Page 67 of The SEAL's Duchess
Ryder lifted a hand. “We’re fine, thanks?—”
“Didn’t ask.” Henderson poured two cups of something that looked like it had been sitting on the burner since the previous century. He thrust one at Ryder, then one at Ivy, who’d straightened but kept one hand on Nelly’s head.
Henderson jerked his chin toward a pair of stools buried under stacks of geology journals. “Move that. Sit.”
Ryder cleared the nearest stool for Ivy and then did the same for himself. The coffee smelled like motor oil mixed with burned rubber. He swallowed.Hell.It burned like jet fuel all the way down and made his vision blur.
Across from him, Ivy’s eyes watered, but she managed a polite smile and set her mug carefully on the edge of a table already groaning under the weight of rock samples.
Henderson lowered himself into a battered rocking chair that faced them, mug in hand. He studied Ryder. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s good. Running the?—”
“Your father still alive?”
The abrupt shift made Ryder pause. “Uh. Yes.”
“Shame.” Henderson sipped his toxic brew without flinching. “Sophie’s a fine-looking woman.”
Of all the ways Ryder had imagined this conversation going, having a seventy-year-old hermit hit on his mother hadn’t made the list. “Well. Um. I’ll pass that along.”
Ivy hid a smile behind her hand before Henderson turned his attention to her. “So, what do you want?”
She pulled the memory stick from her bag. “I was given geological data on the area surrounding the Deepwater Vega. Seabed surveys, core samples, fault line analysis. It’s complex. I need to know what it all means.”
“You're the English woman everyone’s talking about in town.” Henderson slurped noisily.
Her spine straightened. “Probably. My brother George and I are considering investing. But I need to know if what we’re being given is real. People back home are counting on us, and so are the people here.”
Henderson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They still drive on the left over there?”
Ryder frowned. “What?”
“Yes,” Ivy said, her tone warming. “We do.”
Henderson nodded, his gaze drifting to the middle distance. “Love Scotland. I worked the North Sea for years. Spent a lot of my on-shore time in the Cairngorms. Most beautiful granite I ever laid eyes on. Nearly stayed.” His gaze remained unfocused a beat longer before snapping back to Ivy. He held out his hand. “Well? Let’s see it.”
Ivy handed over the memory stick, and he shuffled to a battered laptop on the far side of the room, which looked like it belonged in a museum. He swept printouts and hand-drawn diagrams aside and plugged in the stick, whistling through a gap in his teeth while the ancient machine whirred to life.
“Who gave you this?” His tone shifted, all business now.
“I’d rather not say.” Ivy rubbed Nelly’s head.
Henderson grunted as he lowered himself into an office chair held together with string. “Smart. I like that in a woman.” He clicked through files, his fingers surprisingly nimble on the worn keyboard. “BlackRock, huh?”
“Yes.”
The whistling stopped. Henderson leaned closer to the screen, his bulk blocking Ryder’s view. The only sounds were his breathing and the occasional click of the mouse.
Ivy clasped her hands in her lap, knuckles white. Ryder wanted to reach over, cover them with his.
“Son of a bitch,” Henderson muttered.
A frightened look flared across Ivy’s face. “What is it?”
Ryder got up and crossed the room.
Henderson was scrolling through a dense file, a complex mix of soil strata images and mathematical formulas. When he finally turned around, his expression was grim.
