Page 37 of The SEAL's Duchess
Ivy’s fingers rose automatically to the still tender spot at her temple. “Better. Looked worse than it was.”
Diesel dropped the stick at Ivy’s feet, hopeful. She bent and picked it up. “I don’t think I’m qualified.”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Smart dog. Knows how to work the system.”
Ivy tossed the stick, and Diesel tore off after it.
“Good thing Ryder was there to patch you up.” Jack’s tone was casual.
Heat crawled over Ivy’s cheeks.
“Yeah. I was lucky he was there.” She hugged her elbows, not knowing where to look. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Jack gave a low laugh. “Professional, huh?”
The warmth in Ivy’s cheeks intensified. “Something like that.”
Jack let it go with a half-smile. “You’ve met his little girl?”
“Ellie? Yes. She’s adorable.”
Jack’s expression sobered. “You didn’t hear it from me, but his ex walked out when Ellie was a few months old. He came home from a twenty-four-hour rescue and found his baby in his mother’s arms. Miranda was just gone.”
Ivy stilled, suddenly cold. “I didn’t know.”
What kind of woman walked away from a man like Ryder? From her baby?
“He’s a good man.” Jack retrieved Diesel’s dropped stick and flung it across the track. Her voice gentled. “Bit wrecked after that, but solid.”
Ivy rubbed her fingers against her throat, failing to ease the ache swelling there.
Of course, he guarded Ellie like a fortress and kept the world at a distance. And she—fool that she was—had told him their kiss was a mistake.
God, how could she have made such a mess in such a short period of time?
Jack whistled sharply, and Diesel bounded toward her, stick dragging a furrow in the wet turf. She studied Ivy for a long moment. “Sinclair sent over the data you wanted?”
Ivy started.Data? “What? Yes. This morning. Haven’t looked at it yet.”
Jack scanned the empty track, her eyes narrowed. “You got the polished version. I saw the raw readings before he pulled them yesterday. One minute the seabed’s solid, the next it spikesoff the charts. He averaged it all out, smoothed the wrinkles so it looks harmless.”
“Wrinkles?” Ivy frowned.
“Think of it like ironing a shirt,” Jack said. “Looks neat when it’s flat, but the wrinkles were telling you something—strain, stress, weak points. And down there? Those wrinkles mean danger.”
Danger. The word cracked under her like ice—sudden and impossible to pretend she hadn’t felt it give.
Jack reached into her tote and pulled out a battered cookbook, its spine worn, the cover faded. She held it out. “Thought you might like some local recipes. Page forty-three’s got the best salmon marinade you’ll ever taste.”
“Recipes?” Ivy stared at the book. Misting rain beaded on the cover.
Jack held the cookbook out, waiting. Ivy took it with unsteady hands. A lump pressed against the pages. Confused, Ivy opened it to find a memory stick tucked inside.
Her head snapped up.
“That's the raw data.” Jack met her eyes. “I took a copy, decided you should see it before you lay your money on the table. It’s all there. Environmental surveys, seabed stability, methane pocket readings.” Jack’s voice leveled, matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather. “I’m no expert—you’ll want a geologist to really unpack what it all means.”
Ivy closed the cookbook. It felt heavier than it should, weighted with more than recipes and butter measurements. Jack had just handed her evidence against her own investment. Evidence that could save her—or destroy everything.
