Frontline (6 page)

The center console retreats to its original place and Sinatra is silenced as Randall parks next to the fountain. He exits the car, shuts his door, and walks around to the passenger side to assist me.

The grounds are silent except for the rush of the water from the fountain, the clicking of my heels, and Randall’s heavy footfalls, as we ascend the front stairs. The massive double doors at the top are made of mahogany wood and they each have an antique brass knocker. I notice a security camera rooted in the stone next to the porch light. I bet this place is equipped like the Pentagon.

Instead of using a key like a normal person, Randall enters a code into a keypad embedded into the wall, revealing a multi-colored control panel. He places his forefinger against the panel and a light scans across its width like a photocopier.

No wonder Mr. Merrick complained about the lock on my apartment door.

A fluorescent green light illuminates behind Randall’s finger and a loud click and thud resonate from inside the house. He steps away from the panel and pushes on one of the doors. It creaks open. Orange light seeps onto the terrace from the foyer.

“Welcome to Mr. Merrick’s Connecticut estate, Miss Peters.”

We enter a majestic entrance hall. The manor feels cool and the lighting is dim, but the lack of illumination enhances the beauty of the furnishings. Warm yellow marble pervades the decor: marble floor, marble walls, and a sweeping marble staircase that leads to a balcony overlooking the foyer.

A chandelier, with tiers of what I assume is real crystal, floats above me, reflecting beams of light like hundreds of tiny prisms. The crown molding looks like solid gold, and the railing that continues up the staircase and along the balcony consists of intricately detailed black cast-iron. Closed double French doors lead to a darkened room to my right. Toward the back is a row of stained glass windows draped in silk.

“Please follow me, Miss Peters,” Randall says. “I will escort you to the reception room, fetch you a glass of wine, and notify Mr. Merrick of your arrival.”

I snap my mouth closed and smile sheepishly. “That would be great.”

Eerie quiet follows us up the stairs. At the top, we travel along the length of the balcony toward another mahogany door. Black and gold curtains cover the cathedral windows to my left.

At the end of the balcony, Randall pushes the door open and we walk down another wide corridor draped with tapestries. On our journey, I look around, hoping to find some family portraits, personal items, anything that gives me a hint of who Mr. Merrick really is. Instead, everything looks like it belongs in a museum.

We walk across a circular atrium featuring more yellow marble and encompassed by several closed double mahogany doors. Randall leads me toward one set and we enter a reception room.

“Since it’s the long weekend, Mr. Merrick gave most of his staff the day off,” he says. “Therefore, I will serve as the butler tonight as well as your chauffeur. The cook is also here, of course, to prepare the meal.”

“Oh, of course.” I hold back a giggle at the fact this is not a dream, but my bizarre reality.

Randall sets me up in a comfortable chair beside a roaring fire. Unlike the rest of the estate, this room feels toasty warm.

“Allow me to take your purse,” he says.

“Thanks.” I hand it over to him.

“I’ll be right back, Miss Peters.” Randall leaves, closing the door behind him. When he returns, he pushes a silver cart with two overturned glasses and containers of ice housing several bottles of wine. His expression looks grim.

“Miss Peters, I’m afraid Mr. Merrick is running late.”

Something tells me, given Mr. Merrick’s military precision when it comes to time, being late isn’t a common occurrence with him.

Well, it’s not like I’m going to leave now after how long it took to get here.

“It’s no problem, really. I understand.”

Randall pushes the cart closer. “I have three of Mr. Merrick’s best wines here: a Chateau d’Yquem 1969, a potent 1973 Chateau Pétrus Pomerol, or if you’re in the mood for white, a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”

The only thing I can do is choose the last wine
Randall mentioned because it’s freshest in my mind and the only one I have any hope in hell of repeating properly. Or so I think.

“The
Montrachet is fine.” I cringe at my horrid pronunciation.

Randall takes it all in stride. “Excellent choice, Miss Peters.”

He uncorks the bottle and pours me a glass. I think I’m supposed to swirl it around and sniff it or something first, but I decide to skip embarrassing myself further and just take a sip.

“Is it satisfactory, ma’am?”

I swallow hard. “Amazing!”

“Good.” He sets the bottle down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on Mr. Merrick’s ETA.”

ETA? Who talks like that?

Randall pauses just short of the door and turns to me again. “It’s imperative for you to remain here until I return, Miss Peters. The estate is quite large and I wouldn’t want you to get . . . lost.”

I shrug. “No problem.”

