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Authors: Jillian Sterling

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“My life is
mine
; I worked
hard for it! I earned it! It’s mine to fuck up on my own – you don’t get to
fuck with it. That’s my job. It wasn’t enough for you to hurt me here yesterday,
you had to steam-roll me in my professional life too? Wave your dick around and
show me just how big a deal you are so I feel even smaller?”

I’m working very, very hard at not
losing my temper. I’m trying really, really hard to remember that if I were in
her place, I’d probably say something very similar. I’m concentrating very,
very carefully on not noticing, once again, how similar we are, how equally
fierce and fiery and strong and determined to let nothing and no one derail us
from our goals.

Hot damn. There’s nothing like an
ambitious, independent woman.

“No Veronique, it wasn’t like that
at all! I’m not trying to mess with your life in any way. If anything, I’m just
trying to help. You would see that if you just calmed down.”

“I don’t need your help, Remington.
I’m not a charity case!”
“I didn’t say that –”

“No, stop. Stop talking. Stop
everything. Just stop.”

“Why can’t you accept the fact that
I’m trying to make things right?”

She throws her hands in the air,
exasperated. The towel slips more and almost falls completely before she
catches it and groans in frustration.

“Because, Remington, you’re not
trying to make things
right
: you’re trying to buy me off and smooth
things over on your own terms. That’s not how this works! We had sex, and now
you’re trying to act like some kind of protective benevolent stepbrother. Why
can’t you just fuck me over and ignore me like a normal jerk?”

Yikes. Ok. This hits way too close to
home, and I feel my anger flare to life. This time I don’t bother to notice
whether I’m angry at Veronique or myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m just angry –
angry that my attempts at wrapping things up nicely in a bow have gone so
horribly wrong, and angry that Veronique can still, with apparently no effort,
see right through me.

“I was doing you a favor,” I growl
stubbornly. “A simple thank you would have sufficed.”

“Are you crazy? You want me to
thank
you? You want me to thank you – for what? Condescending to have sex with me, or
condescending to help me? Condescending to apologize to me, or condescending to
speak with me at all? What exactly am I supposed to thank you for Remington?
You tell me.”

I wince, realizing that she’s
right.

That is exactly what I expected her
to do – to stroke my ego, to tell me it was ok that I hurt her for my own
benefit, to tell me it was ok for me to keep doing whatever I wanted whatever
the cost. I expected her to roll over and play dead. I expected to get my way.

And once again, I’m somehow very
glad that she’s calling me on my bullshit.

God, I’ve been such an idiot. Even
while trying not to be an idiot, I am still an idiot. I had figured out that
Veronique was independent, stoic, and private as a person, but I had no idea
she was so freaking proud. She sees things so…clearly, with such conviction. I
can’t help but admire her.

“I don’t want any favors from you,”
Veronique continues. “I don’t want anything from you out of guilt. I don’t want
anything from you as a consolation prize. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need
your help. If you’re not interested in me as a woman, which you’ve made quite
clear you’re not, then what I need is for you to leave me the hell alone.”

We stand there a minute, awkwardly,
both of us trying to get our breath and our feelings back in order. I think I
know what she means. I think she’s saying she’d want my efforts, my interest,
my interference, if it came from a place of desire instead of fear. I think
she’s asking me to stop jerking her around with half-truths and tell her what I
really think.

I think she’s giving me an
opportunity to be a man: to either step up and act on my desire, or step up and
respect hers. I stand in the middle for a long minute, asking myself who I am
going to be. Will I go on denying my desire, or will I share it with her?

In my tension, I notice odd things:
the way her long, dark hair is wet from a shower and sticking to her neck; the
way the shade from the jungle makes the green of her eyes deeper, emerald-like;
the way she flexes her fingers while she talks, the movement melodically
complementing her speech; the way everything she does interests me, attracts
me.

Fuck it.

I can’t leave her alone.

I spring at her with a guttural
growl, catching her in my arms. My hands find their way under her towel,
crushing her body against mine as my lips crash into hers. I’m pouring myself
into her, hungrily drinking her in. The heat of her lips, the softness of her
skin, the grace of her body – it drives me wild until I’m straining to reach my
tongue and explore every crevice of her mouth. Her breath is warm and sweet,
and I feel her suddenly relax into me with a moan.

