Page 66 of The SEAL's Duchess
Nothing.
Ivy glanced at him. “Maybe?—”
He knocked again, harder.
Wood creaked, and the door cracked open barely an inch. One bloodshot eye appeared in the gap, studying Ryder with the suspicion that came from years of avoiding people.
“Charles Henderson?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“Ryder Meyer. Sophie Meyer’s son.”
“Sophie, huh?” The eye narrowed.
The door opened another inch. Henderson was shorter than Ryder had expected. He wore a flannel shirt that had seen better decades, but his eyes were sharp. He squinted up at Ryder, rubbing one thick finger along the underside of his bulbous nose.
“I’m Ivy Lambourne, Mr. Henderson.” Ivy shifted into view. “We were hoping you could look at some geological data for us. It won’t take long.”
Henderson’s gaze shifted to Ivy, lingering in a way that made Ryder’s jaw harden. But there was no leer in it—just assessment, the same look a scientist might give an interesting rock sample. Still, he didn’t care if the man was harmless. No one looked at her too long without answering to him.
“We need only a few minutes of your time.”
There was strain beneath her polite tone. Ryder understood that. They were asking a stranger to look at information that could blow up a major corporate deal.
“Busy.” Henderson started to close the door.
Ryder wedged his boot in the gap, ignoring Ivy’s hissed intake of breath.
The old man pushed harder, but Ryder didn’t budge. “My mom says what you don’t know about sub-sea geology isn’t worth knowing.”
Henderson stopped pushing. “Sophie said that?”
“She did. And that you hate liars.” Ryder held the man’s gaze. “We think BlackRock might be lying. We need to know if we’re right.”
“That tracks.” Henderson’s breathing wheezed on the other side of the door. “You’ve got your mother’s eyes.”
“So I’m told.”
The door creaked open. Henderson shuffled back into the dimness. “Five minutes. Don’t touch anything.”
Ryder glanced sideways at Ivy.Real welcoming.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of scorched coffee, damp wool, and something vaguely medicinal. Papers covered every surface—geological surveys, hand-drawn maps, journals with cracked spines and coffee-stained pages.
Ryder scanned the room, cataloging exits, potential threats, anything that felt off. One window facing the tree-line, partially obscured by stacks of core samples. A back door barely visible behind a mountain of equipment cases.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another old codger.
A shaggy brown dog limped out from behind a sagging armchair—ancient, with cloudy eyes and gray around the muzzle. It ignored Ryder completely and made straight for Ivy, pressing its grizzled head against her leg.
“Nelly, get back here.” Henderson’s voice carried more affection than he’d shown them. “Don’t bother the guests. They ain’t staying.”
“She’s not bothering me.” Ivy crouched immediately, rubbing the dog’s ears. The tense line of her shoulders dropped as she focused on something that wasn’t Charles Henderson.
Ryder waited at her side. She wasn’t doing this alone.
Henderson shuffled to a counter that might have been a kitchen once, lifting two chipped mugs. “Coffee.”
