Mr. Blackwell's Bride: A Fake Marriage Romance (A Good Wife Book 2)

by Sienna Blake

  I was taught never to stare back; especially to a man I should be showing respect. I’d never been one for conforming. Besides, I couldn’t seem to help it. He was mesmerizing, dark power rolling off him. This was a man who knew what he wanted and would not take no for an answer. This was a man who demanded the world and always got it.

  As I watched him watching me, something foreign pricked at my lower belly.

  “Call Mike. Ask him where that damn preliminary report for the Forrest takeover is. If he doesn’t have it ready, fire him.”

  I frowned. We’d been driving for at least twenty minutes now. Was he going to talk on the phone the whole damn time?

  I crossed my arms over my chest. His eyes dropped blatantly and unapologetically to my breasts. Small yet perky, they were being pushed together by my crossed arms. Something flashed in his eyes. My chest tingled at his heavy assessment. I wanted to uncross my arms but I was paralyzed, like he’d somehow pinned me with his stare.

  “I don’t give a shit. It was supposed to be on my desk by the end of last fucking week.”

  His cursing caused me to flinch. I’d never heard such blatant swearing. So foul. So rude. The prickling in my stomach turned…warm. Liquid. How strange.

  His eyes snapped back up to my face, his voice growing more aggressive at the unknown person on the other end of the line.

  I wanted to snatch that stupid earpiece from his head.

  Instead I pressed my lips together, tilted my head and raised an eyebrow at him. I knew I shouldn’t be displaying my disapproval—this was not the action of a good wife—but dammit I was jet-lagged, I hadn’t slept for almost twenty-four hours, and I’d ripped myself from my family and married a stranger who lived on the other side of the world. It might as well have been another planet.

  I felt like I might cry. I didn’t want to. Especially not in front of him.

  Instead I channeled all of this flurry of emotion into my glare.

  “Roger, I’m going to have to call you back.” Without waiting a beat, he ripped the earpiece from his ear and tossed it onto the seat beside him.

  His eyes assessed me, his perfect lips pulling into a half smile. I was sure my hair was a mess and I had bags under my eyes, but he seemed pleased with what he saw.

  “Noriko.” His voice moving across my name was seductive like bassy jazz.

  “Mr. Blackwell, I presume,” I replied in English.

  “Please, call me Drake.”

  “Drake,” I repeated his name. It felt like power on my tongue. “How good of you to notice I’m here,” I couldn’t help adding.

  His dark eyebrow raised in response. “I came to pick you up at the airport.”

  “Well, that certainly compensates for not being present at our wedding ceremony.” My lips dripped with sarcasm.

  “I had something important arise that I had to deal with personally.”

  “So you sent an assistant in your place to pretend to be you in front of the celebrant?”

  He gave me an odd look, like he was trying to decipher me. I imagined that it wasn’t often that he was met with such blatant disapproval. “My signature on the contracts are real, I can assure you.”

  I almost snorted. “Will you be sending an assistant to perform in your place on our wedding night?”

  His lip twitched. Now I’d really pissed him off. “That will not be happening,” he growled out between clenched teeth.

  “Good to know that you will be present for some things.”

  “I’m a very busy and important man,” he said as if he was telling me a truth, not bragging at all.

  “And so humble, too.”

  “I’m just telling you how it is.”

  “I’m not surprised you think so. You seem to surround yourself with people who are all at your beck and call.”

  His lip lifted into a scowl. “Do you even know how much that telephone call that I cut off for you was making me? Do you even realize how much my time is worth?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I muttered.

  His eyes flared. Before I could react, he reached across the divide with his long arms, grabbing me by the wrist. His grip was firm, on the verge of hurting me, but not quite. He yanked me across to where he was sitting. I landed, sprawled across his lap. I let out a yelp and stiffened.

  He was close. He radiated heat even through his suit; I felt my own body growing hot. He smelled heavenly, of expensive cologne, fresh and clean like a sea breeze.

  His lips brushed my cheek sending tingles down through my body. What the hell is this?

  “Forty thousand a minute,” he said in a low voice, his deep tone vibrating through my cheekbone. “So the fact that I’ve taken time out of my evening to meet you at the airport and am choosing to sit here arguing with you, my dear wife, instead of on the phone with my CFO is a big fucking deal.”

  Forty thousand dollars a minute.

  I didn’t know what the equivalent was in yen so I had no idea what that meant.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t seem impressed.”

  “Sorry, should I swoon or giggle insipidly at you?”

  “I expected some sort of positive reaction, especially considering the conditions I pulled you out of.”

  I stiffened. The conditions…? As if my family lived in squalor. Okay, we were poor, but there was nothing that we wanted for. “Typical western man,” I spat out, “you think money is the answer to all your problems.”

  He leaned in closer. I could feel the heat of his breath on my ear. “Money is the answer to all problems. Your father’s problems were certainly solved with my money.”

  I sucked in a breath. He knew about my father? Of course he did. He probably had me researched before he picked me out. “Well,” I said, “I hope you get your money’s worth.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder about that,” he muttered under his breath. “I thought you Japanese girls were supposed to be demure or something.”