Randall nods and leaves again, shutting the door behind him. The house is so quiet it’s like I’m the only one here. It must be lonely for Mr. Merrick, even when all of his staff are
around—unless he has a habit of inviting women here to keep him company. The thought unnerves me so I push it aside.

After a while, I feel restless and wonder what’s taking Randall so long. Pacing the parlor gets old quickly. I recall the various doors off of the atrium just outside this room and decide there’s no harm in taking a mini tour. Randall doesn’t want me getting lost, but if I stick to the nearest options, I should be fine.

Wine glass in hand, I push open one of the tall double mahogany doors and exit into the atrium. I should feel guilty for snooping, but the way I see it, I’m simply taking a page out of Mr. Merrick’s book.

The double doors guarding the room I chose to enter are heavier than I expect so I have to give them a good push to open them. Inside, it’s dark. I place my palm flat against the wall and drag it along until I locate the light switch. One flick and the room illuminates before me.

The blood drains from my face.

Oh, my God.

It seems I have a reason to be afraid of Mr. Merrick after all.

Weapons. The room is full of weapons.

Hundreds of ancient swords and daggers are mounted on the walls and displayed in glass cases, lining the black marble pathway that slices the length of the vast rectangular room. The dim light reflects off the metal blades, creating the illusion I’m in a room full of mirrors.

My first instinct is to flee before Mr. Merrick finds me in here, but my legs don’t cooperate. My eyes remains fixed ahead, feet anchored in place.

Okay, don’t panic, Sara. All these weapons don’t necessarily mean Mr. Merrick is going to go all Norman Bates on you.

Maybe Mr. Merrick feels he’s too cool to collect stamps or something normal so he decided to get more creative and collect . . . sharp tools used for slicing and stabbing?

Who am I kidding? Run, Sara! Run!

Instead, I exhale a deep breath and take a step forward. There’s something about his collection that intrigues me as much as it terrifies me. Maybe the wine is affecting my judgment.

I may know absolutely nothing about swords and daggers, but I’ve read every book in J.R. Ward’s
Black Dagger Brotherhood
series so I can’t help but equate these weapons with sex, control, wealth, bad boys and, well, more sex. And I’m not talking about slow, tame sex. I’m talking hot, wild,
fuck-the-foreplay-I need-you-right-now
kind of sex.

My body heats up at the thought of Mr. Merrick wearing leather and shitkickers.

The door wasn’t locked so he can’t be hiding his collection, which means he probably isn’t a psycho killer. Then again, Randall did instruct me to stay in the parlor so maybe this room isn’t meant to be found.

Oh, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

My heels echo along the floor as I travel deeper into the room, gripping my wine glass with both hands. A large chandelier casts shadows across the cathedral ceiling and blood red walls, highlighting the intricate details on the handles of each weapon. I notice that all of the blades are long, thick, and angled upward. Maybe Mr. Merrick collects them to compensate for where he’s lacking in other areas. Though, he certainly didn’t feel small when he rubbed against me during our passionate exchange at the hospital.

My heart races at the memory. I close my eyes to steady myself.

Okay, Sara. Now is not the time to think about Mr. Merrick’s large cock.

“See anything you like, Miss Peters?”

I gasp and wheel around to face the doors. My wine slaps against the inside of the glass, teetering just shy of the brim.

Mr. Merrick stands in the entryway, an imposing figure blanketed in shadow. The silhouette of his coiffed hair, tall, lean frame, and tailored suit weakens my knees.

“Yes, I definitely see something I like.” I drag my forefinger around the rim of my glass, surprised by my uncharacteristic, brazen response. “And please, call me Sara.”

“All right . . .
Sara
.”

Mr. Merrick emerges from the shadows in all black
—black suit, black tie, and black dress shoes. His fair skin appears almost translucent in contrast.

Please don’t be a psycho killer. You’re much too gorgeous.

His measured footsteps resonate across the marble floor as he strolls toward me, his commanding presence dwarfing the cavernous room. I back up slowly, my body surging in response to his unyielding expression and perilous unpredictability, despite the alarm bells clanging between my ears.

At the far end of the room, I stop and wait, ready and eager to receive him.

He is the hunter. I am the hunted.

Finally, he stands before me. I breathe in his spicy scent, craving more . . .

Waiting . . .

“You’
re not supposed to be in here.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Merrick? Punish me for stumbling upon your deep, dark secret?” I bat my eyelashes.

He scans my body, his eyes lingering on my breasts a little longer than other places. I smile inwardly. I’m glad I decided to wear the sexier dress tonight.

“Don’t tempt me.” Mr. Merrick towers over me, his expression set with disapproval. “Now, tell me why you left the parlor.”

