Page 68 of The Price of Scandal

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”

Iwoke 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 that had already crested the horizon.

“What time is it?” I asked, looking for my watch and finding my wrist bare.

“Six-thirty.”

Dammit. I was already an hour behind in my day.Though it was hard to have regrets when my body felt so damn rested. But still. There were schedules to adhere to. Tasks to complete.

Derek put the tray down on the table with a flourish. “I made friends with Cristoff. He was so delighted that you ate everything he’d cooked for you earlier this week that he made us eggs Benedict and fruit salads.”

My stomach let out a shameless whine. But not of its usual bowel distress variety. This was raw, primal hunger. Derek pushed the handle down on the French press, and the scent of fresh coffee invaded my nostrils.

It was hard to be angry when a man who looked like Derek was feeding me breakfast outside on a perfect Miami spring morning. But I’d still give it my best shot.

He set a plate in front of me and unfurled a denim blue cloth napkin, tucking it neatly onto my lap.