Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  His forwardness makes it difficult for me to believe he’s good at restraining himself. If he’s holding back now, I can’t imagine what it’s like when he lets go, unleashing his fierce desire to claim, love, and protect.

  “You said you used to train in fencing? So you don’t anymore?”

  He shakes his head. “Now I just incorporate the sport into my regular workouts, which also include weight training and running. Fencing is grueling physically and helps keep me in great shape. It’s also mentally stimulating and enjoyable. Randall and I will hit the arena in my gym a few times a week to maintain our skill set.”

  “Randall? But he’s so—”

  “Old?” Mr. Merrick smirks. “He’s mightier with the sword than I’ll ever be and smart as a whip. Don’t let appearances fool you, Sara. That’s advice to live by.”

  Don’t let appearances fool you.

  Interesting.

  I recall Randall’s stamina with the stairs in my apartment building and suddenly it doesn’t seem so farfetched that he would face off against Mr. Merrick in the gym.

  “So do you use any of these weapons when you fence with Randall?”

  Mr. Merrick laughs. “No, it’s not that kind of swordplay, Sara. We use a foil—for thrusting . . .”

  Oh, thrusting with Mr. Merrick sounds so wicked.

  “The épée, for closer thrusting . . .”

  Closer thrusting. Even better.

  “And finally, the saber for cutting . . .”

  I crinkle my nose. Even my sex-crazed mind can’t come up with something erotic for that one.

  “That’s what professionals use in Olympic bouts.”

  “I see.” I nudge my chin in the direction of a weapon with carved hieroglyphics in the handle and a blade that’s at least two feet in length. “That’s quite the sword you have there. It’s very . . . long and thick.”

  “I’ve seen bigger,” Mr. Merrick says with an air of confidence.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Bigger, huh?”

  His mouth twitches at the sides. “You have no idea.”

  Mr. Merrick steps behind me, his body hard and warm against my back. My breath catches as I anticipate his next move. He sweeps my hair aside, exposing my neck, and brushes his lips to the sensitive skin below my ear. I shiver as he begins to knead my shoulders.

  “You’re so tight, Sara” He groans and places a soft kiss to the back of my neck.

  That’s not the only place I feel tight, Mr. Merrick.

  “Just relax,” he says, drifting his lips across my nape. “Let me take care of you.”

  I whimper and close my eyes, incapable of speech or thought as he continues his massage. The tension in my body seeps away and my defenses crumble, his soothing touch and voice ushering me toward a peaceful, vulnerable state.

  “Would you like to know more about that weapon?” He drops another kiss to my neck.

  I manage a nod.

  “This particular sword is a Roman Gladius. It was adopted by the Romans from Spanish mercenaries during the first Punic War.”

  I open my eyes and stare at the blade.

  “It became the standard issue infantry weapon of the Roman legions and saw service in the Roman armies for at least two hundred and fifty years.”

  Mr. Merrick deepens his massage. I sigh and tilt my head back, resting it against his broad chest.

  “Is it still sharp?” I grip my wine glass tightly with both hands. I’m on sensory overload as he pleasures me with every firm squeeze, every warm, intimate breath he expels against my skin.

  “Would you like a demonstration?” he asks into the side of my neck. “Or perhaps you’d like to touch it yourself.”

  Oh, yes!

  “Uh huh . . .”

  Mr. Merrick slips his hands from my shoulders and pulls the sword down from its holder. My heart skips a beat as his blue eyes appear in the blade and lock with mine.

  I recall his vow during his visit to my apartment.

  I would never hurt you, Sara.

  Mr. Merrick reaches out with his free hand and traces a forefinger down the side of my face. I close my eyes and concentrate on the path his finger travels, down my neck, along my shoulder and collarbone.

  He removes the wine glass from my shaky hand and I hear it clink on top of a nearby glass case. My arms hang limp at my sides as I give my body to him and his Gladius.

