My Billionaire Stepbrother (2 page)

It’s 9:13am.

“Fuck!”

The way I see it, I have two choices. I can listen to my
practical side that says that I have a very important rehearsal for which I am
already ten minutes late. My practical side is telling me I need to keep my
eyes on the prize and let nothing, not even a terrifying request from my Dad,
derail my focus during finals.

But then there’s the second possibility that my Dad is
telling the truth and something legitimately life shattering is happening.
There’s the possibility that he actually needs me. That it’s an actual
emergency that requires my presence.

That if I don’t take him seriously,
I might regret it for the rest of my life.

Then again, if I don’t take my finals seriously, I might
regret
that
for the rest of my life.

What if he’s in a hospital? What if
he’s hurt?

I debate with myself for precisely ten more seconds before I
unlock my tiny studio apartment and stumble back inside. With the complex
gymnastics that I have down to an art, I swing my enormous cello case off my
back and set it carefully in its place by the bed while simultaneously unzipping
the compartments that contain my vital essentials: wallet, study materials,
secret cash stash. Last night I made $300 in tips. I need it for next month’s
rent, but whatever is going on with Dad sounds like it could potentially be
expensive, so I need to be prepared.

I spread it all on the bed, tossing
a few pairs of underwear and a change of pants and shirt on top. It hits me
that he didn’t even tell me where he was before the phone cut out. How do I
pack? It’s early May, but where am I going? Will it be hot? Cold? I throw in a
sweater just in case. Hiking boots. Sandals? I have no fucking idea.

In five minutes I have a backpack
put together, a baseball cap on my head, and I am sprinting down the steps
hailing a taxi.

God help me, I know I am going to
regret this one way or another. But this is literally a case of fucked if I do,
and fucked if I don’t.

I just wish there was a way to know
exactly how fucked I am.

Chapter Two

It’s almost 9:43am when I finally make it to Terminal B at
the Philadelphia International Airport, and at this point I am in a near panic.
It’s only seventeen minutes before the deadline and I’m thinking I am probably
too late to check in for a 10am flight.

Is that what Dad said? Was the
flight 10am or was it just that he said to be there by 10am? Goodness, I can’t
even remember. Was it even Terminal B?

Deep breath. Calm down.

I pay the taxi, losing $60 of my
precious tip dollars and mentally calculating how much I have left in cash and
the bank. I dash out and run-walk into the airport, checking as I go to make
sure I have my wallet, keys, and phone in my backpack.

The automatic glass doors to the
terminal part as I burst through, revealing the swirl of people and activity
within. There’s what looks like a high school sports team in line to check in;
an old couple with a wheelchair and oxygen tank arguing with some TSA agents; a
pair of policemen with dogs wandering through the security line.

For a moment I feel lost. There’s
so much going on, I wonder how I will ever make it in time to whatever flight
Dad has arranged for me. With a sigh, I take my place in the back of the long
line of teenagers checking in, all boys laughing and arguing and roughhousing. There
are only maybe three teachers for all thirty of them, yelling periodically at
them to “Be quiet!”

It’s running through my mind that
this morning could not possibly be more stressful when it hits me that I don’t
even know airline I am supposed to check in with or what destination to ask for.
I am probably in the wrong spot. I am probably going to be standing here behind
a line of teenage hormones when the plane to my Dad takes off without me.

“Damn it Dad,” I mutter under my
breath. “Would it have killed you to give me a few more details?”

It probably would have, knowing
Jacques LaRoux. He doesn’t exactly speak the language of details. Does any
gambler? Does any man?

God, wouldn’t it be amazing to meet
a man that is fluent in reality, one that covers the bases and communicates
what you need to know in order to get things done? One that is tall dark and
handsome would be nice, too. Tall, dark, handsome, and not so completely self-absorbed
that he doesn’t understand that he’s upending your life when he sends you
sprinting through the airport headed god-knows-where.

That’s the dream, I guess: a man
who makes life easier for you. But based on my experiences with my loving but
absent-minded father, finding a such a man sounds about as likely as finding a
god damn unicorn.

