Read Online Frontline by Alexandra Richland - Free Book Online

seduce me into this position. Risk-Taker Sara is a dead woman.
    Randall may be older, but I’m still at a serious disadvantage. He’s a lot bigger than me and he’s obviously in great shape if he can run up a bunch of stairs without feeling winded.
    My cell phone gets poor reception, even in the city, so I’m out of luck there, too. I don’t know Kung Fu or any other type of self-defense, and there is no way I can run away in these damn high heels. Then there’s the fact I’m surrounded by woodland and I have no idea how to light a fire or protect myself against wild animals.
    I knew I should’ve listened to my mom and joined the Girl Scouts when I was a kid.
    I also should’ve insisted to Mr. Merrick that we stay in the city, on home turf of sorts.
    Fine time to realize all of this now.
    “Is there something wrong, Miss Peters?” Randall asks.
    “Wrong?” I cringe at my squeaky reply and clear my throat. “No, nothing is wrong. Not at all . . .”
    I wring my hands and look out the window, desperately searching for any signs of life as we continue down the road.
    Randall decelerates. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply, trying to control my panic by concentrating on Sinatra singing about the good life.
    This is it. I’m done for.
    “We’re here, Miss Peters.” Randall turns the car to the right.
    I open my eyes. The wrought-iron gates ahead ease open, revealing a long driveway that leads toward a stone fountain, and beyond that, the setting for my dinner with Mr. Merrick.
    His estate looks like a medieval castle, nestled in dense forest, with arched, stained glass windows and a manicured lawn. Warm spotlights cast shadows on the exterior; the only indication the place isn’t deserted. My doubts about fitting into Mr. Merrick’s world rush back to me. His life is even further removed from mine than I initially thought.
    The center console retreats to its original place and Sinatra is silenced as Randall parks next to the fountain. He exits the car, shuts his door, and walks around to the passenger side to assist me.
    The grounds are silent except for the rush of the water from the fountain, the clicking of my heels, and Randall’s heavy footfalls, as we ascend the front stairs. The massive double doors at the top are made of mahogany wood and they each have an antique brass knocker. I notice a security camera rooted in the stone next to the porch light. I bet this place is equipped like the Pentagon.
    Instead of using a key like a normal person, Randall enters a code into a keypad embedded into the wall, revealing a multi-colored control panel. He places his forefinger against the panel and a light scans across its width like a photocopier.
    No wonder Mr. Merrick complained about the lock on my apartment door.
    A fluorescent green light illuminates behind Randall’s finger and a loud click and thud resonate from inside the house. He steps away from the panel and pushes on one of the doors. It creaks open. Orange light seeps onto the terrace from the foyer.
    “Welcome to Mr. Merrick’s Connecticut estate, Miss Peters.”
    We enter a majestic entrance hall. The manor feels cool and the lighting is dim, but the lack of illumination enhances the beauty of the furnishings. Warm yellow marble pervades the decor: marble floor, marble walls, and a sweeping marble staircase that leads to a balcony overlooking the foyer.
    A chandelier, with tiers of what I assume is real crystal, floats above me, reflecting beams of light like hundreds of tiny prisms. The crown molding looks like solid gold, and the railing that continues up the staircase and along the balcony consists of intricately detailed black cast-iron. Closed double French doors lead to a darkened room to my right. Toward the back is a row of stained glass windows draped in silk.
    “Please follow me, Miss Peters,” Randall says. “I will escort you to the reception room, fetch you a glass of wine, and notify Mr. Merrick of your arrival.”
    I snap