My Billionaire Stepbrother (11 page)

“Oui, Veronique, what is up?”

I barely notice Shereen’s endearing
attempt to use the American slang I’ve been teaching her.

“I’ve got a problem, Shereen. A
real problem.”

My mind has shut out extraneous
information and honed down to a laser focus on a very, very important mission. Nothing
else can fit into my brain except for the knowledge that I have skipped a period.
At this point, I’ve maybe even skipped two periods. How did I not notice? How
was I so distracted?

I can’t actually remember my last
period, but I know it was in Philadelphia. I’m suddenly feeling dizzy, like a
ton of bricks has fallen onto my head. My body waves in the air like a tree in
the wind.

“Whoa.”

Shereen catches me as I stumble and
her face changes from her usual expectant expression to one of concern. She
lays her manicured hand on my shoulder, leading me to the couch, and plops down
beside me.

“What has happened Veronique? Mon
petite siren, are you ok? What is wrong?”

I swallow, my heart pounding in my
throat. I’m pretty sure I already know the truth, but I have to check. I have
to be sure. I have to find out.

I take Shereen’s hand and cling to
it like a lifeline.

“Shereen, I need your help,” I say.

She nods at me, her face ready and
strong. Thank god for her. She has been a real lifesaver for me already, from
the moment I met her in the Philadelphia airport until now, but I’ve never been
more thankful for her competent, caring presence than right this very second
when it feels like my world is imploding.

I must be pregnant.

I swallow. The words are hard to
say aloud.

“I need a pregnancy test, Shereen.
Fuck, I need a whole box of pregnancy tests. I need to be absolutely certain. I
need you to get me an entire shipping crate of pregnancy tests, maybe a whole
boatload of pregnancy tests, maybe a gynecologist, Jesus, I don’t know. I need
to find out for sure if I’m pregnant, and I need you to keep it a total and
complete secret. Please.”

Shereen nods slowly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispers. I can see
the wheels turning. She turns to me and strokes my hair. “Mademoiselle, it is
Monsieur Wilde, oui?”

The sound of his name brings tears
to my eyes. I try and fail to stifle a sob.

“Shhh, shh.” Shereen pulls me in to
a hug, muttering in French under her breath.

I don’t catch much of what she says,
but I am pretty sure ‘man slut’ is the same in every language. It’s not a
comfort to hear this phrase from Shereen’s lips.

Shereen sighs. “I promise,
Veronique. I’ll get you some tests. We will find out, and I will keep it
secret, and you will be ok. Ok? No matter what, you will be ok. I promise.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, clinging to
Shereen, wishing I could believe her. I need the test to confirm it, but deep
inside I already know that I must be pregnant. I’ve never skipped a period
before. My body is already telling me to face the facts.

But how can I? If I really am
pregnant, won’t that change everything? Won’t that change my entire life, my
entire reality?

How can I face the facts when I
don’t know what they’ll be?

It will be ok.

No matter what.

Even if things don’t work out
with Remington? Even if I am truly pregnant? Even if I end up having a
baby…alone?

No matter what.

It will be ok.

Oh god. What the hell am I going to
do?

Chapter Thirteen

Remington Byron Wilde

Victoria, Mahé Island, Seychelles

Africa

I’ve been away from North Island
for three weeks. That’s three weeks to clear my head, to be away from Veronique,
to get my act together and man up.

The Port of Victoria stretches out
below me like a diamond necklace, glittering against the sunset. From the
Governor’s summer mansion on the slope of the Morne Seychellois, the island’s
highest mountain, I have a panoramic view of paradise.

My paradise.

Everything I see, I could have. I
do have. In every direction there is glittering sea, vivid pristine bay,
swaying palms, commerce, wealth. I feel like a king in his kingdom. Ships come
and go in the port below, their activity exciting and profitable. The
Governor’s mansion where I stand is close enough to the city center that the
comforting sounds of voices and engines occasionally drift up through the warm
evening air, a pleasant backdrop of soft sound.

Yet I’m restless.

I actually miss Veronique.

I am standing on a high balcony
enjoying the view from the Mansion, taking a deep breath before the Governor’s
Ball begins. Inside the mansion, the ballroom is lit with candles and
brightened with tropical flowers. Waiters are dressed in tuxes with tails.
Women are wearing gowns. Beauty is in the air, heavy like ripe fruit. Except
for the cell phone in my hand, it would be easy to believe we had been
transported to Colonial times, before independence and modernity. Everything is
as glamorous as I hoped, and the guests are beginning to arrive.

Which is why I am out here,
watching.

Any minute now a familiar car will
drive up, a familiar door will open, and I’ll see the face I’ve been waiting
for.

It feels like I’ve lived a mental
lifetime since I left North Island just three short weeks ago. The last time I
saw Veronique I was so determined to put her behind me, to close that chapter.
And then what did I do? The exact opposite; I jumped on her like a lifeline and
banged her up against a tree like a wild animal.

What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’ve never felt so out of control before, so wild, so obsessed.

It’s been three weeks since I
touched that sweet body of hers, and I have to admit: I’ve missed the hell out
of it.