And probably a lot less exciting.

I am about to give up and leave the
line when a firm, confident voice startles me, booming over my shoulder.

“Mademoiselle LaRoux? Daughter of
Mr. Jacques LaRoux?”

Turning, I see a svelte woman in a
crisp uniform smiling at me. Well, at least she’s not a cop; I’ve never seen
her uniform before and can’t place it. It looks like a cross between a chauffeur
and a Hillary Clinton pantsuit – but flattering. She is holding an iPad.

“Yes?” I ask, puzzled.

Her smile broadens, revealing
pearly white teeth.

“So glad I found you! I’m Miss Shereen
Butler with Wilde Hospitality Corp. Your plane is waiting. Follow me. James
here will take your luggage.”

“My plane?”

But she is already walking away towards
the TSA security station and I find myself skipping to keep up. Some young kid
in a TSA uniform is at my elbow with a professional grin.

“Can I take your bags ma’am?” he
asks.

This is the first time I think
anyone has ever called me ma’am. I eye him, deciding that he can get away with
it since he looks about 14.

“I only have a backpack.”

“I can carry that for you.”

“It’s ok.”

But he has already reached out and
taken my bag seamlessly without interrupting my stride. He has some serious
skills.

“Thanks,” I manage.

Miss Shereen Butler has
circumvented the long line at security and motions for me to join her at a
small private lane on the side. James, the TSA child jogging at my heel, clears
his throat and points toward one of those body-scanners.

“Miss, if you could step through
there please.”

The scan takes only seconds and
then James hands me my backpack. “Have a pleasant flight, Miss LaRoux.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, puzzled.

“This way, Mademoiselle.”

It is not lost on me that I have just
bypassed the entire security line. Isn’t that kind of treatment usually
reserved for people like Obama or Oprah?

Miss Butler, poised and elegant,
takes me through what looks like an emergency exit, down a little outdoor metal
staircase, and to a waiting SUV.

“Where are we going?” I ask,
confused.

“To your plane, Mademoiselle
LaRoux.”

“You keep saying that. What do you
mean,
my
plane? I don’t have my own plane. Are you confusing me with
someone else?”

Miss Butler laughs as we step
together into the back of the SUV. The engines hum and we are rolling down the
jetway.

“Not at all, Mademoiselle LaRoux. A
private flight has been arranged for you on one of the family jets.”

This clears nothing up.

The terms “private flight” and
“family jets” are not remotely close to being a part of my vocabulary. I have
no idea what to do with “private flight” in connection to whatever mysterious
emergency my father has come up with that is so important that I have toss my
life into utter chaos for him. But I swallow my shock, not wanting to seem like
a fish out of water, and settle for asking only the most important question.

“Miss Butler, you said someone
arranged a private flight for me. A flight to where, and why?”

The SUV has come to a stop, and
through the dark tinted window I see a sleek, white jet. It’s small but
powerful, like the kind of thing you see in pictures of A-list stars waving at
the paparazzi from private airports heading to private islands.

Am I hallucinating, or are the
windows gold-rimmed?

“I’m sorry Mademoiselle LaRoux,
that information I can’t say. I was just instructed to escort you from
ticketing. Only our pilot knows the destination.”

“Is my father ok? Am I being sold
to a Sheik? What the hell is all of this about?”

A frown flickers over Shereen’s face.
“Of course you are not being sold to a Sheik, Mademoiselle LaRoux. There is no
cause for concern. You are the guest of Wilde Hospitality Corp.”

The panic I felt earlier has given
way to complete bewilderment. Realizing Miss Butler can’t or won’t tell me
anything else, I bite my tongue and my frustration and follow her like a puppy
out of the car. She clicks ahead of me in her perfect Louboutins as my
converses scuffle along the pavement, making me feel as out of place as a
grunge band at the Four Seasons. Compared to Miss Butler, I look like a
homeless woman.

A lost homeless woman with a bad
haircut.

But Miss Butler doesn’t seem to
notice my unease, and we step together up the little boarding ramp to baby’s
first private jet.

