Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  “Thanks.”

  Although I know Trenton is super wealthy, as I enter the study I’m still not prepared for its elaborate décor: intricate crown molding, a large oak desk, the requisite globe that seems to be in all rich people’s studies—at least in the movies—a great view of the park, shelves packed with books, a massive fireplace, a large fish tank built into the far wall, and a fully stocked bar.

  I walk toward the fish tank, wondering how I could possibly broach the subject of Trenton’s alleged illegal activities and arrive for my shift at work in one piece.

  The aquarium water is clear; the tank’s colorful occupants float leisurely without a care in the world. I’m in the midst of trying to find Nemo when the door to the study slams shut behind me, the thunderous noise blasting throughout the room and rattling the pictures on the walls.

  I pivot on my heels, my hand placed over my heaving chest.

  Trenton has returned.

  The sparkle in his blue eyes now looks icy. His clothing has also changed. He wears a dark purple shirt and complementary tie beneath a charcoal gray suit that’s pressed and tailored to his lean form.

  He fastens a button on his suit jacket with one hand and crosses the room toward me with the long, confident strides that, in addition to his smoldering eyes and smirk, have become his trademark. His brooding expression should send me running for the elevator, but instead, I drift toward him.

  “Trenton.” His name slips from my lips like a question.

  He advances faster and I reverse until my back meets something hard.

  The fish tank.

  Damn it.

  I mentally smack myself upside the head.

  So much for my plan not to back up into any walls while in his company.

  Although it’s a fish tank embedded into a wall so perhaps I can consider my current position a slight victory.

  I gasp as he slowly wraps one large hand around my neck, pushing the back of my head against the cold glass of the aquarium and bringing his hot lips to rest against my ear. He presses the hard length of his body to mine, trapping me in a gilded cage of Merrickness. I tremble from the fear that my brain begs my heart to acknowledge.

  “My darling, darling Sara,” he says.

  “Yes?” I manage to whisper as his thumb strokes the column of my throat.

  He growls and presses his mouth to mine, kissing me long and hard.

  Oh, yes.

  Seductive Trenton is back with a vengeance.

  Just as I move my hands to the collar of his suit jacket, eager to rip it from his body, he pulls his lips away. While one hand remains on my neck, his other hand collects my flowing hair in a fist.

  “Can you do me a favor?” he purrs. Yes, purrs.

  My hands find their way to his hips, pulling him into me. I whimper as his arousal presses against my stomach. My body moves by its own volition, seeking more luscious friction.

  “Anything, Trenton,” I reply in a breathy voice that would give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money.

  Trenton leans in again, brushing his lips to my ear. “Tell Kelly to stop sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I always wondered what could possibly be erotic about hair pulling. Once, in grade three, I got in a fight with a boy named Steven on the playground during morning recess. He yanked one of my pigtails as hard as he could. I cried from the shock of the deep, burning pain and retaliated by telling everyone in our class that his favorite bands were Hanson and the Backstreet Boys. We called a truce after trading snacks at lunchtime: my chocolate Jell-O pudding for his raspberry Fruit Roll-Up.

  Trenton doesn’t yank. He uses his grip on my hair to guide my head backward with the same force he applies when he places his hand to my lower back and steers me. It’s soft enough not to tear any strands, but strong enough that I know better than to resist.

  My neck arches so I’m forced to look up at him, surprised by how suddenly weak and turned on I feel, even more than I usually do in his presence. The sensation that wrings through my scalp is more of a pleasurable tickle than burn. I’m tempted to explore this with him even further, but then I remember my life is possibly at stake thanks to Kelly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Trenton tilts my head back until I can see the fish swimming inside the tank in my peripheral vision.

  Looks like I’ll be joining you boys soon.

  “Don’t lie to me. I know your friend has been snooping in my business.” The words are spat more than spoken. “What exactly did she show you, Sara?”

  “Um, nothing. Just some information . . . on Christopher and Sean . . . their military backgrounds . . .”

