My Billionaire Stepbrother (4 page)

With that she laces her arm firmly
through my father’s and kisses him on the cheek before walking intentionally
past Remington and towards the dance floor.

“Play, maestro!” Diana shouts,
laughing, and the quartet flares back to life with a snappy waltz.

This leaves just me alone with Remington
standing in the aisle staring after them, dumbfounded, angry and breathing
heavily. The guests all rise and move to join the newlyweds on the dance floor
or bar, so that when Remington turns to face me again, I am completely alone
and vulnerable. He looks me up and down, his face a warring mask of contempt
and…is that lust? I really hope that’s lust. I want him to want me. I want him
to touch me.

No. No, Veronique. No.

God I feel naked.

My mouth goes dry at Remington’s
frank perusal and I force myself to play it as cool as possible. It would be
intimidating enough to meet Remington Wilde under normal circumstances. But
meeting at our parent’s surprise wedding and becoming his instant enemy is
definitely not helping. What do I do? What do I say?

“Look,” I begin, hating my voice
for faltering. “Let’s try this again. I am Veronique. Veronique LaRoux.”

I hold out my hand, but he ignores
it.

Wow. What a brat! Is that what they
treat rich kids in their fancy schools – how to be rude?

I sigh, and try again.

“I know this is all very sudden,” I
say. “I just found out about this, too, and it wasn’t exactly convenient for me
to be here. I have no idea what is going on, but I also know that I have never
seen my Dad look so happy. Can’t that be enough of an explanation for right
now? I am sure we can sit them down and get the full story later.”

Remington’s eyes snap back at me.
“What full story,” he grunts. “This is the full story. Don’t give me the love
at first sight bullshit. My mother, the tycoon of industry, was fooled by a
common con man. You and your father cannot fool me. I know your kind.”

“My father is not a con man,” I say
as patiently as I can. “He is actually quite lovable, if you give him a chance.
Your mother seems quite lovable too.”

He glares at me. “I am sure that to
your father, she is very lovable – two billion pounds of lovable. You expect me
to believe that her fortune was not a factor in your father’s hasty courtship?
You expect me to believe there is more to it than that after one week?”

My heart leaps to my throat as I
try not to show how intimidated I am by the thought of that much money. I am
pretty sure he said billion with a b. But that is not the point.

“Oh,” I gulp. “One week? They’ve
only planned this for a week?”

“No,” Remington grunts. “They have
only known each other for a week. Or didn’t you know? Wasn’t that part of your
plan?”

Wow. One week? That
was
fast.

“No,” I snap. “I didn’t know. There
was no plan. I am as surprised as you are, but I have the tact to be supportive
of my father’s decision and not attack the integrity of his bride’s family at
the very first meeting. I try not to define people by the size of their
wallets, Mr. Wilde. Maybe if you open your eyes and give human beings a chance
to prove themselves, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

I try to let my anger with Remington
mask my concern and worry. One week?!? Are they crazy? Who gets married after
one week?

But I don’t want to give Remington
the satisfaction of seeing that, in spite of our differences about money and
class being the end-all-be-all, I agree with him about the intelligence of our
parents’ quick wedding. He is studying me closely, and I have to avert my eyes
to keep from giving myself away. I have to avert my eyes to keep from biting
his lip, too. I have to avert my eyes, period.

Otherwise, it’s almost like I can
actually feel the sparks flying between us.

Suddenly Remington leans toward me,
draping his arms around my sides. Startled, I nervously step back, but I trip a
little on my dress and fall into him. The shock of brushing up against his
chest makes my knees feel week. God, he is strong – I can feel it in his muscle
tone, in his powerful body holding me up.

I regain my footing and try to step
away, but then I realize that he has me corralled against a row of chairs and
that there is nowhere to go to escape. His scent washes over me, warm and
masculine, and my heart begins to pound in my chest. He is so close, close
enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.

Oh god oh god please kiss me please
don’t kiss me oh god.