A stewardess wearing the same
uniform is smiling brightly. As I bump my head and stumble through the hatch,
she reaches for my backpack and hands me a glass of champagne. I stare at it
dumbly.

“Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle
LaRoux. Can I get you anything specific to eat or drink?”

“No,” I manage, blinking in shock.
“Champagne is…totally appropriate for 10am.”

The stewardess laughs, a tinkling
happy sound that I bet she’s had to practice on the world’s douchiest
millionaires.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mademoiselle.
We will be taking off shortly.”

She beckons me further inside and my
jaw literally drops open.

The inside of the jet is a white
and gold palatial suite. There’s an actual bed with what look like satin
trimmings. There are two leather couches. There’s a widescreen plasma TV. There
is thick white carpet that makes me want to take off my shoes and wiggle my
toes. There is a bar and a marble dining room table with leather chairs.

There’s a goddamn chandelier.

THERE’S A FAKE FIREPLACE.

“Uh, who else is coming? Where
should I sit?” I ask.

The stewardess tries hard to mask
her amusement.

“You are our only passenger for
this flight, Mademoiselle. Please make yourself comfortable and feel free to
use the entire cabin area. We’ll be serving lunch once we are airborne.”

“Ok,” I squeak. “Thanks.”

I move gingerly toward a sofa, half
afraid it will bite me. The leather is so buttery soft and I let out an
involuntary groan and let myself melt into the couch with a deep, exhausted
sigh of surrender. The soft, rich material folds around me like a lover’s
embrace.

God, being rich must feel this good
all the damn time
.

My eyes flicker shut as I
mechanically bring the glass of champagne to my lips. Yeah, it’s only 10am, but
I sure as hell could use a drink already.

What is my life? What is happening?

Miss Butler and the stewardess are
busily shutting and locking the cabin door. Soon I feel a light touch on my
shoulder. I flicker my eyes open and see a ridiculously handsome young man
smiling down at me. His eyes are as blue as the Caribbean, his skin dark like Miss
Butler’s. The contrast of his eye color is mesmerizing.

“Mademoiselle LaRoux? I’m Chance
Walker, I’ll be your pilot today.”

I’m too stunned to answer and
probably say something stupid like, “Aughh?”

He smiles. “We are preparing to take
off for our anticipated twenty-one hour flight. Conditions look smooth all the
way through. Once we reach our cruising altitude it should be an easy straight
shot, so relax and enjoy.”

He speaks with a faint accent that
I can’t place.

“It will be such smooth sailing
that I might even be able to take a break from flying and give you a shoulder
massage. You look so tense. But twenty-one hours will give you a chance to
relax, yes?”

This is all very confusing – half
an hour ago I was convinced my Dad might be dying, now people are handing me
champagne and joking around with me on a private jet.

Seriously. WTF.

“Twenty-one hours?” I cry,
dismayed. “Mr. Walker, can you please tell me where we are going? Everyone is
as secretive as the CIA around here and I just really want to know what this is
all about. All I know is that my Dad told me he had some emergency and that I
had to come, but he neglected to say where. Where, Mr. Walker? Where?”

He laughs, a deep and charming
belly laugh that doesn’t actually relieve my tension. He leans over playfully,
eyes full of mischief.

“Miss LaRoux, I am not supposed to
tell you where we are going, but I will give you a hint: it is my home
country.”

I stare at him blankly. Is this some
kind of a truth-or-dare game: make the American girl reveal her idiocy or
ignorance or latent racism by guessing where her pilot is from?

The pilot laughs at my blank stare.

“I will give you another clue: my
home country is a beautiful country on a beautiful continent. And the beautiful
continent is…Africa.”

With that he saunters away.

“Africa?!” I cry.

The engines flare. The jet lurches
forward.

“Africa?” I repeat.

Holy fuckballs. I guess I’m going
to Africa.

Chapter Three

“Mademoiselle LaRoux?”

A warm scent of tropical fruit
washes over me and a gentle hand squeezes my shoulder.

“Mademoiselle LaRoux, we are making
our final descent to North Island.”

“Hmm?”