  “And what did you learn about me?”

  Ask him about Kedrov.

  Ask him about Kedrov!

  “Uh . . . just that you’re, like, some genius billionaire with encrypted personal records.”

  Trenton releases me so I can stand upright. “My files are encrypted because of my position. Not only to protect my private life from media intrusion, but also to protect my clients, many of whom trust me based on my strict rules regarding confidentiality.” He scowls. “Kelly’s friend had no right to access those records.”

  “You know who did it?”

  Trenton nods. “He was incredibly sloppy, left tons of footprints. Chris and Sean are going over to have a talk with him right now.”

  “Oh no, they’re going to kill him, aren’t they?” I reach for the arm of a nearby chair and right myself, my legs jittery beneath me. “They’re going to kill him and Kelly, aren’t they?”

  “Kill them? Where on earth did you get such a ridiculous notion?” Trenton waves off my concern as if swatting a pesky mosquito. “Nothing like that is going to happen. Besides, if I let any harm come to Kelly, Sean will ensure some harm comes to me.”

  My mind races as I try to process Trenton’s abrupt mood change. “What? Sean? What does he have to do with Kelly?”

  Trenton smirks. “She made quite an impression on him the other day at the hospital.”

  Their standoff outside Manhattan General when Trenton scheduled his impromptu follow-up appointment certainly set off some fireworks, but I didn’t think the attraction kind. Then again, what other kind is there?

  Trenton looks at his watch. “You said you had to be at work by seven. Let’s go.”

  “I’m sorry, Trenton,” I say as I scramble after him out of the study. “It was wrong of Kelly to meddle in your business and it was even worse of me to look at what she found.”

  He picks up my purse from the couch. When he turns to me, he no longer scowls, but frowns. “If you have questions, Sara, just ask. Don’t send your friends to dig up dirt. What happened here really hurts me.”

  I’m stunned.

  I hurt him?

  “Hey, wait a second.” My hands meet my hips. “First of all, I didn’t send Kelly to dig up anything. She did it on her own. Secondly, how many times have you dug up information on me?”

  Trenton rolls his eyes. “That’s completely different.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  He hands me my purse and starts toward the door. “Don’t argue with me.”

  I settle the purse strap over my shoulder and slip into my sneakers.

  “Going down, Mr. Merrick,” the elevator voice says.

  Our descent starts in silence and remains that way. Trenton leans against the back of the elevator, hands shoved in his pockets, his glare fixed ahead at the mirrored doors. I feel like a scolded child getting the silent treatment from her disappointed father. I know I should put up a fight, but what Kelly did was wrong.

  “Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Merrick,” the elevator voice says when we reach the bottom floor. I remember Trenton’s answer upon our arrival less than an hour ago and worry the events that followed have tainted the memory of our sunny day in the park.

  Trenton refuses assistance from the building’s valet. As we enter the underground parking garage,
I feel as if I’m in a warehouse of stolen luxury cars. The taillights of a silver Lamborghini blink ahead of us. Trenton pulls the keys from his pocket and the doors lift like some winged beast about to take flight.

  “Get in.” His words sound forceful and curt.

  The silence in the car feels thick enough to suffocate us as we weave through the different levels of the parking garage. I want to apologize again, but Trenton wasn’t exactly receptive the first time.

  My concern about a long, awkward ride to the hospital gets left behind along with the rest of the city traffic once we reach street level. After ensuring I have my seatbelt on, Trenton blasts out of the parking garage and down the street, the green lights ahead seemingly synchronized with the sight of the Lamborghini hurtling toward them.

  I glance at Trenton. His eyes are set dead ahead, his jaw clenched. His left hand grips the wheel as he clutches and switches to a higher gear with his right. We practically take the next turn on two wheels.

  I slam my hand against the passenger side door to steady myself. “I’m not gonna be late. You can slow down!”