  “To answer your question: Although old, the sword is still very sharp. For instance, Miss Peters . . .” His finger pauses on the sole thin strap of my dress.

  I open my eyes, admiring the weapon in his other hand.

  “One flick of the blade, right here,” he curls his finger under my strap, “would send this pretty little dress of yours to the floor.”

  I recall my determination not to give in to him too easily tonight. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Merrick?”

  “You stir madness within me by flaunting yourself in that figure-hugging garment.” He hums the words rather than speaks them. “But you know that already, don’t you, Miss Peters?”

  “Yes,” I reply, hypnotized by the sword’s blade.

  “And you wore that dress on purpose just to torture me, didn’t you?”

  “If you say so, Mr. Merrick.”

  “But you won’t give me what I want. Not yet, anyway. Am I correct?”

  The corners of my mouth lift into a clever smirk. “That is correct, Mr. Merrick.”

  “You’re a temptress.” His eyes flash with determination.

  I bite my lower lip.

  Although I’m dedicated to staying true to my vow that he has to prove I’m more than another shiny, pretty object to chase, conquer, and collect for his wall of trophies, I feel dismayed when his finger releases my strap, leaving my dress fully intact.

  “So, can I touch it?” I look into his eyes, ignoring the Gladius.

  “I don’t know. Have you ever handled anything so powerful before?”

  “I’ve been handling you just fine, Mr. Merrick. The sword is hardly a challenge.”

  “Well, I must admit, I’m curious whether your slender fingers are able to wrap all the way around the thick shaft.”

  I flash him a smug smile. “I can accommodate something that large, believe me.”

  Mr. Merrick surrenders the weapon. I wrap my fingers around the handle. It’s heavier than I expect

  It has one long, shiny blade and deep carvings in the wooden handle, now worn smooth by age and the grip of ancient soldiers. It’s a simple tool passed down through the ranks for one deadly purpose it’s just as capable of performing today, given the right pair of hands to guide it.

  “It’s beautiful.” I return the weapon to him, feeling strangely calm, despite our intense exchange. “Thank you.”

  He regards me with a fond smile. “You’re welcome.”

  After replacing the sword on the wall, he picks up my wine glass from the display case.

  “You truly do look stunning tonight.” He tucks a wayward curl behind my ear. “I’m having a very difficult time. I’m not a patient man and want nothing more than to take you to my bed.”

  “Well, then prepare yourself for an even tougher time, Mr. Merrick.” I take back my glass. “You must prove your intentions are honorable like you told me they were last night.”

  He sets his jaw tightly.

  I decide to test him further. “But perhaps you’re not up for that. Perhaps that’s not what you had in mind when it comes to me.”

  Mr. Merrick dips his head until his lips hover over mine. The heat flowing between us feels exhilarating. “You’ll find my endurance quite remarkable.”

  “You’re not talking about fencing, are you?”

  He skims his nose across my cheek. “That’s a pretty safe bet, Sara.”

  I take one final sip of my wine, peering at him over the rim. I’m surrounded by magnificent weaponry, but nothing thrills me more than the danger, mystery, and power of the man before me.

  Mr. Merrick leans in
to kiss me, but I place my hand to his chest, pushing him back before our lips connect. As much as I enjoy our revelry, I’m here for a more important reason.

  “Not so fast, Casanova.”

  His puckered lips flatten to a frown.

  “This has been fun and all,” I drag my fingers down his chest, “but I have some serious things to discuss with you.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

  I decide to finally call him by his first name because this Mr. Merrick thing is ridiculous if my goal is to get to know him better.

  “Yes, Trenton. I have some questions for you so be prepared to answer them over dinner. And don’t even think about charming your way out of it.”

  “Do with me as you wish.” His eyes flash with mischief. “But after dinner, you’re mine.”

  He releases me and backs up slowly, luring me toward the door with a seductive prowl and enticing smirk. The thrill of the chase blasts through me.

  “I believe we can work something out,” I say.