I lift her off the ground and turn
until I can pin her against the tree trunk, its strength supporting her back
while I press into her front. The kiss deepens, boils, spills over. I can’t
take it anymore; I have to have her, I have to touch everything, I have to
satisfy my desire for her body, her attention, her pleasure. My hands are all
over her, cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass, stroking her thighs. I’m
licking her neck, kissing her ear, biting her lips. I’m begging her. I’m actually
pleading with her. Please, I’m asking – please take me, baby, take me again,
please, I’m sorry, please, I want you. She groans, yes, you’re forgiven; you’re
wanted.

I’m unzipping my pants.

I’m hard as iron, hard as wood, hard
as rock, desperate to be inside her. I want you so much, she says. I can’t help
it, she says.

I can’t either. I can’t help it,
and I don’t want to help it. I don’t want anything else, just her. I want her
so bad. Desire makes me crazy, makes me speechless until suddenly I’m inside
her, until I’m lost and found and
fuck
!
Yes, baby. Oh fuck yeah,
that’s it. Right there. Yes. Yes, oh. Oh. Oh! Baby, yes. That’s it. That’s so
good. You’re so good, baby. I love it. I love it. Yes.

I’m crushed by her walls, cushioned
and welcomed and intoxicated by her wetness. We slide and twist and thrust
together, groaning, throbbing. I reach and reach until I’m home, until my brain
and my body explode together, until I’m thrashing against Veronique like a
maniac, panting her name, shattered and undone by my desire for her, shaken and
sated and scared. She kisses me, her smile bright, tears in her eyes.

I’ve never seen anything so
beautiful.

I’ve never wanted anything so much.

I’ve never been so scared, so
naked.

“Oh god.”

I pull out, pull up my pants, and
pull myself together.

“Oh god, Veronique.”

I hold her against my chest, my
mind whirling. I can’t pretend I don’t want her now. I can’t even fool myself. The
wonder and the ecstasy are great – the only downside is I can’t for the life of
me figure out what the hell to do about it, or where to go next. All the things
I was thinking and feeling this morning pop back into my mind: the real life
problems, the unanswered questions.

“Fuck,” I groan. I kick the tree.
I’m kicking myself.

“What?” She groans. “What’s wrong
now?”

“Veronique!” My hands are in my
hair, pulling. I’m exasperated. I’m confused. “Veronique, we can’t. We can’t do
this! This is such a weird situation. Our parents are married…our lives are,
are, I don’t know, so different…I don’t know what to do.”

“We don’t have to do anything about
anything right now, do we?”

I groan. “I’m sorry. I do. I do
have to do something. I am going to the capital for business. I have to go.
I’ll be in Victoria for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?!”

“Don’t worry. It will be good. For
me. Probably for you too. Help us clear our heads.”

“Oh my god Remington, will you cut
the shit? Clear our heads? I don’t know if you’re coming or going or what the
hell you want.”

“I want this. I want you. I think.”

“Very encouraging.”

“No, listen, we need to think about
this. It’s complicated.”

“I don’t see what’s complicated.
Either you want me or not: it’s pretty simple.”

“How can you say that? Obviously I
want you.”

“Right now. But not ten minutes
ago. Maybe not tomorrow.”

“Are you crazy? You made me hard
the moment I laid eyes on you. It’s a problem. It’s only a matter of time
before everyone on the island knows that I can’t control myself around you. We
need to figure out what to do about it, and about the fact that if our parents
stay married we’re either going to have to stop this or find a way to keep it a
secret or
something
. But please, keep this between us for now. I’ll…”

I grab her again, kiss her, curse
under my breath, and step away.

“I’ll call you.” I say.

Lamest line ever.

And then I’m running to the car,
running back to work, running away. From her.

But really, I’m running from
myself.