  …you Japanese girls…

  I should slap him.

  But my stomach jumbled with fear, overriding my anger. I thought you Japanese girls were supposed to be demure or something.

  I had almost given myself away. Mr. Blackwell thought he was getting a perfect little Japanese girl as a wife. Instead he got me. If I wasn’t careful, Mr. Blackwell would annul the marriage and take back the money meant for my father.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  I forced myself to bow my head. “Mr. Blackwell, I do apologize. I didn’t sleep on the plane. I’m delirious. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “Lying to me already, dear wife?” His voice was a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

  I tensed. Finally, I had the sense to remain silent. I’d already pushed my luck tonight. I knew I wasn’t making a good impression on my new husband. I was surprised he didn’t throw me out of the moving car. Damned if I was going to let him get away with treating me like another one of his staff.

  “What?” He shot me a smug look. “Nothing snarky to say back?”

  I shook my head slightly, remembering myself. I was here to be his good wife. In exchange for the money my father needed for his experimental treatment.

  I caught him studying my features, my eyes, my cheekbones and finally my lips. “As least you are beautiful to look at.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Well done.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ve managed to compliment me and insult me all in the same breath. You certainly are talented.”

  His stare grew intense and heated. Something shivered down my spine. “In so many ways, wife, as I’m sure you’ll soon find out.” He grabbed my hips, tugging me closer. I gasped when the sensitive place between my legs pressed up against the hardness in his pants.

  Oh. My. God.

  Suddenly I was all too conscious of how I was sitting, straddling his strong thighs. Suddenly I was all too aware of how a man and a woman fitted. A liquid heat began to pool in my low
er half.

  His head dipped to my neck. He nipped at my ear, sending a rush trickling down my body. “I could take you right here in this limo.”

  I flinched. He wouldn’t, would he? “B-But you won’t.”

  “Won’t I?”

  A shudder ran through me. I didn’t know whether it was from fear or anticipation. Could it be…both?

  Mr. Blackwell grasped my chin forcing me to look at him. This close I could see the flecks of lighter brown and amber in his chocolate eyes. “I own you, little girl. I can do what I like with you…” his fingers trailed down my neck, over one of my breasts, “…with this body.”

  Real fear gripped me. I couldn’t move. He was right. I was alone in this new country. I knew no one. I had no money. My family could not help me. No one could.

  9

  ____________

  Noriko

  “Don’t look so scared, little wife,” Mr. Blackwell said with a smirk. “Whatever I plan to do to you, I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”

  I had never in my life met such an arrogant…impossible, frustrating man. A blatant, aggressive man. He was looking at me like…like he wanted to devour me. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t move. His eyes roaming over my face, his fingers gripping my hips, he looked ready to lunge for me.

  I wasn’t sure I could stop him if he did.

  The car halted. I blinked, the spell broken. “We’re here. Home sweet home.” I detected a hint of bitterness in his voice. “My plans for you must wait, I’m afraid.” He slid me off his lap just before the driver opened the door.

  “Oh.” Underneath this rush of relief, I was…disappointed. Why the hell would I be disappointed?

  As I sat there trying to figure out what was going on with me, Drake shuffled smoothly along the seat, picking up his earpiece as he went. He slid out of the car with all the grace of a panther.

  I sat there like a mute.

  Mr. Blackwell stuck his head back into the car. “You coming?”

  Yes. Right.

  I grabbed my bag and scrambled out of the car, tripping on the door edge. A hand grasped mine to steady me. It took me a second to realize it was Mr. Blackwell who stopped me from falling.

  Our eyes met.

  Something…strange went through me.

  Something that felt very much like…hope.

  He pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. I felt the ghost of his touch still on me.

  “Welcome to Blackwell Manor.”

  I turned to get a look at my new home. And almost fell over.

  The mansion was so large I had to turn my head from side to side and up and down to take it all in. The two projecting wings of the house disappeared out of view. Three stories of gray stone slabs with a dark, steeply pitched roof, spires and turrets, ornamental sculptures and gargoyles edging the thing like morbid cake decorations. It sat like an alien among the peaceful trees surrounding it.

  Holy hell.

  “You’re gawking,” Drake said in my ear.

  I flinched away from him, snapping my mouth shut, angry at myself for losing my senses. “I am not.”

  “Try to keep up, will you, dear?” Drake strode up the steps to the front door, his long legs consuming the distance. I followed.

  As we approached the entry door, it swung open. A woman, perhaps in her forties, her back board-straight and her chin held high, held the door open. A conservative black dress sat on her plump form and a pristine white apron circled her waist. I couldn’t help wonder how she kept it so clean.

  He motioned for me to enter first. At least he wasn’t entirely devoid of manners.

  “Oh, there she is. Master Drake,” the woman said, “she’s a beauty.”

  “Too bad about her attitude,” I heard him mutter.

  Scratch that. My new husband was utterly mannerless.