  Trenton’s eyes narrow as he revs the engine behind a meandering yellow taxicab, riding its bumper. The whites of the cab driver’s eyes glow in his rearview mirror. Trenton darts into the left lane and thunders past him, a chrome streak in the cabbie’s window. He would look so hot if I wasn’t so scared for my life.

  Half a block from Manhattan General, I ask him to pull over because I don’t want my colleagues to see me with him. Without a word, he angles into a No Standing zone in front of a fire hydrant and downshifts to first gear.

  I unclip my seatbelt. “Uh, thanks for the ride.”

  The passenger door lifts. Trenton continues to stare straight ahead, his jaw still set.

  I gulp. “So . . . Saturday . . . the charity benefit. Are we still on?”

  He turns to me so fast, I jump in my seat.

  “Of course we are.” His reply suggests he’s shocked I’d think otherwise.

  Relief blankets me as I realize he’s not as angry as I feared. “Okay . . . and, um, Trenton?”

  He lifts his eyebrows.

  “Even though I’m not the only one in the wrong here, I truly am sorry for the part I played—looking at the information.”

  Trenton takes my hand and squeezes softly. His other hand threads into my hair, and then he leans forward and his lips meet mine. It isn’t like the possessive kiss we shared at the Bethesda Fountain. It’s tender and careful, but no less wanting.

  I stroke his jaw and drag my hand down his neck to his tie, petting the silk fabric against his chest, my lips working with his. I slip my tongue inside his mouth. He moans, and the flourish of yearning that explodes within me is enough to make me consider skipping my shift entirely, like a teenage girl who ditches last period to make out with her boyfriend in the high school parking lot.

  Our lips part and Trenton takes a deep breath, resting his forehead on mine. “How am I going to make it to Saturday without seeing you?”

  His words bring a smile to my face, superseding the whiplash that resulted from his sudden mood swings. The back of his hand dances across my cheek. I close my eyes and revel in his touch.

  Trenton and I met half a block from here only a few nights ago. It’s a ridiculously short amount of time to have experienced everything I have with him. It’s even more ridiculous to feel the way I do toward him right now. When I open my eyes, I see the same glow on his face that I feel on mine.

  Trenton places a lingering kiss to my lips before I climb out of the Lamborghini. The passenger side door closes and the window buzzes as it lowers.

  Trenton ducks his head. “Have a good shift. And be careful, okay?”

  I push the blowing strands of hair behind my ears and nod. “Trenton, nothing’s going to happen to Kelly’s friend, is it? It probably wasn’t even his fault. She can be very persuasive.”

  “I know the type.” Trenton winks and it stuns me even more than his kisses. How is it that moments ago he looked ready to strangle me? “Don’t concern yourself, Sara. Nothing will happen to him.”

  “Okay. Well, have a good time at the office.” I wave, but the window is already up again and Trenton faces the road in front of him. He peels off, clearing two blocks before I even take a step toward the hospital.

  My mind swirls as it always does when Trenton leaves, but today it moves even faster. The emotions from our kiss collide with the good sense my parents always told me I was blessed with but I’ve ignored since the moment I entered the examination room with him.

  Trenton Merrick: billionaire philanthropist/terrorist. There are so many questions, and the few answers I have either serve as contradictions or leave even more questions. But there’s no denying the way I feel when I’m near him or when he touches me, like a drug I think might be hurting me but becomes more addictive each time I use it.

  I had an opportunity to ask Trenton about Alexander Kedrov in the study, when he inquired into what Kelly dug up on him, but I chickened out. Now how can I broach the subject without him losing it on me? If the angry Trenton I experienced on the drive over here is any indication, it’s probably best if I let things be for now unless he gives me additional reasons to question him.

  * * *

  Another night shift trickles by in a blur of patient visits, cut-eyes from Dr. Shore, and charting, but every phone that rings is Trenton asking to speak with me. Every new patient admitted is Trenton for another follow-up. Every shadow behind every curtain surrounding an examination area is Trenton waiting for me. I even catch myself writing his name at the top of a report sheet as I try to copy a patient’s information from an insurance card. When I finally return to my locker the next morning, I realize I actually miss him.