At first, when I got to Victoria, I
found myself wanting to talk to her all the time. So I didn’t let myself,
because I didn’t want to appear weak. I felt like I had to restrain myself,
regain my self-control.

It only made me think about her
more.

So I tried to distract myself with
work, conferences, mergers, paperwork. I thought if I just ignored my insane
infatuation with my stepsister, it would go away. She’s my stepsister, after
all!

But work didn’t help.

I’d find myself in the middle of business
conversations suddenly lost in a fantasy, reliving memories of Veronique’s
body. Someone in a meeting would say something clever and it would just make me
miss Veronique’s sassy conversation, or make me think of Veronique’s crazy life
story. I’d go running in the morning and find myself wondering how Veronique’s
wrist and ankle were healing.

Seriously, it’s as if she’s my
girlfriend.

And she’s not.

She’s my stepsister, not my
girlfriend.

Stepsister. Girlfriend. Stepsister.
Girlfriend.

Ugh.

And then I thought…why couldn’t she
be both?

That’s when I started freaking out.

Being with Veronique, making love
with her – it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Yes, it’s fucking hot
– hotter than any sex I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something from a man who
has had more than his share of access to whatever money and charisma and a big
dick can bring. But it also feels…right. Like home. Spiritual.

Scary good.

Yet…how right can it possibly be ok
to keep a thing going with my stepsister?

There are so many reasons it’s a bad
idea. Veronique comes from a strange background very different than mine. She’s
a mystery to me, an unknown quantity. I can’t control her and I barely even
understand her.

After all, she leapt into bed with
me after some rocky, tempestuous days together where it was clear we could have
easily become enemies instead of lovers. And then she’s given me chances even
after I’ve treated her like shit. Why? Is it possible to trust someone like
that?
Is it possible to trust myself?

You can’t date your stepsister for
fuck’s sake! It’s just not done – especially not at my level of public life and
media scrutiny. I’ve barely cleaned up the last paparazzi frenzy with my
fame-mongering ex in Hollywood and I don’t want a replay of that hot mess. The
last thing I need is to dive into something even more sordid aka tantalizing
for the press and the public to feast on.

Veronique is off-limits.

But let’s be real; I’m going to
jump on her bones again as soon as I see her.

Because fuck yeah!

The fact that Veronique is forbidden
makes her all the more irresistible. The fact that there are obstacles makes
the challenge all the more attractive. I can’t pretend anymore that I don’t want
to know her, be with her, and fuck her. Especially fuck her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I’ve obsessed over the Governor’s
Ball for weeks now, knowing I’d finally see her again. And now I’m pacing on
the balcony, stalking like a hungry, picky lion: it has to be Veronique. No one
else will do for me tonight.

Where the hell is she? It feels
like I’ve been waiting FOREVER.

Ugh, finally!

A familiar vintage Jaguar pulls up
to the curb. I recognize my mother’s favorite car from our home in the capital.
My body tenses, goose bumps covering my flesh at the sense of Veronique’s
presence. This is it! My hands grip onto the rail of the balcony, almost
ripping the wood plank off in my sudden spasm of physical excitement.

Down, boy.

A valet opens the back door and
familiar faces tumble out. Jacques, followed by my mother and – thank god –
Veronique.

At the sight of Veronique, I feel
my dick throb.

Wow.

Even from a distance, her body has
a visceral impact on mine, making my carnal instincts spring to life. I shift
uncomfortably, my pants suddenly too tight.

Damn.

And the night hasn’t even begun!

My suspicions were correct: just
the sight of her is enough to make me wild with lust, and my stepsister hasn’t
even stepped foot into the building.

She glances up, almost as if she’s
felt me watching her, and her eyes sweep across the balcony where I am
standing. I have just enough time to catch a glimpse of her hungry green eyes
and her long black hair before she disappears through the vaulted doors
underneath me, heading inside toward the ballroom. Electricity runs through my
body: even from that brief glance, I can see that she still wants me, too.

It’s happening.

Taking a deep breath, I am
surprised find myself smiling. I’m excited – why deny it? Finally, I get to
take action instead of just brooding about Veronique. This night has been a
long time coming.

Tonight is my chance to make up for
the times I’ve treated her badly. Tonight is our chance to make love again in
secret, to discover whether our chemistry is really important enough to
continue to risk our reputations and our family’s respect.

I’m literally dying to find out.

Literally.

Dying.

Pants…too…tight…ugh.

Waiting just a few more minutes to
get my erection situation under control, I shoot out a text message. I have a
conspiracy in place, a surprise for Veronique, and I want to make sure it plays
out like clockwork.

“
She’s here. Black dress.
Approach in 7 minutes. – R.W.”

A few seconds later, a response: “
Oui
Monsieur Wilde.”

Satisfied that my instructions will
be followed, I step back inside from the balcony and swiftly find my way down
the curved marble steps to the main floor. I can see my mother, Jacques, and
Veronique chatting with Governor Elba and his wife Alice. They are old friends,
good friends, but suddenly I don’t like the way the Governor is looking at
Veronique. My hand curls into a fist at my side, ready to swing.