“You were late.” I shrug, trying to pretend his intensity doesn’t thrill me. “I got bored so I went for a walk. I’m not going to apologize for entertaining myself in your absence.”

The hint of a smirk drifts across his lips. “So you were pleasuring yourself in my absence. Is that it, Miss Peters?”

Wow, he’s good at making even the simplest things sound dirty.

I square my shoulders. “Yes, Mr. Merrick.”

He leans in and brushes his lips to my cheek. The wine glass quivers in my trembling hand.

“You look exquisite,” he whispers against my skin.

“Uh, you too.” I cringe at my lame reply.

Mr. Merrick chuckles softly and pulls back.

“What are you drinking?” He eyes my glass. “I hope you liked my selection.”

The name of my drink slips my mind. I feel embarrassed and uncultured.

Mr. Merrick notices my hesitation. With a devious smile, he takes my hand and dips my forefinger into the wine glass. “Let’s see, shall we?”

He lifts my hand to his lips and slides the entire length of my finger into his warm mouth. A low growl reverberates in his chest, shooting a sensual vibration through my finger, down my arm, and directly between my thighs. I whimper and try to pull away, but his hand tightens around my wrist. His eyes darken as he purses his lips and removes my finger from his mouth, leaving my skin gleaming.

“It tastes sweet, like nectar.” He brushes my moistened finger along his bottom lip. His eyelids droop, his gaze fixated on my mouth as he teases me with his tongue again. “It’s rich, exotic, and feels smooth as it slips down my throat.”

Mr. Merrick squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing as though he’s fighting some sort of inner battle. He turns his head toward my hand and places a soft kiss to my open palm. I moan. His breath feels warm and ragged against my skin.

He pulls away and locks his smoldering eyes on mine.

“The 1978 Montrachet.” His voice sounds huskier than normal. “Excellent choice.”

I swallow hard. “I agree.”

Mr. Merrick clears his throat and takes a step back. At the same time, our eyes drift to the closest display of swords on the wall.

“So you collect these because . . .?” I’m desperate to break the erotic silence between us. If I don’t, I’m going to beg him to take me to bed.

“It’s merely a hobby of mine,” he says, his voice controlled again. “I’ve been collecting antique swords since I was eighteen. In this room are weapons that were used by ancient Romans, Celts, Egyptians, Greeks, and many others.”

“Where do you get them? eBay?”

Mr. Merrick smirks at my joke. “I buy them at auction or when I travel.”

I arch my eyebrows. “You really go all-out, don’t you? It must’ve been quite a task to obtain all these weapons.”

Mr. Merrick steps closer. I inhale a sharp breath as he brushes his knuckles down my bare arm.

“When I know what I want, I do whatever it takes to get it, no matter how difficult the task,” he says, following his hand with his eyes. “I live for the challenge and the rush I feel when I finally attain what I desire.”

“And you never give up? Even when your best efforts are not enough?”

“Never,” he says, continuing his sweet caress. “I possess a steadfast commitment to those things for which I’m passionate, and this collection is one of my
many
obsessions, Sara.”

Steadfast commitment.

It’s an interesting choice of words, considering his quote on dating from the Associated Press article I read earlier.

“My collection is very rare.
National Geographic
even featured it in their March issue.” He traces his fingertips up the side of my neck before venturing back down to my arm. “Quite a few pieces are sought after by museums.”

“So do you just look at them or do they actually serve a purpose?”

“Most of them are ancient relics that are not to be touched.” He surveys the room with pride and satisfaction. “A select few are an exception.”

“Are you trained in swordplay?” My eyes roam to the bandage on his forehead.

“I’m an expert fencer. I took lessons for many years, starting when I was just a boy. But I haven’t competed since college.”

Hmm, it looks like that Wik
i article needs to be updated.

I think about watching Mr. Merrick in action, his muscles taut as he engages his opponent. Then my mind shifts to what those muscles would look like as Mr. Merrick engages me.

Damn it, I’m in so much trouble.

Now that I think about it, I would’ve been safer if Randall dropped me off at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I’d rather take my chances with the wild animals in the forest
—I’d have better success of standing up to them, I’m sure.

I take a sip of my wine in an attempt to refocus. “Are these the only types of weapons you’re familiar with? Like swords and stuff like that?”

His hand stills against my arm. “Yes.”

I regard him casually, despite my suspicion. “You must’ve learned some great fencing moves if you trained for many years.”

Mr. Merrick slips his hands into the pockets of his dress pants, his eyes shifting toward the wall. “The power is not in wielding the sword, but the discipline one must possess to be worthy to hold the weapon in the first place.”

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.