Frontline (3 page)

“Harriet hasn’t come back from her break so I’m going to need an extra pair of hands, Sara,” Dr. Shore says. “You can assist me and Karen.”

Mr. Merrick smirks and straightens his posture.

My curiosity forces me to stay. I focus on my job and assist wherever I can as Dr. Shore stitches up Mr. Merrick’s wound
—without pain control—as requested by the stubborn patient.

I suppose Mr. Merrick is trying to prove that he’s not only loaded, but a tough guy, too. Typical. But I have to give him credit. He doesn’t flinch once as Dr. Shore guides the sutures in and out with the needle.

The gash closes cleanly. Karen disinfects and redresses the wound with my help and our job is complete.

Dr. Shore wants to do a CT scan of Mr. Merrick’s head, but he declines, which is interesting. If he truly fell, I’d think that a scan would be an important precaution to take. But he doesn’t seem concerned about a possible concussion, or worse.

Karen and Dr. Shore wrap up with Mr. Merrick and tell me to stick around and clean up the mess they made. The door slides shut, the curtain falls back into place, and we’re alone again. Mr. Merrick’s staring doesn’t ease, but I try to ignore him this time as I resume my nursing tasks.

“You still seem wary around me,” he says.

“You’re tough to figure out.” I clear the supplies into the garbage.

“Let me prove to you I’m not a bad person.”

“I never said you were bad—”

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night at my place.”

I freeze. “Um, what?”

“Dinner.” He stands from the bed. “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. I’m assuming you don’t have a boyfriend or a husband after the way you came on to me earlier, so my invitation shouldn’t be out of line.”

I glare at him. “Came on to you?”

His boyish grin cools my anger. I realize he’s joking.

Mr. Merrick lifts his eyebrows, waiting for my reply.

I revisit what I know about him already: He’s a wealthy CEO with a big ego, who might possibly be a pathological liar, control freak, and pervert . . . all solid reasons why I should tell him to fuck off.

But I haven’t had a date in forever—not since I moved from my hometown, San Francisco, to New York six months ago. Also, it’s extremely difficult to meet new people in New York and Mr. Merrick shows up and pursues
me
. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s a panty-dropping kisser. Plus, I have the next few days off work. Then there is the list of questions I still have regarding why he kissed me earlier.

Mr. Merrick slips his hand into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a business card. He holds it in my eyeline, taunting me.

“I promise my intentions are honorable. Please accept my invitation.”

I find that statement hard to believe, but I take his card, regardless. It’s embossed with his name and telephone number scrolled in gold.
Merrick Industries Incorporated
features prominently beneath.

I tuck the card into the pocket of my scrubs and pretend to contemplate his offer further.

Mr. Merrick’s ever-present smirk tells me he knows I’ll say yes. I should say no to spite him, but the side of me that dreams of having the guts to take more risks pushes me to accept.

“Well, all right. Tomorrow night at eight.”

Mr. Merrick’s smirk widens into a full-fledged grin, displaying his gleaming white teeth. “You will be contacted by one of my employees, Christopher Maida, tomorrow at noon sharp. Will you be sleeping at that time?”

Normally, I would be after working a night shift, but there’s no way I’m missing that phone call.

“No, I’ll be awake.”

He nods. “Good. Christopher will get your address and I will have a car pick you up tomorrow at six thirty. I have an apartment uptown, which is my main residence, but I believe an evening at my estate just outside the city would make a much lovelier setting. It’ll be nice to escape Manhattan, considering it’s a long weekend.”

Uptown apartment.

I recall what Mr. Merrick said earlier about going for a stroll after getting home at ten thirty this evening. There is no way he walked from his apartment, all the way downtown, to this area, in that short amount of time.

Although I’m suspicious, it’s not enough to change my mind about having dinner with him tomorrow. After all, I’m a nurse, not a detective.

“Okay, that’s fine.”

I hear a beep, the type that signals the arrival of a new text message.

Mr. Merrick pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

A frown graces his lips and his eyebrows knit as he types away. He finishes his correspondence quickly and faces me.

“My transportation arrives in six and a half minutes,” he says, tucking away his phone again.

Talk about military precision.

“Well, I’ll finish up here, then, and I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night, Mr. Merrick.”

“We still have six and a half minutes,” he says, taking my hand.

I shake my head. “In spite of what happened earlier, I don’t think this is the proper time or place to . . . you know . . .”

Mr. Merrick chuckles. “I just meant there’s time for you to walk me out, Miss Peters.”