The plane suddenly shakes through
an air pocket, the bumps jarring me out of sleep. I sit up like a startled cat
in a tangle of satin sheets in the plush memory foam bed, my hair sideways and
my brain groggy.

“Miss LaRoux, we are about to land.
The local time is 11am. Have some breakfast!”

I blink a few times, processing my
surroundings. I am in a memory foam bed, wrapped in satin sheets, on a private
jet. It takes a few minutes for me to remember that, and I repeat it to myself
a few times to make the reality sink in.

“North Island?” I repeat, blankly,
staring up at the pretty stewardess.

“Yes, North Island of the
Seychelles.”

She smiles and places a silver
breakfast tray over my lap, spread with diced papaya, steaming scrambled eggs,
piping hot coffee, and a crystal glass filled with sparkling water. The dishes
are all fine china. The napkin is silky pressed linen. The food all smells incredible.

Wow.

“The Seychelles?” I whisper,
connecting the name to meaning in my brain. “You mean where Prince William and Princess
Kate had their honeymoon?”

How do I even know that? I don’t
read tabloids. But I guess everybody, including a boring dead-serious,
stick-in-the-mud student like me knows at least
something
about the world’s
most romantic, glamorous couple. Not that I’ve at all fantasized about having
their life or anything – the clothes and the titles and the castles and the
traveling…nope, doesn’t affect me or make me sigh with secret longing.

Nope, not at all.

“That’s right, it’s the same island,”
the stewardess says with a wink. “The royal couple stayed at the very same
Wilde Hospitality Corp resort where you are going. Oops!”

Her eyes widen guiltily, her hand
flying to cover her mouth.

“I’m terribly sorry! I wasn’t
supposed to spoil the surprise.”

But she leans in conspiratorially,
her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I think I overheard Mademoiselle
Butler say that you’ll be staying in the very same bungalow where the Prince
and Princess honeymooned. You’re to receive the VIP treatment, just like royalty!
It’s supposed to be the most beautiful spot on North Island: it faces the
sunset with a private beach, a private forest, glass walls on every side so you
can see the jungle, and the most gorgeous amenities. There’s an original
Matisse in every room. You’ll even have your own clear Jacuzzi submerged at sea
level on a terrace that’s built out into the water, so you can see the fish
swimming underneath you. I love the water here – at this latitude the Indian
Ocean is so clean and warm, better than the Caribbean. It’s like taking a
relaxing bath every time you dip in. You’ll have a marvelous time, I am sure. Enjoy
your breakfast.”

My mouth has literally fallen open.

“Thank you,” is all I can manage as
she walks away, leaving me in bed in a private jet with breakfast on a silver
tray on my way to the royal family’s honeymoon bungalow with my original
Matisse in every room.

What even is my life right now?

Yesterday I ate a meal off the
dollar menu at McDonalds because all I could find in my couch was a handful of
quarters.

Are they sure they picked up the
right girl at the airport?

How the heck does my drifter Dad
factor in with all of this?

At least now the butterflies in my
stomach are less about fearing for my Dad’s safety and more about fearing for
my own sanity. What if I am imagining all of this? It doesn’t seem possible
that all of this is real, that all of this is happening to me.

Though actually, I don’t even know
what is happening. Maybe it is secretly terrible. Maybe the rug will be pulled
out from under me at any second, the exotic royal fantasy punctured.

I am too nervous to eat, so I put
the breakfast tray to the side and roll over to stare out the window.

The plane is circling an island,
which juts out of the sea like an emerald mountain rimmed with topaz shores. White-hot
sand blends from the beach into the water, blurring the lines between land and
sea. The aquamarine water around the shore is almost violently bright, glowing
and cheerful until it drops into a deep mysterious sapphire color that looks exactly
like the night sky.

I’ve never been anywhere tropical
before, and I can’t believe how it lives up exactly to my wildest imagination.
There are sailboats dotting the shores around the North Island, and I can see
smaller and larger islands dotting the horizon almost every direction I look.

It’s breathtakingly beautiful. It’s
every tropical fantasy I have ever had, and more.