He is staring at me, grinning wickedly
like a cat with a mouse.

God damn it, he’s attractive when
he looks smug.

Remington Wilde has his arms around
me. Remington Wilde is toying with me.

Holy fuck.

I desperately try to push all my
inappropriate fantasies out of my head, desperately try not to look at that
broad chest just peeking out of his half-unbuttoned shirt. His skin looks so
inviting, so smooth.

Remington is staring at my lips.

“Excuse me,” I stutter. “Can I
please get by?”

Remington ignores me.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “Is this the
first time you and your father have wrecked an honorable family with this
transparent little gold-digging scheme of yours? Or do you have it down to a
science? Let me see if I can guess the steps. While your father seduces the
mother, you seduce the son – is that how these things work? Double indemnity or
something, hedging your bets? Not a bad strategy. If that is your plan, I want
a sample of the goods. Show me why you deserve the Wilde family fortune.”

His hand snakes around my waist,
his lips crashing into mine. It’s a possession so shocking, so fierce, and so
sudden that I am completely swept up in the sensation of his overpowering
touch, the softness of his lips, the crushing conquest of his tongue under
mine. I moan and melt into him, caught in the pleasure that for a moment feels
as natural as breath.
Until I realize what he just said.

Did he just call me a whore?

Now I’m shoving and scratching to
get free with all my might.

“Let go of me!”

I’ve never been so insulted or
humiliated in my life. Never mind the fact that I am turned on and more than
half inclined to jump his bones for unrelated reasons – but his words sting so
much that I manage to bury my fantasies about him long enough to raise my hand
and slap him hard across the face.

I just slapped Remington Wilde
across the face.

I just slapped Remington Wilde
across the face really, really hard. Actually, the corner of his mouth looks
like it’s bleeding.

“Oh my god,” I gasp. “I’m sorry.”

He touches the spot where I hit
him, a wry grin spreading across his face. Is he laughing at me? What an
asshole!

“You’re not sorry,” he murmurs.
“You liked it, didn’t you? I bet you like it rough. I hope you do, Mademoiselle
LaRoux. Because I will make your time here very, very rough. One way or another.”

Holy. Fuck.

“Mr. Wilde,” I gasp, trying to
regain my composure, “I am truly sorry if your view of the world has taught you
that you can buy and use women however you want, or say whatever you want, but it
just so happens that I respect myself enough to think that what you just did is
unforgivably entitled and despicable.”

“I bet you do,” he chuckles. “But
you liked it, didn’t you?”

Tears are springing to my eyes. I
have to get out of here before he sees them. I can’t let him see that he’s
gotten to me. I can’t let him see that he’s struck more than one nerve.

Humiliated, angry, and exhausted, I
can think of nothing else to say.

I pick up my skirts and my pride
and brush past Remington Wilde, playboy of the western and eastern world, and
look for a dark corner to hide.

As I walk away from Remington with
my chin held high, I steal one last glance at the dance floor where my Dad and
Diana look happier than anyone I’ve ever seen. In spite of my worry about their
insanely fast relationship, the sight of them makes my chest ache not a little
bit with something like longing.

I’m not jealous. Not even a little
bit. Nope.

Not me.

Chapter Five

It’s not easy slipping out of a
party inconspicuously in an Oscar de la Renta gown and Louboutin shoes, but I do
it. Now I am walking down the resort road in what I think is the general
direction of my bungalow. The hot sun beats down on my head and my fancy skirt sticks
to my sweaty legs, but at least I am finally alone.

I know it’s only the middle of the
day here, but I am EXHAUSTED. That enormous bed in my bungalow is calling to me.
I just want to go nap my confused feelings away.

“Ow.”

It finally occurs to me that I
don’t have to walk in these 4-inch heels through the god damn jungle, so I take
them off and go barefoot.

“Much better.”

A few golf carts and bicycles wiz
by me, proving that there was an easier way for me to get back to my bungalow,
but I resign myself to the walk. After all, I could use a minute to let off some
steam. I’m still fuming and furious and, I have to admit, slightly turned on
from my confusing exchange with Remington Wilde.