I blush, feeling like an idiot. “Yes, of course.”

He drops my hand and places his palm against my lower back as we step outside. Thankfully, I see the mother and sick infant being ushered into an examination room.

When Mr. Merrick and I reach the nurses’ station, the staff gawk. I feel like a museum exhibit. Although, I know they aren’t looking at me, but at the VIP beside me, who keeps a respectable distance as we make our way to Triage.

Derek, Chelsea, and Michelle follow us.

Triage is just as busy as it was earlier. Valerie stands near the exit, conversing with Dr. Shore.

Mr. Merrick and I face each other. I rock back and forth on my feet nervously.

“Well, I guess this is good-bye.” I stick out my hand for him to shake.

Mr. Merrick slips his hand into mine, but instead of shaking it, he uses his hold as leverage to pull me into him.

“I’m really looking forward to tomorrow evening, Miss Peters,” he says, his lips hovering dangerously close to mine. “After all, I believe I owe you a
proper
kiss.”

My jaw drops. If what we shared earlier isn’t a
real kiss in his book, I can’t imagine what one actually entails.

I feel one hundred pairs of eyes on us from every direction.

“Uh, thank you for, uh, coming, Mr. Merrick,” I say, trying to remain calm, as though he and I are having nothing more than an innocent conversation.

Mr. Merrick drops my hand, but doesn’t move away. As if I’m not turned on enough, he leans in and brushes his lips to my ear. “Welcome to my world, Miss Peters. You’ll soon discover that I live up to my many reputations in every way.”

Goose bumps explode across my skin. I flash him my best flirty smile, which is admittedly a little rusty, and he smirks.

The doors to Triage slide open and two men dressed in light gray suits enter. They walk straight toward Mr. Merrick and look about his age
—handsome and professional. They also sport earpieces.

“Christopher. Sean.” Mr. Merrick greets them with a curt nod. He’s all business now, retreating back into the cold shell he wore earlier.

Christopher.

He’s the employee Mr. Merrick said would call me tomorrow. Then I realize neither of them has my phone number.

I scan my crowded surroundings and determine there’s no way I can bring that up now without drawing suspicion. I have no choice but to let it go and hope Mr. Merrick’s business education taught him how to consult the white pages. If not, it might be me who does the calling. I press my hand to the pocket of my scrubs and feel the sharp edges of his business card tucked inside.

Christopher and Sean nod in return and square their shoulders. I wonder who is who.

Additional men dressed in light gray suits enter Triage and congregate near the exit, waiting silently for Mr. Merrick. Their arrival draws the attention of everyone in the room. Even the people waiting to be seen seem to have forgotten their ailments as they gape at the spectacle.

Like Christopher and Sean, the other men are tall and in great physical shape. The nickname Tin Men comes to mind, since they all look stiff and heartless
—definitely not the kind of guys you’d want to piss off—and they all wear light gray suits.

Must be in the job description.

I can’t help but wonder why Mr. Merrick needs so much security in the first place. Some protection I understand, but employing an army of men when you’re not the President seems excessive.

The blond man standing next to me speaks. “Trent, how did you
—?”

“Chris.” Mr. Merrick’s tone is sharp with warning.

Ah, so the blond one is Christopher. Which means the brown-haired one is Sean.

Christopher’s expression is emotionless as he glances at me and back at his boss.

“The car’s outside.” Sean gestures toward the door.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Merrick says, pulling out his phone.

Without another glance in my direction, he marches toward the exit, flanked by Christopher and Sean. Dr. Shore and Valerie stand next to each other near the door. Lindsay hovers behind them.

Mr. Merrick stops to exchange handshakes and a few words.

“My name is Valerie Hendrix.” Desperation drips from my boss’s broad smile. “I’m the ER nurse manager here at Manhattan General. I trust that your care was satisfactory?”

Mr. Merrick’s lips turn up a little. It’s clear he’s used to this. It’s right up his alley, the ultimate power trip, as if his wealth, professional position, and devastating good looks don’t offer him enough of an advantage.

“My care was excellent.” His commanding voice ricochets off the stark white walls, sending tremors up my spine. “Miss Peters was especially helpful.”

I feel a blush rise in my cheeks.

Valerie’s face breaks into an even wider smile. “Excellent, Mr. Merrick. I’m glad to hear it.”

“You will be contacted by the director of my auxiliary foundation on Tuesday regarding a supplementary
thank you
on behalf of Merrick Industries,” he says as he moves closer to the door.

