Page 13 of The SEAL's Duchess
Vulnerability had never been safe. Not when so many people depended on her to have answers. God, what she wouldn’t give for that bath—door locked. Alone.
“Those families aren’t numbers on a slide.” She kept her voice low. “They’re Mrs. Dove, who’s worked on the estate for forty years. Tom Caldwell, who just had his second child. The Pritchards, farming our land since before I was born. If this deal goes south, they’re the ones who pay the price.”
Ryder’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes—understanding, perhaps. “That’s why you’re here instead of some hired consultant.”
It wasn’t a question. Still, she nodded. “George has the title, but I have the engineering degree. And I’m the one who’s kept everything afloat since our parents died.”
She wasn’t sure why she’d told him that—wasn’t sure why his opinion suddenly mattered when she’d spent the afternoon trying to prove he was wrong about her.
The group ahead had moved deeper into the platform’s industrial heart, Sinclair waving them forward toward a narrow catwalk stretched between two processing units. Barely wide enough for one person at a time.
Ryder stepped aside, gesturing. “After you. Unless you think I’ll shove you overboard.”
The deadpan delivery cracked a laugh out of her before she could stop it. “If you meant to kill me, you wouldn’t have given me a life jacket.”
She brushed past, hyperaware of him in the confined space. Her hip grazed his thigh—just the barest touch—and a shock blasted up her spine.
Her step faltered.
Ryder’s hand shot out, steadying her arm. “Easy.”
She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Jet lag.”
He released her slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe her. Heat prickled under her hard hat, and her pulse stuttered.
“Didn’t figure a rich girl would hold up.” His tone was mild. “Guess I pegged you wrong.”
She rose to the bait. “Careful. You’re starting to sound almost pleasant.”
His laugh rumbled low, genuine, and the sound did dangerous things to her equilibrium. God help her if she liked the sound of his laugh.
“Great. More land people,” a voice muttered from behind a bank of equipment.
A woman emerged—silver braid, welding boots, coveralls smudged with grease, tool belt slung around her hips. She looked like she belonged here, not like the suits giving the carefully orchestrated tour.
“Came on the helo? Most normal folks just come on the supply boat.” The woman narrowed her eyes, sizing Ivy up. “You the Duchess-in-Waiting?”
“More like the one they send when the real duchess is busy,” Ivy replied.
“Ha. Figures. The real ones never come near the grime.” The woman grunted, offering a hand streaked with oil. “Jack. Jack Barnes. I keep this rust bucket from sinking.”
Ivy shook, feeling the calluses. “Ivy. Trying to decide if this rust bucket’s worth investing in. If it’ll actually do what it needs to.”
Jack’s brows rose. “Smart question. Most visitors just want a photo op with the machinery.” She jerked a wrench toward a greasy door. “Safety station’s through there. Just swapped the fail-safe valve. Third time this quarter.”
Ivy straightened. “Third?—”
“Ivy?” Sinclair’s voice carried from across the platform. “We should keep moving. Lots more to see.”
George waved her on. “She’ll catch up.”
Jack rolled her eyes. “Better not keep the brass waiting.” She turned back, eyes narrowing. “Son of a—watch the?—”
Metal clanged underfoot.
Ivy’s heel skidded. The world tilted.
She fell backward, air smashed from her lungs as she landed. Her head snapped back—skull cracking metal with a sickening thud.
