Blaire woke up warm.
It was a heavy, comfortable warmth. She was wrapped around something solid. Her leg was thrown over a thick thigh. Her hand was resting on a hard, rhythmic chest.
She snuggled closer, burying her face in the crook of a neck that smelled like soap and man.
Wait.
Her eyes flew open.
She was draped over Declan like a starfish.
She gasped and scrambled backward, nearly falling off the mattress.
Declan was awake. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head. He was watching her with amusement.
"Sleep well?" he drawled. His voice was rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down her spine.
"I... the bed is too small," she lied, her face burning.
"It's a California King, Blaire. You could land a plane on it."
He threw the covers back.
He was wearing boxer briefs. Just boxer briefs.
Blaire squeezed her eyes shut. "Put some clothes on!"
"It's my room," he said. She heard his footsteps moving toward the bathroom. "You have ten minutes. Breakfast is at eight."
Blaire waited until the bathroom door closed before she exhaled.
She got dressed in record time. A high-necked blouse and trousers. Armor.
She went out to the dining area.
Declan was sitting at the head of the table, reading the Wall Street Journal. He was dressed in a suit now, looking like the shark he was.
A plate of eggs and fruit was waiting for her.
She sat down.
"We need to talk," she said. "About boundaries."
Declan lowered the paper. He took a sip of black coffee.
"Go on."
"I want a separate room," she said. "And privacy. We don't need to... cohabitate like this."
"Blaire," he said, setting the cup down. "You need to understand the concept of 'joint assets'."
"I am not an asset."
"To the board, you are. And right now, the board is nervous. Jeffery's stunt made us look unstable. They want reassurance."
"What kind of reassurance?"
"An heir," he said simply.
Blaire choked on her water. "Excuse me?"
"Not immediately," he added, waving a hand. "But they need to believe we are a real couple. That we are... trying. If we sleep in separate rooms, the staff will talk. If the staff talks, the press talks. If the press talks, the stock drops."
"So I have to sleep in your bed to save the stock price?"
"Essentially."
He stood up and walked around the table. He stopped behind her chair. He placed his hands on the back of it, leaning down. She could feel his breath on her neck.
"Also," he whispered, "I solved your liquidity problem. The debt on the English Tower? I paid it off this morning."
Blaire stiffened. That debt had been drowning them.
"You... you did?"
"Consider it a wedding gift."
She felt a confusing mix of gratitude and resentment. He was buying her. Piece by piece.
"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "I'll stay in the room. But you don't touch me. Unless there are people watching."
Declan smirked. She could hear the smile in his voice.
"Deal. But remember, in this house, Mrs. Higgins counts as 'people'."
"What?"
Before Blaire could react, Mrs. Higgins walked in with the coffee pot.
Declan leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It lingered. His lips were warm.
"Good morning, darling," he said loudly.
Blaire froze. Mrs. Higgins beamed at them.
"You're a jerk," she whispered.
"I'm a devoted husband," he corrected. He grabbed his briefcase. "We have a charity gala tonight. Be ready at seven. Wear something... accessible."
He walked out.
Blaire stabbed her eggs with a fork.
Her phone buzzed. It was her father's secretary.
The debt is gone, Ms. English. It's a miracle.
Blaire looked at the door Declan had just walked through.
He was a devil. But he was a devil who kept his word.
