts. But I couldn’t wait to see you again – that’s
the truth. You left me wanting more.’ He leant in to smell her as he kissed her neck. She smelt of roses and musk. She wore a velvet dress that came almost to the floor. Between her breasts
was a silver pendant. He watched it rise and fall then traced it with his forefinger.
    ‘A Claddagh pendant . . . Love, loyalty and friendship. Did you wear that especially for me?’
    She gave a curious smile, her eyes shining. ‘Perhaps.’ She looked past him. ‘Looks like the mist’s following you. It wants to keep you here.’
    Ellerman turned to see that all around was now obscured by white, and cold dampness filled the air.
    She looked at him. ‘I hope you don’t intend trying to leave,’ she said, laughing as she turned towards the house.
    ‘No intention of it. One moment.’ Ellerman turned back to his car, opened the passenger door and, reaching inside, he pulled out a box that had been on the floor. It contained six
bottles of wine.
    ‘I brought us something interesting to try. It’s ideal for the Dartmoor weather. I hope you’re keen on taking risks?’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    He followed her into the house and down some stone steps into a flagstone-floored kitchen with a large Aga, a sturdy oak table and hanging pots and pans. He came behind her and slipped his hands
around her waist. The velvet of her dress was soft to the touch. He heard her intake of breath.
    ‘But, are you ready for the first taste?’ she said breathlessly.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Close your eyes.’
    She stepped away from him and he heard the clink of glasses and the sound of liquid filling a glass. He smiled knowingly.
    ‘Unmistakable.’
    ‘Damn!’ She laughed. ‘I opened the bottle as you drove in. I hoped to be cunning. You heard the fizz as it hit the glass, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes. Let me guess the vintage. Mmm. I can smell almond and cocoa and . . . dried flowers.’ He took a sip and held the liquid on his tongue for a few seconds before he swallowed and
smiled and nodded appreciatively.
    ‘Yes . . . tactile, dark and chiselled, even. Dom Pérignon 2004?’
    She laughed excitedly. He could feel her heat close to him.
    He opened his eyes slowly. ‘What a perfect choice to cement our friendship.’
    She smiled, happy. ‘When I read that on your profile – “my favourite thing of all is champagne” – then I knew you’d be romantic.’
    ‘And you were right. I have a sensory nature: sensual, hedonistic – open to pleasure, sharing pleasure.’ His eyes stayed on her and he took a step closer. ‘I want to see
where you paint. I want to know everything about you.’
    ‘Then come with me.’
    She picked up the champagne bottle and turned and led him through the kitchen to a room off the back of the house. It was high-ceilinged, with skylights, and one whole wall was glass set in
stone. The smell of oil paint hit him. She was working on several paintings. Slashes of black and grey and yellow gorse covered her canvases. They were bleak, dark and full of movement and
anger.
    ‘Magnificent.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She was watching him as he looked at her work; he went around the studio, pausing in front of each easel, each piece of art. He took his time. She had stopped by one she was currently working
on: a whirl of blue spring sky above forbidding granite shelters.