The Price of Scandal (Bluewater Billionaires) - Lucy Score Page 0,52

today, there was an interesting request. I forwarded it to Rowena and requested an in-depth dig.

The latest numbers were showing a slow but significant upswing. If I could keep Emily on her feet and lovely for another few weeks, I was confident the entire thing would be behind her.

I handled a number of emails, requests, and the drudgery that comes with running a business. The numbers and dollar signs didn’t excite me the way stats on a viral story did. But I recognized their value and did what I could with them. I relied on accountants and bookkeepers to handle the more boring details. But I knew where every penny came from and where it was going.

Emily yawned again next to me. Her color was better, her body fueled. If I could just force a good night’s sleep on her, we would begin fresh in the morning. And I would monitor her more closely since she was apparently incapable of taking care of herself.

Cam finished her meal and the show and got ready to head home. But not without first forcing a promise out of Emily to check in repeatedly tomorrow.

“Take good care of her,” Cam ordered from the doorway.

“I promise.”

I took the tray of dirty dishes into the kitchen and loaded them into one of the two dishwashers. I reset the security alarm and took a quick tour of the first floor, making sure doors and windows were locked.

Returning to the bedroom, I found Emily sound asleep beneath the duvet. The TV screen flashed, and I turned it off. I was sure there were motorized blinds of some sort to cover the French doors leading to the terrace, but I couldn’t figure out how they worked. There were worse things than waking with the sunrise, I decided.

I stripped to my underwear and pulled back the covers on what I now considered my side of the bed. Finding a phone charger in my nightstand’s drawer, I wondered how many guests there had been to make use of it. Though it didn’t really matter since I planned to make sure I was the most memorable.

Sliding between the silky linens, I settled back on the pillows.

Next to me, Emily breathed slow, even breaths. I tucked my hands beneath my head and contemplated the hand-painted abstract mural in glowing shades of rose and blue on Emily’s bedroom ceiling.

Yes, a number of things were going to change starting tomorrow.

22

Emily

“Emily Stanton’s collapse: Drugs, pregnancy, or both?”

“Female billionaire collapses under weight of scandal”

“Stanton threatens Merritt Van Winston with defamation suit”

I woke gradually and in decadent stages. There was no alarm startling me to life. That was my first hint that something was very wrong. The second was the light. There was some. Natural and soft playing through the shears that hung framing the terrace doors.

Every morning, I awoke before dawn to a shrill alarm and started my day without complaint.

Yes, something was very, very wrong.

And then I remembered.

My eyes flew open. I slapped a hand to the pillows next to me. Derek. He was gone. Perhaps he’d never been? Had I hallucinated it all? The fainting—how humiliating—the argument in the car, dinner in bed with him and Cam?

I sat up and scrubbed the sleep from my eyes. A pair of men’s shoes sat by the door. The pillows on the other side of the bed had a distinct head impression.

There were voices, deep male voices, coming from the direction of my kitchen.

Before I could decide whether to get out of bed and boot these kitchen dwellers from my house or swing by the bathroom first, Derek appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in yesterday’s clothes and carrying another tray.

I’d spent the night with him.

I’d spent the night with plenty of men before. But had never felt quite this awkward… or unfulfilled.

“Ah, she’s awake,” he announced cheerfully. I pulled the sheets up to my chest, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

“Why are you still here?” I croaked.

Whatever it was he had on the tray smelled divine, and I wanted it.

“Oh, we’ll get to that,” he said, the slightest hint of a warning in his tone. “But first, are you well enough to eat somewhere besides bed?”

Pride chafed, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m not an invalid,” I sniffed haughtily.

“Good. Then we’ll dine al fresco,” he decided. Juggling tray and door handles, Derek led the way onto the terrace.

The morning heat was welcome on my skin. The waters, pool and ocean, sparkled under the sun