 

 

Chapter Twelve

Veronique LaRoux

North Island, The Seychelles

Africa

 

I’m floating in some fantasy world
where everything is bright and easy, where servants in classy uniforms bring me
three course meals on the beach and then vanish into the jungle, unheard and
barely seen; a fantasy world where I come home at the end of a leisurely day
basking in the sun or sailing on the sea to find a fire already lit for me on
my private deck, hammocks and mosquito nets swaying in the breeze, wine and
roses laid out. I’m surrounded by sandy white beaches, bleached beige sea
cliffs and rocks, turquoise ocean water, shaded jungle, tropical animals,
gleaming luxury.

For god’s sakes, I’m living on the
same island that Prince William and Princess Kate honeymooned. As in: the Royal
Family of England Prince and Princess. As in, the British Royals AKA my sort of
summer holiday neighbors. I swear to god I saw Princess Kate in a giant sun hat
pass me on a sailboat yesterday, and she waved back at me when I shouted hello
from my windsurfer board thing.

Who the hell am I?!?!

I ride windsurfer board things!

Princess Kate waves back at me!

When I lay out on a towel to tan on
my five-level private deck, the towel is pure linen terrycloth made by Versace.

Versace makes towels, apparently.

When my driver Chip (I have a driver?!?!?!?!)
picks me up to take me to the central resort, he never picks me up in anything
less than a Cadillac Escalade. Sometimes, he picks me up in a fucking Porsche,
Jaguar, or Bentley.

A Bentley.

A Bentley!

Chip picks me up in a Bentley in
order to drive me not even a mile down the only road on the island to take me
to the palatial resort building where I am waited on hand and foot and fed
decadent meals on actual antique China from, like, when China had Emperors. That
China.

And then when I’ve been wined and
dined and had my fill of fancy foods like fugu (puffer fish – yea, the
potentially poisonous fish that costs way too much money and stress to eat) or
bird’s nest soup (yes real bird’s nests) or Namibian Bullfrog (rich people eat
weird things), Chip drives me back to my private crystal glass castle fortress
mansion on my own private cove on the Indian Ocean so that I can pretend I’m a rich
hermit with nothing to do; I just drink on the beach, watch the stars dance,
listen to the waves crash, and pretend that this is who I am.

No, not pretend: I actually AM a
rich hermit with nothing to do. This is real. This is really happening.

This is actually my life right now.

Wow.

Just…wow.

Half the time I walk around outside
my villa naked, because I have so much space and privacy that unless I request
it, I can go days without seeing anyone. And I have, sometimes. But usually I
get lonely after a few hours, so I have lunch or dinner with my Dad and Diana.
Shereen is never too far if I want company or help with anything. All that’s
missing is my music, my cello, a sense of purpose and creative fulfillment.

And…well, Remington Wilde. If I can
count him as a part of my new life.

I really, really hope that I can.

Please, universe?

The peace and atmosphere here in
The Seychelles is amazing. Even the air feels different: quieter, sweeter. It’s
actual possible to hear my own thoughts, to enjoy my own body, to feel like a
person again instead of an ultra-busy worker bee.

I’ve finally read every novel that
I’ve been dying to read for two years. I’ve had massages and private yoga
lessons every day. My body is tan and relaxed and toned. My mind is, for
perhaps the first time I can ever remember, actually free from stress and
worry. My wrist and ankle are almost back to normal. I’m almost beginning to
believe that I could belong here – me: Veronique LaRoux, poor gambler’s
daughter extraordinaire.

For once in my life, everything is
working like clockwork. Everything is easy. Everything is a fairy tale; smooth,
beautiful, carefree.

Everything except for the gnawing,
strange, cloying hunger I still have for Remington. I swear to god that
whenever I think about him, which is all the freaking time, my stomach actually
flutters and my heart rate literally races.

WTF am I going to do about my lady
killing, high life living, fickle, confusing, sexy, steamy, evil, hot, moody,
dangerous, billionaire stepbrother?

He’s been away from North Island
for three weeks now, working on a nearby island in the Seychelles capital of
Victoria. He’s kept his promise and called me…twice. Yes, twice in three weeks.

#Swoon.