She’s too beautiful in her fitted,
floor-length silk dress, her perfect figure tastefully on display. My stomach
tightens with jealousy as I hear the Governor complimenting her appearance. No
one else should look at her.

I want her to myself.

“Remington!” The Governor greets me.
“I was just meeting your new stepfather and stepsister. Wonderful people! So
glad you could all be here tonight.”

God, I am acting like a teenager. Of
course the Governor – and everyone – will admire Veronique. It doesn’t mean he
is trying to steal her: he is just being a good host. And even if he were
flirting, what could I do about it? She’s not my girlfriend.

Yet!

I have to remind myself that I
can’t just snake my arm around Veronique’s waist to claim her. I have to remind
myself that, at least for now, I’ll just have to find other ways to keep her to
myself.

I smile and shake the Governor’s
hand. “Yes,” I manage. “We are all happy to be here. Together.”

My eyes lock with Veronique’s on
that word. Together. Can she tell what I mean? Is it my imagination, or does
she blush?

“You look too thin Remington,” my
mother scolds. She playfully slaps the governor’s shoulder. “Haven’t you been
feeding my son? Why are you working him to the bone?”

Everyone laughs politely.

“I’ve just been distracted,” I say.

“Remington’s been working too
hard,” says the Governor’s wife, my honorary Aunt Alice. “He pulled together all
the last-minute details for tonight, and as you can see the results are
splendid. I don’t know what we would do without him.”

Just then, with perfect timing, I
feel a slight tug on my elbow and hear a polite cough.

“Monsieur Wilde, I am sorry to
interrupt, but there is a problem with the music.”

The group turns to look at the
newcomer. It is a small Italian man in a tuxedo, and though his hair is
thinning his presence still that of a virile maestro.

“Signore Amato,” I say. “How can I
help?”

As I say his name, I feel
Veronique’s breath catch beside me and I know she’s recognized him.

Of course she has: he’s only one of
the most famous classical conductors in the entire world. He’s worked with
every major symphony orchestra – Paris, Moscow, Buenos Aires, New York. He is
himself a celebrity, a legend.

And I hired him for tonight
especially.

“It is a disaster,” says Amato,
flinging his arms dramatically. “Our cellist, Monsieur – our cellist! He missed
his flight and only just now has called to tell us he is not coming. Now! At
the last possible minute, when it is already too late! What can I do? We cannot
play tonight’s music without the cellist, Monsieur Wilde. It is a disaster,
Monsieur Wilde, a horrible disaster!”

He’s played his part perfectly. My
Aunt Alice is wringing her hands in sympathy, my mother is clicking her tongue,
the Governor looks utterly lost.

Jacques LaRoux alone seems to be
able to see past Amato’s outburst to any clear thought. He clears his throat
nervously.

“Mister Amato,” says Jacques,
“Maybe we can offer you a solution. My daughter here is an excellent cellist,
just finished her third year the Curtis Institute. Maybe she can help you.
Veronique?”

I have to give Jacques credit: he
seems to really care about his daughter, and beat me to the punch in
recommending her to the conductor. Maybe he’s not such a selfish guy after all.
Maybe I misjudged him.

Now Veronique’s eyes are as big as
saucers, a mixture of deer-in-the-headlights shock and disbelieving euphoria.
She shoots a panicked look at her Dad, but then seems to get her shyness under
control enough to meet Signore Amato’s eyes.

“Signore Amato,” she says with that
clear, low voice of hers, “I am just so honored even to meet you. You are one
of my musical heroes! It’s true I am a cellist, and of course if I can help in
any way at all I am completely at your service.”

The conductor turns a shrewd eye on
my stepsister, seeming to assess her.

“Third year at Curtis, eh?” he
asks. “Do you know Handel’s Water Music?”

Veronique’s eyes widen, impossibly,
even more. “It’s my thesis! I’ve been working on it for years.”

“I can vouch for her,” I add. “I’ve
watched every YouTube video possible of her past recitals. She is quite
talented.”

Veronique stares at me, surprised.
“You watched my recitals?”

Oops, I probably shouldn’t have
said that. Luckily I’m off the hook because Amato claps his hands joyfully in
the air, exclaims something in Italian, and pulls Veronique into a hug.

“Signora LaRoux,” he shouts, “You
are the heroine of the evening, the star of the Seychelles, and the most
beautiful savior I have ever seen. Grazie. Grazie mille. If you will please
follow me to the stage and take a moment to tune your instrument with your
fellow musicians before gracing us with your talents, I will worship you until
the end of my days. Please, this way.”

Veronique takes Amato’s arm and
turns to go, still looking somewhat dazed.

“Excuse me for leaving you all,”
she says with a smile of disbelief, “It seems I will be playing for you all
this evening.”

“Bravo!” shouts Aunt Alice.

“Wonderful,” says Governor Bernard.

“Knock em dead, sweetheart,” says
Jacques.

“Hooray Veronique,” cheers my
mother.

As she walks away with Amato,
Veronique turns and watches me over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised in puzzlement.