Valerie’s eyes light up brighter than I have ever seen. “You are most gracious, Mr. Merrick.”

Before our VIP can make a break for it, Dr. Shore jumps in his way.

Mr. Merrick doesn’t conceal his irritation.

“Perhaps I’ll be seeing you around at some social functions,” Dr. Shore says.

Without responding, Mr. Merrick passes him, swept away by a sea of light gray suits and ushered into a black Mercedes.

The motorcade drives off and it seems like everyone in the ER exhales a deep breath at the exact same time. I’m left feeling like I’m caught in a whirlwind, dumbfounded by what’s happened in the last hour and a half.

“All right, Missy. Spill it.”

I jump at the sound of Derek’s voice. Michelle and Chelsea accompany him. All three of them grin at me.

“What’s Merrick like?” Chelsea asks. “Did he give you shit?”

“Dr. Shore told everyone Merrick was gonna give you shit,” Michelle says.

“Mr. Merrick is . . .”

I can’t put into words the first impression he gave me. In fact, I don’t know anything about him, really. Tomorrow, I’m looking to change that. There must be more to him than just money and arrogance.

I shrug. “He’s exactly like you’d think he’d be, I guess.”

“So he’s pretty much an asshole with a large bank balance.” Derek pouts. “Too bad. He’s a hottie.”

My three colleagues look behind me and cringe.

“Valerie at six o’clock, Sara,” Chelsea whispers.

They dash out of Triage. Before I can follow, I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. I turn to find Valerie staring me down.

My face flushes yet again.

She knows.

“I’m not sure how you redeemed yourself in there, but good job, Sara,” she says curtly.

I let out a deep breath. Of course she wouldn’t think Trenton Merrick and I made out in Room Three
—it sounds farfetched to me and I know it actually happened.

I shove my hands into the front pockets of my scrubs and trace my fingers around the sharp edges of Mr. Merrick’s business card. My eyes drift toward the exit. Mr. Merrick is long gone and it’s back to business as usual at Manhattan General, but I feel his presence everywhere around me.

Shaking my head, I walk toward the desk and pick up the file on the top of the pile. Folder in hand, I step out from behind the Triage nurses’ station to greet the next person.

Mr. Merrick’s parting words replay in my mind for the rest of my shift.

Welcome to my world, Miss Peters.

Now that I’ve met Mr. Merrick person-to-person and lips-to-lips, I see him everywhere. Okay, not everywhere, but I know for a fact he’s on the cover of
New York Financial
magazine this month. I find this out Saturday morning after my night shift while buying a pack of gum outside of the Metro station near the hospital.

I’m fishing change out of my wallet when I spot him staring up at me from the magazine rack below the counter. I jump back and almost drop my purse. It’s a full-page headshot of Merrick
—the sexy smirk, the sea blue eyes, the coiffed brown hair—with the slogan
Business’ Bad Boy
emblazoned across the bottom in bold, black letters.

Take me home, Sara.

“That’ll be a dollar twenty-five,” the cashier says.

I pry my eyes away from the magazine.

“Uh, right, sorry.” I hand her the money.

I place the pack of gum and my wallet in my purse and turn to leave. I don’t get far. Mr. Merrick’s picture calls to me again.

Take me home, Sara. You know you want to.

I don’t expect to understand any of the articles in
New York Financial
so I’d be purchasing the magazine solely to ogle the cover, which would be a pitiful waste of three dollars and fifty cents. On the other hand, if Mr. Merrick is on the cover, there must be an article on him inside. Maybe I’ll learn something that I can bring up at dinner tonight.

Someone coughs behind me.

“Damn you,” I say to Mr. Merrick’s picture as I snatch the magazine off the rack.

Another issue falls forward and I resist grabbing that one, too. There are at least six or seven copies on the stand. If I don’t restrain myself, I’ll probably end up buying them all.

With a sigh, I slap the magazine down onto the counter. “This, too.”

After paying, I shove the magazine into my purse covertly, as though I’m trafficking illegal drugs, and then hop on the subway to Brooklyn.

The elevator in my apartment building arrives slowly, as usual, and I shuffle inside for the ride up to the tenth floor. My building doesn’t have any fancy amenities and is in need of a makeover, but it’s not filthy or rat-infested and the rent is affordable. It suits my no-frills lifestyle just fine.