Look, I’m not kidding myself here;
it’s clear Remington’s either not that into me or really freaking out about his
feelings and totally back-peddling. Either way, it’s not looking good for my
chances at a real affair with Remington Wilde. Either way, it seems like a red
flag.

So now what?

Do we just meet randomly whenever
our parents’ relationship throws us together and pretend that everything is
cool? Do I try to face the fact that he’s not around, and force myself to stop
thinking about him?

Yet each time we’ve talked, he
tells me how much he wants me, how he fantasizes about me in the shower, in
bed, in conferences. He says his desire for me is crazy, painful, and constant.

Constant? Really?

Then why the days and days of
silence? Why the pathetically tiny amount of calls? Why do I get the feeling
he’s giving me the old disappearing act, like a rabbit in a magician’s hat?
Sexy
sex time – now you see it, now you don’t
.

I’m getting some very mixed signals,
but in spite of everything my obsessive infatuation and crazy desire for him
only seem to grow, taking up all my spare thoughts and filling my dreams at
night to the point that I can barely sleep because of the heat between my legs
and the insatiable hunger only for him.

Where Remington Wilde is concerned,
I’m more confused than ever.

“Veronique! There you are!”

That’s Diana’s voice. It’s coming
from not far away on my deck.

I pull myself together, try to
force Remington from my mind, and open my eyes.

Right now I’m floating in my
infinity pool that edges the ocean, my head laid back against the ledge, my
body weightless and cool even in the early afternoon sun. The jungle trees
around me sway in a pleasant breeze, the sound of birds cooing and the ocean
crashing the background music to another perfect day on the island.

Glancing up, I see Diana and my Dad
waving from the porch at the other end of the pool. They’re both wearing
swimsuits and hats.

“Hi!” I call, swimming over. “What
are you guys up to today?”

Diana’s meta-watt smile hasn’t
dimmed since I’ve been here. She and Dad are constantly holding hands and
giggling like teenagers, always together, always whispering to each other. It
would be annoying if it weren’t so freaking adorable.

“Just another day in paradise,”
Diana laughs.

Seriously. Is there such a thing as
a bad day in The Seychelles?

“How’s that wrist?” Asks Dad.

“It’s great!” I announce, happily.
I hold it up as proof, proudly displaying my brace-free wrist. “I’ve actually
able to do some stretches without hurting, so I think it’s safe to play cello
again.”

“Oh good!” Diana claps her hands.
“I can’t wait to hear you play. Maybe you can give us a private concert soon?”

“Sure!”

“We even found a cello for you,”
Dad says. “Special ordered. Arrived yesterday.”

“Awesome.”

“Yes, awesome!” Says Diana. “Maybe
tonight? Oh wait! Not tonight! I almost forgot, mon cher, but we sopped by to
remind you to get ready for the Governor’s Ball tomorrow.”

“That’s tomorrow?”

“Yes! Time flies, no? Your father
and I are taking the boat over to Victoria tonight. You are welcome to come
with us, or go on your own in the morning. But you
must
come to the
ball. You will love it! It is such a beautiful event, and you will get to see
the capital and the market and the museums and the city. So many cultures come
together in Victoria – Indian, Indonesian, African, Creole, British and French
Colonial. It’s worth the trip, I promise you. And Remington made me promise to
talk you into it. He says the Ball will be extra special this year.”

She winks at me and my stomach
tightens nervously.

Does she know about Remington and
me?

Why the wink?

Calm down, Veronique. She’s probably
just happy that her kid actually seems to be getting along with his stepsister
for a change.

Which begs the question: are
Remington and I getting along?

Why isn’t he calling me?

UGH.

“Of course I’ll go to the Ball.
Wouldn’t miss it!” I say.

Because now I’m apparently someone
who goes to actual Balls in real life. I didn’t even know there were still
Balls. I thought Balls only happened in, like, Cinderella.

“I’ll travel over with you guys
tonight. How long will we be in Victoria?”

“As long as you want,” Diana
smiles. “We’ll probably stay a few days and then sail around the islands, give
your Dad a proper Seychelles tour. You’re welcome to come with us.”

