Read Edge of Darkness for Free Online Page B

fit?”
    “Absolutely not,” she said instantly. “Am I ‘better’ than a five-year-old child because I’m smarter? No. Am I ‘better’ than someone who’s mentally handicapped because I’m smarter? No. Are men ‘better’ than women because they’re—usually—physically stronger? No. There’re just differences that should be respected, not degrees of superiority.”
    “There are many who’d disagree with you,” he said flatly.
    “Just because they disagree doesn’t make them right. There was a time when it was generally accepted that white people were ‘better’ than black people. And there was a time when a failed German painter convinced a lot of people that Jews should be wiped off the face of the earth because they were ‘inferior.’ And thousands of years of history have shown us what a bunch of frightened, cowardly mice people really are. General consensus doesn’t equal incontrovertible truth. As a matter of fact, I think you’re safe going against whatever the popular ideology happens to be. If there’s anything I know for sure it’s that people are easily led, and don’t like to think for themselves.”
    She didn’t know why she spoke so passionately; it just came out that way. She was sitting forward in her chair, gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn her knuckles white, staring at him in unblinking intensity.
    “Well,” he said after a time, his voice tinged with new warmth, “it doesn’t appear you have that particular problem.”
    She released the edge of the table and sat back in her chair. Heat rose in her cheeks, spread throbbing hot to her ears, down her neck.
    “That’s another thing my father always said,” she muttered. “I’m way too opinionated for my own good. Sorry.” She dropped her gaze to the table, ashamed by her inappropriate outburst. The man must think her crazy. Or at the very least overbearing.
    But why should she care what he thought? She didn’t—she just wanted the sale…right?
    He sat forward suddenly and grasped her hand. The contact shocked her, and she looked up at him, startled, as the butterflies sat up en masse and looked at him, too.
    “Don’t ever apologize for being yourself.” His voice was urgent, his gaze scorched hers. “That kind of self-confidence, especially for someone so young, is amazing.”
    His hand was warm and big and she wanted to look down at it, to see it touching her own, but she was held in place by the sheer force of his gaze. He was so… fierce . Why?
    “It’s not self-confidence,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. “It’s more like misanthropy.”
    He slowly shook his head. “You don’t hate people. You’re too kind to hate anything.”
    “You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”
    “No. I don’t.” His voice dropped. His grip on her hand tightened. “I’d like to, though.”
    Everything ground to a halt. The sun slanting through the front windows of the shop, the sound of traffic on the street outside, the familiar, musky scent of old books—all of it vanished. In its place came white-hot, encompassing heat.
    No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now. He, the perfect, mysterious, beautiful stranger.
    She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She sat there bombarded by unfamiliar sensations, lightness and warmth and a dizzying, stupid kind of wonder. Wonder that someone like him could have actually said those words to someone like her.
    For the first time in a very long time, Ember felt alive. The butterflies were soaring and screaming in glee.
    And then his cell phone rang, shattering the moment.
    There were several more rings before he finally released her hand—almost begrudgingly, it seemed, almost reluctantly. Without taking his gaze from her, he reached into the pocket of his shirt and answered it with a curt, “Yes.”
    Whoever it was on the other end spoke a few, short sentences, and Christian’s entire demeanor shifted from impassioned