Page 10 of The SEAL's Duchess
“Deepwater Vega Ops, this is Helios Three inbound from the east, requesting landing clearance.” Wyatt’s voice took on a fresh edge of concentration.
The comms buzzed. “Helios Three, Vega Ops. You’re cleared to approach—winds one-five knots from the northwest, visibility unrestricted. Pad One is open.”
“Copy, Vega. We’ve got the platform in sight, five minutes out.” Wyatt glanced over his shoulder. “Hang on back there—bit of crosswind coming off the water.”
The helicopter began its descent, and Ivy’s stomach dropped with the change in altitude, the temperature falling even further. Ocean rushed up to meet them, waves breaking against the rig’s massive supports. It looked impossibly delicate for something that had to endure Pacific storms.
“Landing clearance confirmed,” Wyatt said. “Brace for touchdown.”
The helicopter hovered over the bright orange circle painted on the platform’s deck, and Ivy held her breath. The landing was harder than she’d expected, the aircraft bouncing once before settling with a metallic shriek as the skids bit the deck. Vibration hummed through her feet, the sound echoing up through her bones.
Wyatt flicked a row of switches. “Vega Ops, Helios Three. Skids down and secure. Appreciate the clearance.”
“Copy, Helios Three. Welcome aboard Deepwater Vega.”
After the last burst of radio chatter, the engines wound down and sudden quiet filled the cabin.
“Touchdown on Deepwater Vega.” Ryder unbuckled his harness. He released the clips on hers. “You handled that better than most civilians.”
The compliment caught her off guard, and a blush scorched in her cheeks.
“Maybe I’m tougher than I look.” She’d spent a lifetime walking into rooms built for men and refusing to shrink. She was tired of it.
“I’m starting to figure that out.” Ryder arched one eyebrow.
Platform workers were approaching the aircraft, and the oil company representatives were waiting beyond the landing pad. Men in expensive suits and hard hats watching their arrival with the confidence of people who controlled billion-dollar assets.
George unclipped his seatbelt, his face flushed with nervous energy. “This is it,” he muttered. “This is really it.”
Ivy stepped onto the platform. Ocean wind tugged at her hair, carrying the bite of fuel and salt. She straightened her shoulders under the borrowed jacket and walked forward.
5
Arctic wind stungRyder’s eyes the second he stepped off the Bell 407.
The rig groaned beneath his boots—barely perceptible, but constant. A reminder that the sea never stopped trying to reclaim what didn’t belong.
Ivy didn’t belong here either. But she hadn’t figured that out yet.
Loose hair danced around her face as she pulled his jacket tighter against the lacerating chill. The reception committee was exactly what he’d expected—five men in suits and thick parkas topped with yellow hard hats. They approached with handshakes and hearty greetings, all directed toward George and Walt. Ivy might as well have been invisible.
“Your Grace. I’m Matthew Sinclair. It’s a pleasure.” The lead executive—a silver-haired man with too much cologne and not enough subtlety—pumped George’s hand. “Welcome to Deepwater Vega. We are delighted that you are considering investing in our offshore operations.”
“Indeed,” George returned the vigorous handshake, beaming. “My sister Ivy here is handling the technical aspects of any potential partnership.”
Sinclair barely glanced at Ivy—offering a smile Ryder guessed was usually reserved for decorative girlfriends and bored dignitaries. “Of course. How lovely.” Sinclair’s tone—he’d heard it before. Usually at fundraisers or briefings, where people saw only the quiet Coast Guard medic in the room, never guessing he’d once been a SEAL and could do a hell of a lot more than patch up boat scrapes.
Most didn’t know he’d been a SEAL once—his road to the Coast Guard hadn’t been typical. But underestimation had a way of waking the old instincts.
And that’s what Sinclair was doing to Ivy. It hit Ryder wrong because he knew exactly how that felt. And as much as he hated to admit it, she didn’t deserve it.
Ivy stepped forward and extended her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.” Her accent was cut-glass. “I understand you’re the project lead on the BlackRock expansion. I’ve reviewed your environmental impact assessments and your preliminary cost analysis. Impressive work.”
Sinclair’s handshake was perfunctory. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”
She paused, her gaze level. “I do have questions about your deepwater anchoring systems—specifically, their impact on local fishing grounds. The people who depend on those waters for their livelihood need their voice to be heard too.”
Sinclair’s smile didn’t waver, but he blinked twice. “Naturally. Though I’m sure you understand that large-scale industrial operations require certain accommodations.”