“No, thanks, but you guys need your
privacy. Have a real honeymoon!”

Dad smiles. “We won’t be gone more
than a couple weeks, tops. Our whole life is a honeymoon. Will you still be around
when we get back?”

I grin. Dad’s always been such a
romantic. “Sure, if that’s alright. Since I’ve been healing my wrist, I haven’t
been able to do any school stuff the last few weeks. Thanks to Remington I
don’t have to worry about my finals, and now that I’m feeling better I thought
I’d use Diana’s recording studio at the resort to start working again. So I was
figuring on staying here at least another month anyhow, if that’s ok?”

Diana’s smile, if possible,
brightens even more.

“Of COURSE!” She booms. It’s easy
to see where Remington got his passion and intensity: with her voice and
expressions, Diana Wilde probably could have been a great actress and movie
star. Or maybe a motivational speaker. Or religious or political leader. Or,
heck, just about anything she wanted to be.

“We are FAMILY now, Veronique,”
Diana continues. “You know this, oui? You must not worry about asking
permission or coming or going. Your father and I want you to feel free and
welcome and wanted. It has been a month since you have come into my home. I
hope it’s at least starting to feel like your home, too: your family home. You
are welcome home, any time.”

I laugh, her words filling me with
warm fuzzy joy – and just a little edge of fear. Family and home have not
always been warm fuzzy thoughts for me. After my mom died, family and home made
me sad. Family and home were a lot of work. Family and home were somber and
full of struggle.

Now that has obviously changed, but
the change still makes me a little nervous. It still feels surreal, unfamiliar.
Yes, I am finally getting more used to it. Yes, I am beginning to accept this
new reality.

Accepting Diana herself has been
easy – she is such a kind, warm, happy person, it’s impossible not to feel
affection for her. But accepting the wealth and luxury that Diana wants to
shower on me? That’s been a little harder. That’s taken a little more time to
sink in.

Guess time really does make a
difference.

Seems like it’s been ages since I
got here – and yet, it also feels like this all only happened yesterday. It’s
easy to lose track of time on a tropical island. It’s easy to lose track of
time when you’re obsessing over your dream man and worrying about what is
actually happening between you. It’s easy to lose track of time when your entire
life turns upside-down and changes in the best possible way.

Wow, wait. Did Diana say it’s been
a month already?

Have I been in the Seychelles for a
month?

“You guys have been married for a
month?” I ask, astounded.

Dad grins. “Yup! Tonight’s our
month-i-versary.” He grabs Diana and kisses her lightly on the lips. “We’ll
have to celebrate, darling.”

“We’ll have to celebrate early,”
Diana laughs, “So that we don’t gross out your daughter on the boat.”

I laugh and wave them off. “Please,
I’m a grown-up. I can take it.”

“I know.” Diana smiles kindly.
“We’ll send Chip to pick you up at seven, ok? And then we’ll see you on the
boat. Get some rest!”

“Sounds good!” I call.

Dad and Diana wave and disappear
back through the house, off to their own afternoon of luxury. I’m left alone in
the infinity pool, my pleasant morning saddening giving way to a mini crisis as
I mentally calculate the timeline of my adventure in The Seychelles.

It’s been a month since I got here.

A month.

I’ve been here a month.

A month is four weeks.

When was my last period?

My mind flashes back, flickering
through intense memories: Remington and I tipping over in the canoe, Remington
and I tearing our clothes off and eating each other alive in the ocean,
Remington and I up against the tree, his cock deep inside of me, moaning and
kissing and fucking up a storm.

Know what I don’t remember?

Condoms.

Know what else didn’t happen?

Birth Control.

Holy shit.

“Shereen?” I shout, clambering out
of the pool. “Shereen, you there?”

I grab one of those Versace towels,
too distracted to notice the cloud-soft comfort of the cloth, and wrap it
around my barely-there Chanel bikini.

Versace, Chanel, Bentley…none of
them can help me right now.

No one can help me if my suspicions
are correct.

Quick steps take me through the
open French doors and into the living room of my villa, just in time to see
Shereen coming out through the kitchen to meet me.

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