  Trenton pauses by the door, his smirk morphing into a sly and tantalizing grin. “Then come and get me, Sara.”

  I lick my lips and close in on him, smiling triumphantly.

  The hunter has now become the hunted.

  Chapter Seven

  Trenton’s sexual charms and my out-of-control hormones fuel my overconfidence and it’s going to get me into trouble. I’m inexperienced with sex, yet I’m tossing out innuendo all over the place, giving him the impression I know what I’m doing. What the heck am I thinking?

  I fear Trenton might expect some wild ride from me after all the verbal foreplay I’ve teased him with, only to end up disappointed and unsatisfied when it turns out my bluster and bravado are based on exaggeration. I also can’t earn his respect if every word out of my mouth is a sexual reference. On our way out of the weapons room, I vow to present my true, everyday self and cut back on the tantalizing talk.

  We enter a dining hall, Trenton’s hand placed firmly against the small of my back. A Gothic fireplace is the focal point of the room. Its dancing flames toss bright orange hues against the mahogany walls, which are decorated with tapestries that look centuries old.

  In the center, a stately chandelier hangs over a long wooden table decorated with flickering candles. It would take a lot of time and far more sensible shoes than the ones I’m wearing to walk from one end of the table to the other. The style is from another era and completely impractical, yet knowing what I do about Trenton so far, its presence is unsurprising.

  I notice dual place settings and I’m relieved it will be just the two of us dining tonight. It’s nice to have Trenton unguarded for a change. However, according to the arrangement of the placemats and shiny cutlery, I will sit at one end of the table while he sits at the other. We’re going to have to shout at each other to be heard.

  Perhaps he isn’t so unguarded after all.

  Trenton slides my chair from the table and gestures for me to sit. “Vous permettez, mademoiselle.”

  My cheeks flush, even though I have no idea what he said. Only the mademoiselle tips me off that it was in French. The French language is supposed to represent the epitome of romance, but he makes it sound downright kinky.

  I present a grateful smile and place my empty wine glass on the table as I take my seat.

  Trenton leans over my shoulder and brushes his lips to my ear. “Je vous en prie.”

  Goose bumps explode on my skin. On second thought, our physical distance over dinner could have its advantages for me if my objective is to keep a clear head as I ask my questions.

  Trenton sweeps across the room and takes his seat opposite me, his handsome face bathed in candlelight. I follow his lead and place a white cloth napkin in my lap.

  “This is a beautiful room.” I look up, taking in the pastel mural painted on the ceiling.

  “What was that?” Trenton’s booming voice echoes from across the table.

  I clear my throat and lean forward.

  “Uh, this room is very nice,” I say, slower and louder this time. “And . . . spacious.”

  Trenton shrugs. “I suppose it is.”

  Randall enters from a door in the far corner, wearing a tuxedo and pushing a shiny silver cart. I wonder if Trenton eats with this much fuss all the time.

  “Good evening, Mr. Merrick.” Randall gives him a nod and pushes the cart to my end of the table. “And it’s lovely to see you again, Miss Peters.”

  He pours me another glass of wine and places a bowl of soup on my plate before pushing his cart to Trenton’s place setting and serving him. Then he pushes his cart back through the doorway and closes the door behind him.

  Trenton takes a sip of his drink and follows with a spoonful of soup, so I do the same. It’s some sort of broth with a medley of diced vegetables sprinkled with herbs. The flavor is rich and fresh, unlike any soup I’ve ever eaten, meaning it doesn’t come from a can.

  Along with the crackling fire and steady metronome of the grandfather clock in the corner, the only other sound in the room is the clinking of silverware as Trenton and I eat and drink.

  Soon, Randall clears our bowls and returns with our entrees: grilled chicken breast with a heap of steamed green beans, corn, and peas. As the meal passes, I feel increasingly uneasy. I’m not sure why Trenton isn’t talking to me, though I did tell him I wanted to lead our dinner conversation.

