Frontline by Alexandra Richland Read Free Book Online Page B

installed in here and a proper lock. You don’t even have a peephole.”
    I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
    “Don’t test me, Miss Peters.”
    I roll my eyes. “I like my apartment the way it is. Don’t touch my lock.”
    Mr. Merrick pulls out his phone instead of responding. I have a feeling we’re not finished with this topic.
    “I have to get back to the office. Lock up after I leave.” He tucks his phone away again. “And next time, ask who it is before answering the door.”
    “Uh huh.”
    I suppress a giggle and follow him out into the hallway. As he walks toward the elevators, I lean against the doorjamb. I don’t care if he knows I’m staring at him. If he doesn’t want to give me a proper good-bye, then I’ll give myself one.
    Mr. Merrick stops walking and looks over his shoulder. His eyes twinkle; his face is wistful and relaxed. I’m taken aback. It’s the same look captured in the South Hampton photograph.
    “Oh, and Miss Peters?” His voice sounds extra charming.
    “Yes, Mr. Merrick?” I reply, matching his tone.
    “I never took you for the New York Financial type.” That smirk of his makes a grand reappearance. “I find this month’s cover story particularly fascinating, don’t you?”
    As his laughter echoes throughout the hallway, my face flames, and I stand there gaping like an idiot, struggling to come up with a witty comeback or some sort of an excuse.
    Before I can muster a reply, he continues on his way and disappears into the elevator. Damn him for getting in the last word!
    I retreat into my apartment and lock the door behind me to wallow in my mortification in private. I’m just glad I turned off my laptop or else he would’ve had something else to laugh about.
    Unable to deny myself one last glimpse of him, I walk toward the only window in the apartment. It’s small, but it provides a decent view of the street below. Parting the blinds, I peer outside and wait.
    The Tin Men stand on the sidewalk. Within a few moments, Mr. Merrick exits my building with his confident strut, his suit jacket fanning around him like a superhero’s cape. His men fall into step with him. He gives an order and they fall back.
    Christopher tosses Mr. Merrick something he catches with ease—car keys from the look of it. While Christopher, Sean, and the other men disperse, heading toward the various luxury black cars that are double and triple parked on the street, Mr. Merrick steps onto the road and ventures around to the driver’s side door of a sleek, silver Porsche. He gets in and slams the door shut. The brake lights illuminate and he tears off down the street with a squeal of the tires. The other cars in his motorcade follow.
    As I walk away from the window, I feel way too giddy for my own good. I remind myself that it’s important not to let my attraction to Mr. Merrick influence me, which of course , is much easier to say now that he’s not around.
    After all, he used some kind of stalker method to obtain my address and then showed up here uninvited, which is so not cool. He’s still as arrogant as he is handsome and I’m not sure what his motives are with me. Then there’s the matter of how he really got that gash on his forehead.
    The biggest thing about Mr. Merrick that perplexes me is during our two encounters, I’ve never seen the man in the Haitian photographs—the kind, selfless humanitarian. Tonight, my goal is to find out if he really exists or if it’s merely a boardroom creation of an expensive PR team.
    There’s no denying that our physical chemistry is off the charts, but I still refuse to be just another unnamed companion in a photograph or another notch on his bedpost. Tonight will give me a better indication of whether he believes I’m worth the effort.
    I lie down on my bed and shove the New York Financial magazine under the mattress. I won’t be able to sleep with Mr. Merrick in plain view next to me, even in photographic