What a snob.

What a pig!

What a sexy, sexy jerk.

I have never felt more confused or
angry in my life. Between my disturbing introduction to Remington and my Dad’s
surprise wedding, it feels like I’ve lost everything normal and predictable about
my life all in one day. The rules have suddenly changed and I just don’t know
how to handle it. Is Dad rich now that he’s married a billionaire? Are all his
promises to take care of me finally coming true?

Does it mean I am rich now, too?

Or am I fired from school for
missing finals?

I need to find a computer and email
my professors. Just because Dad got married doesn’t mean
my
problems are
solved. I could be right back at zero at any second – less than zero if I lose
my place at school. And it doesn’t help that Remington Wilde seems determined
to toss me out on the streets again.

Nothing feels safe. Nothing feels
familiar. Even though this island is gloriously beautiful, I have never felt
more alone.

Finally I see my bungalow up ahead.

“Thank god.”

I speed up my pace, already feeling
some of the tension release from my shoulders. This is what I need: some alone
time to process everything from my Dad’s shocking marriage to my stress about
missing finals to the fact that I’ve just slapped Remington Wilde across the
face.

Yeah, remember when that happened?
I just met the most eligible bachelor in the world and my response was to slap
him across the face.

He deserved it, though.

He’s a jerk.

He’s…

“Stop thinking about him,” I
command myself.

But that proves to be impossible,
because when I open the door to my bungalow, who should be here waiting for me
but the devil himself?

“Remington!” I squeak. “What are
you doing here?”

How is he here? Wasn’t he just at
the wedding? Didn’t I leave before him?

Goddamn golf carts! I knew I should
have taken one.

Remington is in the kitchen,
stripped to his boxers, fixing what looks to be an epic pitcher of margaritas.
I don’t know what surprises me most: that Remington Wilde is in my kitchen in
his boxers, or that Remington Wilde, billionaire playboy, makes his own
margaritas. Doesn’t he have servants for this kind of thing? Slaves even?

I feel myself bristling already.
What kind of billionaire jerk takes off his pants and makes margaritas in my
kitchen?

I guess it isn’t technically
my
kitchen…but…you know what I mean.

“Seriously, why are you in my
bungalow?” I demand.

“
Your
bungalow?” The
sarcastic edge in his voice is inescapable. “Oh I am sorry, I didn’t realize
you had paid for a rental.”

I bite my lip in frustration.

“I didn’t, but –”

“But. That’s a great argument. You
have me convinced.”

He revs the blender, making any
retort impossible. I am forced to just stare at him in consternation and, yes,
frustrated lust.

Some afternoon sweat is glistening
on his chest, and in spite of myself I am staring. His well-sculpted muscles
ripple as he slices limes and gently rolls some glasses in salt. He seems to
have a firm, light touch, and I find myself envying those damn limes. I want
him to squeeze me like that. I want him to squeeze me until all the juices come
out.

Whoa. Down, girl.

When did my brain get so dirty?

Finally Remington stops the blender
blades and opens the lid. He drags his finger slowly around the rim of the
blender, lifting a stray drop of the dewy green margarita mix to his lips and
sucking it in.

Sucking. He’s sucking. I’m watching
Remington Wilde sucking his finger. Holy god. Oh god.

He’s trying to make me think about
sex. And it’s working.

Yup. I’m going to faint.

“Remington, please, this is where
they put me. I didn’t ask for it. And no, I didn’t pay for it. But all I want
right now is to be alone and take a bath and a nap and
why
are you
here
?”

He is obviously enjoying my
distress.

“I live here,” he grunts with an
infuriating smile. “I always stay in this bungalow when I am on the island,
unless it has been let to an actual client. What are
you
doing here? I
don’t recall inviting you.”

“I have a key!” I hold it up to
prove it.

“So do I.” He jangles an impressive
set of his own keys, thrusting his hips suggestively. “A key for every lock.
Even one for yours.”