By the time I enter my studio apartment, lock up using both the bolt and chain, and toss my bag to the floor, I’m exhausted. I glance around my rabbit-hole, noticing the dishes that need to be put away and the pile of laundry at the foot of my bed that has to be lugged to the Laundromat, but my eyes gravitate to the magazine jutting from my purse.

Within a minute, I’ve changed into black yoga pants and a plain pink T-shirt, and I’m sitting at my computer desk, waiting for my laptop to boot up. There are some bills to take care of which means a further drain on my bank account. I’m
thisclose
to living solely on credit for the next two weeks. If something comes up I didn’t budget for, I’m finished. It’s not easy living in Brooklyn on a novice nurse’s salary.

The thought of Mr. Merrick smirking at me from my purse is unnerving.

Take me out, Sara. Read me . . .

I glare at my purse. “Shut up.”

The computer processor buzzes and the fan labors to keep up, but finally, the desktop screen loads. The image that greets me is a family photograph taken two years ago. As I study our smiling faces, I make a mental note to call my parents sometime this weekend. I miss them a lot. We talk regularly over the telephone, but with each passing month, I feel increasingly distant from them. I don’t regret my move because my life desperately needed a shake-up, but I guess the saying
be careful what you wish for
was coined for a reason. Mr. Merrick is more than a shake-up; he’s an earthquake.

Open me, Sara. Take a look inside. I’m right here . . .

After logging into online banking, I pay my monthly bills. Almost eighty dollars remains after I’m done, which is a ton of extra money to me. Working overtime definitely pays off.

I’m about to shut down my computer when I get an idea.

I re-open my Internet browser and type in the first letters of the URL . . .

www.goo

. . . And then stop and tuck my hands into my lap.

Am I really doing this?

It screams stalker. Then I think about Mr. Merrick’s lips on mine. If the man can suck my face, I can look him up on the Internet.

I enter
Trenton Merrick
into the search bar and the ten most popular of twenty-six million hits appear on my screen. The first link is for his company’s official website, but I know those are usually maintained by a well-paid PR team. I want the dirt. My alternative options are CNN, a world financial conference website, the
New York Times
, and . . .

Bingo!

A Wikipedia entry.

Under
Early Life and Family
, I find that Trenton Arthur Merrick, an only child, was born March 24th, 1982, and grew up on Long Island. His father, Charles Merrick, is a retired structural engineer and his mother, Barbara, is a homemaker. They both belong to the South Hamptons Country Club and are noted for their humanitarian work.

Mr. Merrick attended an all-boys private school from kindergarten to grade twelve, followed by the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania, eventually graduating with a Masters of Business Administration. Unsurprisingly, his major was Finance. He was a champion debater in college, he speaks fluent French and Italian, and he’s an accomplished classical pianist and guitarist. He was also a star athlete in high school and college. Polo.

Under
Professional Life
, his extraordinary success in business is explained using lingo that might as well be written in another language. As I reach the end, I still have no idea what his company does.

The
Personal Life
section is sparse: Mr. Merrick is not married and currently resides in Manhattan.

I thought for sure that the article would mention he’s romantically linked to a gorgeous actress or socialite. A man as rich and attractive as Mr. Merrick has to have had many women. Then again, his wealth could provide him with the means to be discreet and conceal these aspects of his private life. After all, he holds a prominent position in the business world. An impeccable reputation would be imperative for his company.

Next, I search for images of Mr. Merrick, preparing to find various photos of him with a bevy of scantily clad models. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the thumbnails to load. After a few seconds pass, I open one eyelid, then the other, bracing for the worst.

Instead, I find Mr. Merrick posing with stuffy old men in suits, various celebrities
—not the trashy Hollywood types, but respected industry moguls—and even royalty.

Is that him with Tom Hanks
and
the Dalai Lama?

I scroll to the bottom and find there are hundreds of pages to look through. I set my limit at ten to maintain some semblance of dignity.

It takes me awhile to pull up each one and give them a good once-over. What astonishes me is that every image is a reputable one. Many are professional photos that were most likely printed in magazines like the one sitting in my purse, but others catch me by surprise.

For instance, in several images, Mr. Merrick poses with patients at a foreign hospital, on one of his many Goodwill Ambassador Missions, as the captions state, and there are even photos of him lending a hand in Haiti after the earthquake. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without a suit on.

One image in particular stands out: Mr. Merrick walks through a courtyard in Port-au-Prince with a CNN reporter. Rubble litters the quad. Dirt smears stain his face and clothes; his hair is dusty and untamed.