  I take a sip of wine, wondering where to start.

  “So, uh, how’s your head?”

  Trenton’s fork hovers in front of his mouth. He lifts his eyebrows and sets the utensil back down onto his plate. “I was wondering when you were going to start your inquisition. I was beginning to think you were all talk, Sara.”

  Little does he know.

  “I just didn’t want to interrupt your meal, that’s all.”

  “You picked a good question—casual, neutral. It’s a perfect entry level inquiry before delving into a more detailed investigation.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I straighten my posture. “I’m a nurse and I treated you. It’s only natural for me to ask about your recovery.”

  Trenton slices a piece of poultry with his knife.

  “My head is fine.” He pushes the forkful of chicken into his mouth and puts that chiseled jaw of his to work as he chews.

  Lucky chicken.

  A mouthful of wine follows, his smirk lingering over the rim. “Next.”

  So he says his head is fine. I hope all of his answers aren’t as vague.

  “You’re the CEO of Merrick Industries, right? What exactly does your company do?”

  Trenton sets his glass back down on his placemat. “Merrick Industries is a global investment management firm,” he says, as though he’s being interviewed on CNN. “We offer varied risk management, strategic advisory, and enterprise investment system services as well as equity, fixed income, and cash management strategies to a broad base of exclusive clientele spanning the globe.”

  “So you manage other people’s money—like big companies.”

  “Large assets in particular.”

  “How large?”

  “Trillions of dollars.”

  “Trillions . . . wow. So do you enjoy your job?”

  “It requires strategy, foresight, quick thinking, and even quicker reaction. I find the challenge exciting.”

  “Like fencing,” I say, realizing his description sounds similar to how he described his pastime earlier in the weapons room.

  His chewing slows as he considers my comment.

  “I’ve never thought of it . . . but yes, there are strong similarities between the two.”

  “Did you start Merrick Industries from scratch or acquire or merge with an existing company?”

  “I built my company from the ground up based on a business plan I devised in college. I’m considered a pioneer in my field, especially since I topped the trillion dollar mark in accounts by age twenty-five.”

  Well,
that explains the ego.

  “That must be quite the power trip, knowing these companies depend on you to manage their holdings.”

  Trenton shrugs. “I’m excellent at what I do.”

  I sigh and fork a green bean into my mouth. I feel as though I’m sitting at the other end of his boardroom table instead of his dinner table.

  “My reputation is world renowned,” he says, “so, yes, you may say the power I possess over the richest and most influential global businesses is very . . . rewarding. It’s a prominent position I take very seriously.”

  “Okay, but you didn’t answer my previous question.” I stab my fork into another green bean. “Do you like your job? Is it fulfilling?”

  “It’s a very lucrative career.”

  I grit my teeth and exhale through my nose.

  Our conversation stalls as Randall clears our main course dishes and serves me a warm slice of apple pie, swimming in vanilla ice cream. He leaves without placing a dessert in front of Trenton. I take a few bites, listening to my soft chews in sync with the ticking of the grandfather clock while Trenton stares at me from across the table.

  It’s time to step up my game.

  I stand, napkin in hand, and slide my placemat, including my pie and cutlery along the polished table all the way down to his end. Trenton watches me curiously. I pull out the chair nearest to him, take a seat, and place my napkin back in my lap.

  “There. That’s much better.” I square my shoulders. “Do you always sit a million miles apart from your dinner guests?”

  Trenton smirks. “I can’t remember the last time I was even in this room.”

  “Well, that explains this ridiculous setup. I was about to ask you for a bullhorn so I wouldn’t lose my voice talking to you.”

  “There are many things we can do besides talk.” His hand finds my knee beneath the table.

  I shake my head, but smile. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

  Trenton moves his hand above the table again and trails his fingers down my arm. I hold my breath.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t want me, Sara. I can see it in the way you look at me . . . how your body responds to my touch.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. “Just to clarify—what happened in the hospital between us—I’ve never done that before.”