Declaration to Submit by Jennifer Leeland Page A

her touch, and his hands were gentle as he stroked her upper arms.
    He lifted his eyebrows. “Something on your mind?”
    “I like it when you smile. I want to make you smile more.” She held his gaze, and his smile faded, replaced by something that wasn’t sad or tense, but the twinkle was still there.
    “You make me smile all the time.” He cupped her chin and pressed a butterfly kiss to her mouth. “Just by breathing.”
    He was going to back away, but she wrapped her arms around his neck. She sat up and kissed him, wanting to please him, wanting all those stupid little things that seemed impossible to have with someone she’d known for less than forty-eight hours.
    Maybe it was Vegas, filled with quick marriages and easy commitment, that made her want more from a man who had her under a completely different kind of contract.
    She had to stop romanticizing this. He wanted a submissive. He wanted a secretary. Neither of those said girlfriend.
    He shook his head and tapped her nose with his forefinger. “Ah, that brain of yours. Always thinking.” He stroked her hair and brushed some strands away from her face. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll figure it all out.”
    She nodded, believing him. He was so reassuring, so solid. When had anyone been dependable for her? She loved her parents, but they were flighty and impulsive like the rest of her family. She’d been the first one to have a retirement plan, a stable investment account, financial stability.
    Any time she’d been impulsive in the past, she’d regretted it. But as she rested her head on Mark Conner’s shoulder, she realized that whatever happened, she wasn’t going to regret this. Even if he broke her heart.
    And that looked more likely with every passing minute.

Chapter Seven
    The airport was relatively quiet since the crush usually descended on the weekends. Nell glanced around and wondered about her two friends. Had they gone home on their scheduled flight? She’d cancelled her seat on Mark’s order. She’d texted Tori Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.
    It seemed odd that her friend, normally one of the nosiest people she knew, seemed uninterested in Nell’s stay with the new boss. Tori’s response to the texts had been the same both times: Okay.
    Weird.
    Nell hadn’t heard from Gina at all.
    “I’ll go check on the plane,” Mark said. “I’ll be right back.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    It was a distinct pleasure to watch him stride down the corridor to the private plane area. He had a fantastic ass, and she appreciated it…aesthetically, of course.
    “Now that’s a smile of someone who had a Vegas weekend.”
    Nell whirled around and narrowed her eyes. What the hell was Pete doing here? “I worked all weekend,” she said tightly and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Working?” Pete inquired. Shit. Pete Dawson was a reporter, a contact in the business section of the Los Angeles Times . She’d passed on information to him and set up interviews, the last one a desperate attempt by her company to stay in business and resist the ConFed takeover.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly, ignoring his ambiguous question.
    “Someone told me that the CEO of ConFed had a private plane here.” His blue eyes were sharp and assessing. “You should know. You work for ConFed now, right?”
    “Just because I work for the company doesn’t mean I get to be in such rarified circles,” she said evasively.
    “Oh, come on, Nell. You know where all the bodies are buried.” He leaned closer, and she forced herself not to flinch.
    “I’m afraid you overestimate me.” She gave him a steady look.
    Pete cocked his head to the side. “There’s a lot more going on with this little takeover than the usual ConFed raid. A lot of money has gone unaccounted for.”
    Nell froze and tried to keep her face unreadable. Poker. They were playing poker. Who the hell had given Pete this