And I’m about to land in a tropical
island paradise, with nothing to wear but a sweater and jeans.

Would have been nice to have a
heads-up Dad
, I think ruefully. But I know nothing he could have said would
have prepared me for the royal family’s honeymoon island.

“Ah!”

We hit another air pocket that
jolts the plane and sends seltzer water and eggs splashing all over the silky
sheets. I yelp and grab around for stability, but my hands find nothing to hold
onto except a feather pillow that I proceed to squeeze to death. And so there I
am, clutching a pillow like a scared kid with eggs and feathers in my hair and
mascara all over my face when our landing gear touches down on a thin private
runway in the center of the island.

I couldn’t feel more out of place
or out of sorts if I tried, and I haven’t even stepped foot on the ground.

The jet rolls to a stop, and over
the sounds of the engines powering down I can hear the pilot and women talking
in the cockpit, laughing and unbuckling seatbelts. While the stewardess moves
to unlatch the cabin door to the outside world, Miss Butler emerges and beams
at me with a truly hospitable, empathetic smile.

“Welcome to the beautiful
Seychelles, Mademoiselle LaRoux,” says Miss Butler. “Don’t worry, I am here to
be your guide and make sure you are comfortable all the way. You are going to
have an amazing time on our island. The beaches, the food, the music…” her
voice drops secretively: “The men! Whatever you do here, it is better and more
fun than when you do it anywhere else.”

She winks, her laughter breaking my
tension.

Now I realize her light lilting
accent must be from here, that the pride in her voice is that of ownership and
belonging. This is her home. And she’s here to be my guide! I won’t be alone,
forging into the unknown like an uncouth pauper disguised in the prince’s
clothes.

Somehow Miss Butler’s ease and joy
rub off on me a little, and I find my shoulders relaxing slightly as I take a
deep breath.

“Miss Butler,” I say, “I can’t tell
you how glad I am to know you’ll be my guide. But now that we’re here, can you
please tell me what in god’s name is happening? Why am I here?”

Her eyes sparkle. “All in good
time. I can’t spoil the surprise. Come, the car will be waiting, and we have
some work to do.”

Obediently I let go of my
death-clutch on the pillow, shake the eggs out of my hair, and rise shakily to
my feet. A dark Cadillac Escalade – what else – is waiting for us as we
deplane. Somehow, my backpack is already loaded for me into the backseat.

Our driver, Chip, is another
handsome stud that looks like he could be related to my pilot Chance. He tips
his hat, greets me by name, and has us on the road in seconds. The tires crunch
lazily over a surprisingly well manicured road. I guess it shouldn’t surprise
me, really – it’s just that the actual jungle is looming over us at every side,
complete with vines and monkeys and enormous tropical flowers. It doesn’t seem
like a private jet, a Cadillac, and brand-new road could coexist this closely
with all that wild beauty.

My head is out the window like an
excited puppy for the entire ride, the salt breeze kissing my face as I drink
in the luscious sights of the island. At one point, we have to stop the car
because a turtle is crossing the road.

A turtle is crossing the road.

But it’s still a very short drive
to the bungalow, which seems to me that it should more rightly be called a
mansion. It’s an enormous three-story glass-and-wood palace that blends almost
perfectly with the surrounding greenery: the only clue giving away its presence
in the natural surroundings the reflected sunlight glimmering off the huge
windows like a diamond.

“Wow,” I breathe aloud.

Miss Butler laughs. “Welcome home, Mademoiselle
LaRoux. Here is your bungalow.”

“Is my father here?”

“You will see him soon.”

“What is this place?”

“This is your bungalow,
Mademoiselle.”

“Please, call me Veronique.”

“Then you must call me Shereen.”

The sight of the bungalow takes my
breath away, and even with Chip and Shereen escorting me I have a hard time
making one foot step in front of the other to go inside. Enormous bouquets of
birds of paradise greet me through the doorway, immense, cool space beckoning
to me from every direction of the house. There is an enormous sofa, an indoor
fire pit, a huge wall of wine bottles, and a patio that stretches away from a
sliding door and beyond my line of vision. Fresh coffee perfumes the air. It
feels so green in here! So peaceful, so romantic, so luxurious.