  “Mrs. Blackwell,” the woman said, her voice shaking with obvious pleasure. She took my hand in both of hers. I was treated to such an enthusiastic handshake that it rattled the teeth in my skull. “We are so pleased you’ve arrived.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m Loretta, the head housekeeper here. If you need anything, anything at all, or have any problems, come straight to me.”

  “I’m Noriko. Thank you. Again.”

  “Welcome home.”

  Home. This word echoed around in my head like a gong. This isn’t my home. I didn’t say my thoughts out aloud.

  “You don’t take your shoes off here,” Mr. Blackwell said as I prepared to slip off my flats. “We don’t do that here.”

  I blinked a few times, trying to let this different custom sink into my body. It felt so…wrong to walk inside with outside shoes on. So dirty. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you questioning me again?”

  I fought back an urge to roll my eyes.

  My low-heeled shoes echoed as I stepped into the marble of the entryway. I had to hold back my gasp as I raised my eyes up.

  Inside, the mansion was even more obscene. The entryway soared up all three stories, held in place by thick marble pillars, a gliding stairway wrapping around it, hallways branching out from it. The door clicked shut behind us, leaving me in the white-cold glare of the huge crystal chandelier hanging down like a wasp’s nest.

  “There’s no need for you to come with us,” Mr. Blackwell said, addressing Loretta. He turned towards me, a wolfish glint in his eye. “I can show Mrs. Blackwell to her room.”

  From the trap into the spider’s lair.

  He reached out. “Let me take your bag—”

  “No,” I snatched the bag out of Mr. Blackwell’s reach.

  His eyes narrowed imperceptibly at me.

  Shit. If he opened my bag. If he looked inside…

  I was screwed.

  My father was dead.

  “I mean,” I fumbled, “that I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “It would be no trouble.”

  “Please,” I said quietly, honesty making my voice quiver, “let me hang on to the one thing left that is mine.”

  After a pause, he nodded. “As you wish.”

  He led me up the staircase. I tried not to gape down the wide hallways that reached out like arms, solid walls lined with paintings or sculpture pieces. This place felt like a museum. Not a home. I was sure to get lost here.

  I felt lost already.

  “The top floor is reserved for our private suites,” Mr. Blackwell said as we reached the top floor. “We’re in the east wing.” He stopped suddenly, turning to stare at me. “You are not to go in the west wing.”

  I glanced up the other hallway shrouded in darkness. Every other hallway had been lit except this one. I took a step towards it. “What’s in the west wing?”

  Mr. Blackwell snatched my arm, yanking me back. “I just told you never to step foot in there.”

  “Why—?”

  “Never. Do you hear me?” A darkness glittered under the surface of his eyes.

  He was hiding something in the west wing. Curiosity flared in my gut like embers catching on paper.

  I could do nothing but nod.

  He let go of me so suddenly I almost stumbled back, before turning and continuing on. I chanced a glance back at the dark hallway behind me before I followed him.

  10

  ____________

  Noriko

  We reached a western-style door that swung on the hinges rather than a sliding one like the ones we had at home, painted pale blue, trimmed with cream. It wasn’t exactly the kind of bedroom door I imagined Mr. Blackwell would have.

  He pushed it open for me. “After you, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  “It’s surprising how you can be crude and yet, such a gentleman.”

  “Why? Because I’m holding the door open for you?” He smirked at me as I passed him. “I just want to check out your ass.”

  I gaped, my cheeks growing hot. If I wasn’t so distracted by the monstrous room I’d walked into, I’d turn and glare at him.

  The r
oom was massive, the high ceilings making it seem cave-like, the walls painted cream and pale blue to match the door. Elegantly shaped yet uncomfortable-looking cream chairs were arranged in the center of the room around a low glass table. More tables were dotted about with large empty Japanese vases placed upon them.

  In the center of the room I spun around, frowning. Something vital was missing. “Where’s the bed?” I asked. I thought westerners slept on soft, high mattresses. Maybe I was wrong.

  “This is your formal living area. Your bedroom is through your private living area.” He walked to another door and pushed it open.

  Another living area?

  It turned out that his “bedroom” wasn’t a room. It was a collection of several large rooms: two living areas, a guest bathroom, and a bedroom with a private en suite. His bedroom alone was bigger than the house that fit my parents and us three children. My stomach panged, craving to feel the warmth of my home again. Our house was barely big enough to contain us and our lives, but it was cozy and full of love.

  One year. You just have to survive here for one year.

  I stared at the giant bed in the middle of the bedroom sitting on a raised wooden frame, covered in sheets and pillows the same pale blue as the door. “Which side should I take?”

  “Whichever side you want.”

  “Which side is yours?”

  “I don’t sleep here.”

  “You…don’t?”

  It hit me. This room was too feminine to be Mr. Blackwell’s. There were no personal items anywhere, no photos, no books on the bedside table. My own husband wouldn’t be sharing this room with me. I would be sleeping here alone. I didn’t know whether to sag with relief or cry.

  My parents shared a room. But they were also in love.

  “Well, not that kind of sleeping…” Mr. Blackwell closed the distance between us, his eyes simmering with hunger.