With drawn eyebrows, he looks in the direction of the reporter while cradling a young Haitian girl, whose head rests against his chest, eyes closed. Amongst such destruction and sorrow, the child’s expression looks peaceful as she lies trustingly in his arms.

Mr. Merrick’s dedication to his business and charitable work is evident in every image, but this photograph brings tears to my eyes. It seems my initial negative assumptions about him were misguided.

Nearing the end of my search, I find nothing tabloid-worthy. The bottom line is that Mr. Merrick is rich, charitable, and well respected. Any photographs where he’s posing with a young, beautiful woman simply state:
Mr. Merrick and friend
.

That pretty much confirms he hasn’t kept a woman around long enough for publications to care about identifying her. At least I can safely assume he’s not seriously tied to anyone at the moment.

Through one of the image links, I find a website that confirms my hunch. An Associated Press article from last year quotes Mr. Merrick saying that he dates casually, but he doesn’t have time for a serious romance because of his work and travel commitments.

I feel relieved he doesn’t have some crazy ex-girlfriend baggage, but I’m also concerned he isn’t looking for a steady relationship. Perhaps I’m right. He asked me out to dinner because he desires an outlet for his physical needs, nothing more, and based on my behavior, he believes I’m just the type of girl for the job.

Disappointment enhances my fatigue. I stifle a yawn and look at the clock.

Holy shit. It’s eleven thirty!

Christopher will be calling in thirty minutes. If I lie down, I’ll no doubt fall asleep and I don’t want to risk not hearing the phone ring.

There’s only one thing that comes to mind to pass the time.

I shut down my laptop and eye my purse. Within moments, I’m sitting on my bed with the
New York Financial
magazine in my lap. I stare at the cover longer than necessary before flipping to the index. Mr. Merrick’s article begins with a double-page photographic spread that’s orgasm inducing.

He stands barefoot on the white wooden porch of a quaint cottage dressed in worn blue jeans and a dark gray wool sweater. The sun rises in the distance, blazing yellow, orange, and red light toward the veranda in a steady stream.

The caption reads:
Trenton Merrick, on the porch of his family’s South Hampton seasonal home at dawn, March 24.

His birthday, as I recall from Wiki.

“
I love it here, but unfortunately, I don’t get to visit as often as I would like,”
reads his quote.
“This house takes me back to my childhood summers, memories I cherish above all else. Life was much simpler then.”

I smile at the photograph, seeing a man with feelings, a family, and a purpose, instead of just a handsome pin-up.

Something about his quote unsettles me, though. His words are loaded with longing and sadness, contradicting the contentment he exudes in the picture. I wonder how a man who has everything can feel so unfulfilled. I also wonder what else, besides this home, completes him.

The article talks about Mr. Merrick’s cutthroat approach to business, which has earned him the reputation of an economic bad boy. According to the editorial, he broke all the rules by establishing himself in the financial industry at such a young age. He’s considered a trendsetter amongst all of the top fiscal companies around the world. Also, he currently holds the top spot on
New York Financial
’s Most Influential Men in Business list, a title he’s won the last four years in a row.

The remainder of the article delves into his specific business ventures and charitable contributions as well as information on his visit to Haiti, which he says changed his life and entire outlook on the future of his expanding empire.

When I finish, I flip the magazine shut and set it down on my bed in order to think everything through. Mr. Merrick’s lifestyle is entirely the opposite of mine. His charitable work is admirable, and caring for others is what my job is based on, but how does someone like me fit into the rest of it? The jet-setting, the money, the power—it’s all something I can’t relate to.

Philanthropist or not, I fell for his charm much too easily and I refuse to be some quick booty call whenever his needs arise. As thrilling as last night’s kiss felt, it looks like my instincts were dead on from the beginning: The whole thing was a mistake.

At precisely twelve noon, the phone rings. My heart pounds against my ribcage. After exhaling a few deep breaths, I reach across my bed to the nightstand and pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon. This is Christopher Maida calling to speak with Miss Sara Peters.”

Now that I think about it, I find it odd that Mr. Merrick isn’t contacting me personally, but I guess that’s how rich people do things.

“Speaking.”

“Ma’am, I’m calling on behalf of Trenton Merrick. You two were acquainted last night at
—”

“Yes, yes, I remember.”

Christopher can’t be much older than me, yet he’s calling me
ma’am
. I wonder if he’s always this stiff.

“I need to obtain your address for the driver who will be picking you up tonight.”