I can’t believe this is for me.

“Wow,” I say again.

“Yes, wow is correct!” Shereen
smiles and waves Chip away, shutting the door behind us. “And I promise I will
give you the full tour and explanation of all that is included in this bungalow
later, but first we have work to do.”

My stomach sinks just a little.
“What do I have to do?”

Shereen’s mega-watt smile doesn’t
leave much room for trepidation.

“Ma petite sirène, we are going to
change you from your ordinary clothes into a princess. Come.”

Fascinated, I follow her up a
floating staircase to an enormous master suite, decorated in the most tasteful
and beautiful white furniture I have ever seen. How decadent, to have white
furniture and carpet. How do they keep it clean?

An enormous closet takes up the
entire wall, its mirrored doors flung open to reveal a full stock of garments. Entranced,
I run my fingers over a few dresses, noting the silky textures.

And the tags.

“Gucci,” I breathe. “Chanel, Prada,
Fendi, Dior, Ralph Lauren, Dolce and Gabbana, Versace. This is ridiculous! And
everything is in my size? How?”

I’ve never even stood this close to
clothes this expensive in my entire life. I can feel perspiration break out on
my forehead. What if I rip or spill something? I usually spill everything. I
could never afford to replace one of these if I ruined it.

“A welcoming gift,” Shereen explains.
“All for you to keep, Mademoiselle. But today, these are not for you to wear.
Today, you are to wear this.”

She steps over to an armoire in the
corner that I had not noticed; it is entirely made of beveled mirrors,
intricately carved like something straight out of Versailles Palace. She opens
the doors and carefully removes an elegant dress fit for a fairy tale; it’s a
soft color somewhere between white, peach, and gold, the palette seeming to shift
like a shimmering sunrise.

“Wow,” I murmur.

It’s turning into my favorite word.

“Custom made for you, Mademoiselle,
by Oscar de la Renta. A special order hastily completed because the late
Monsieur de la Renta was a close family friend. This is for today’s special
occasion. You will look like a goddess, oui?”

“Oui, a goddess with no idea where
she is or what she is doing.”

I touch the fabric in awe. It’s
like touching a cloud. Shereen sighs wistfully.

“This dress will be perfection on
you, Mademoiselle Veronique. When he sees you in this, how could he be upset?”

I stare at her. “When who sees me?
Who is upset?”

But she only claps her hands and
shakes her head.
“No no don’t listen to me, I am just talking to myself. We must hurry. We only
have an hour.”

“An hour ‘til what?”

As per usual, I get no answer to my
question. Instead Shereen just grins mysteriously and herds me into the shower.

The time flies, filled with primping
and make-up and finally the dress itself, which slides over my skin and fits
like a glove. When I see my own finished reflection, I can’t believe it. My
long dark hair is piled on top of my head in an elegant updo, white orchids
pinned here and there, pearl earrings making the whites of my eyes and my
greenish pupils jump out like beacons.

And the dress – the dress! It’s
beyond a fairy tale. It’s beyond the red carpet. It hugs my upper body,
tastefully revealing every curve, and cascades to the ground like a golden mist
that whispers with secrets every time I breathe.

“Wow. Are you sure I’m not being
sold to a Shiek?” I ask Sherren, laughing nervously. “That seems to be the only
occasion fancy enough for this dress. This is the most amazing thing I have
ever had on my body.”

She chuckles back and tucks away a
stray strand of my hair. “You are beautiful, Mademoiselle. Come, Chip will be
outside waiting.”

Taking a deep breath, I follow Shereen
and plunge into the unknown.

I have no idea what fate awaits me
in this beyond-fancy dress, but I manage to get into the car without crushing
the skirt or panicking. I even manage to follow Shereen into the central resort
building without crushing the dress or panicking. I somehow manage to get into
the elevator without crushing the dress or panicking.

But by the time we step onto the
rooftop deck, even though the dress is not crushed, I am panicking.