  The blinking light on my cell phone tells me there’s a voicemail message waiting. My heart thumps between rings, blood surging through me as if I’m making the call while running a marathon.

  Good evening, Sara. It’s Trenton. You’re in the middle of what I’m sure feels like an endless shift. Perhaps you’ll get this during your break or maybe even tomorrow morning when you get off work. It’s nothing urgent. I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking of you. You haven’t left my mind for even a moment. It’s the second best thing to you being here with me right now. I cannot wait to see you upon my return. Goodnight.

  By the fifth time I replay the message, I feel beyond giddy. It doesn’t even bother me that I never gave him my cell phone number and he probably found it in some underhanded way. By the eighth time, I’m giggling loud enough for anyone in the locker room and outside in the hallway to hear me.

  * * *

  Later that morning, when I’m at home in my pajamas, my landline telephone lights up with a double staccato long distance ring.

  I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hey, kiddo,” my dad says. “How are things?”

  “I think I should be asking you the same. This is your second call this week.”

  “I just wanna check in on you. Can’t a father do that?”

  I smile. “Well, sure, but now I’m worried. Is your stomach ulcer back again?”

  “No, no.” His chuckle sounds forced. “We’re A-Okay out here on the west coast. I’m just calling to say hey. I miss you, Sara, and I wanna make sure things are good.”

  “I’m fine, Dad, really. And you’re positive you and mom are all right? You’d tell me if you weren’t . . .”

  “Of course. Listen, I don’t wanna keep you. Your mother and I will call you next week. She’s just out at the moment.”

  “Okay. I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you very much, kiddo.”

  As I hang up the phone, I wonder if the warbling I heard in his voice was really there or if it was just some distortion on the line. I decide to call my mom later tonight just to make sure. My dad has a tendency to overreact and stress out easily, and the last time his ulcer flared up he refused to see a doctor until he could ba
rely eat.

  It’s almost noon before I close the blinds as tight as I can and crawl into bed. Sleep finally comes, and though I’m sure I dream, I have no recollection of it when I suddenly wake to the sound of my apartment door buzzer. Another much-needed rest interrupted. I leap out of bed, grab my bathrobe from the floor, and put it on, while making a mental note to ask who it is first before opening the door.

  “I have a delivery, ma’am,” is the reply I receive.

  I unlock the door, but leave the chain on as I peek outside.

  A scrawny man in khakis and a FedEx emblazoned shirt and cap stands in the hallway.

  “Uh, just leave it on the welcome mat, please,” I say through the crack.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this parcel is priority. It needs a signature.”

  I look down at my frumpy bathrobe and shrug.

  Who am I trying to impress anyway?

  I unlatch the chain and open the door wider. The courier only gives a slight glance before asking me to sign the screen of his scanner and giving me the package.

  The box hasn’t been tossed around or stacked on as some parcels I’ve ordered in the past obviously had. The corners look sharp, the tape shiny. The shipping date reads the same as today’s date. I slit the edges with a kitchen knife and open it. Underneath is another box, but this one has Chanel stamped on it.

  After untying the bow, lifting the lid, and removing the tissue paper, I find a dark red dress made of chiffon and satin. The skirt portion is layered with an asymmetrical cut, the longest portion ankle length, and the uppermost portion high enough to show off some serious left leg action.

  The neckline is respectful—the back not so much. It dips so low into a V it would probably stop just above my ass. The bodice looks slim fitting and is covered with glistening crystals. To top it all off, the dress comes with a pair of fuck-me shoes, the heels higher than anything I’ve worn before.

  A handwritten card accompanies the items.

  Sara,

  I saw the dress and shoes on my stopover in Paris and thought they would look stunning on you. I would be honored if you wore them on Saturday night.