The obvious double entendre makes
me blush.

Why? Why, god?

I look away, forcing myself to bypass
noticing how ridiculously hot and steamy he looks when he thrusts his hips like
that.

I’m so self-controlled, I’m
definitely not thinking about Remington thrusting his hips into me and I’m totally
not even imagining wrapping my legs around his hips while he’s doing that,
naked, between my legs, into me, thrusting, hips, naked…Remington…

Great. Now I am sweating.

It takes me a minute to push the
image of Remington’s thrusting hips from my mind and form actual words in
English. Clearing my throat, I point to my backpack sitting on the couch right
where Shereen left it.

“See? My luggage. I was here first.”

He stares at my backpack, eyebrows
raised. “Your ‘luggage?’ I’m sorry, isn’t that word a bit of a stretch? Maybe
it was luggage before being eaten and thrown back up by a dog?”

Okay, now I’m really annoyed. Now
he’s simultaneously trying to seduce and insult me in what was supposed to be
the safety of my own bungalow.

He sure doesn’t play fair.

“So what if my backpack is crappy?”
I fume, “It was on sale at Target, ok! I got it for ten bucks. When was the
last time you bought anything for ten bucks? Probably never, right? You’re
probably too busy under-tipping the people who make ten-bucks an hour waiting
on you to even notice how much of an asshole you are about money, you
imperialist son of a bitch.”

Remington whistles sarcastically.

“Oh, now I am oppressing you? The
evil rich guy and the innocent poor girl, is that it? Are those the roles you
want to play? You like role playing, is that it? I’ll play with you.”

He steps out from behind the
kitchen counter with the margarita pitcher in hand, and in one step is standing
nose to nose with me.

I can feel the heat radiating from
his body.

And worse, I can feel the heat
radiating right back from my body.

There’s even heat radiating between
us, all on its own, independently, without my consent or approval.

Heat is even throbbing between my
legs. Heat is everywhere when Remington Wilde is involved. Heat seems to be
seeping into my bones, into my groin.

Hot damn.

“Is this oppressive enough?” Remington
murmurs. “Or should I get my imperialist whip and teach you a real lesson?”

Holy. Fuck.

I’m really curious what would
happen if I said yes right now.

No, Veronique. No, no, no. You
cannot let your new jerk of a stepbrother whip you. Do not pass go.

Swallowing, I take a deep breath
and step back.

“Obviously I will just have to be
the bigger person here,” I say through gritted teeth. “I am stuck here, and I
suppose I am stuck with you thanks to our parents’ wedding, and since I do not
know what on earth to do about it right now, I am going to go take a nap. I
would really appreciate it if you would let me.”

With that, and as much dignity as I
can muster, I gather my skirt and trudge up the stairs toward the bedroom.

“You don’t want to go in there,” Remington
calls after me.

“Bite me!” I reply.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Fuck you!” I retort.

“You wish!”

What are we, fifteen? Rolling my
eyes and groaning in exasperation, I push open the bedroom door.

And freeze.

On the bed are I don’t even know
how many scantily clad women; every time my brain thinks it’s counted, someone
moves and there are more of them. No, not women: supermodels. And oh, yup: I
see nipples. They’re actually naked.

It’s like a Playboy just exploded all
over my bed.

“You’re not Remington,” one woman
says sleepily.

No shit, Sherlock.

Oh. My. God. I’ve just walked in on
a supermodel orgy in my – well, sort of my – resort room.

A woman taps a thin line of white
powder onto yet another girl’s belly and snorts it. Cocaine? Whoa. I didn’t
think people still did cocaine, that’s how hip I am. Another woman pats an
empty space on the bed next to her.

“There’s plenty of room sweetie,”
she says. “Take off your dress and hop on in.”

“I – uh – no thanks,” I stutter.

Picking my jaw up off the floor, I
wonder momentarily if I am having a stroke.

“Remington!” I shout. “What the
fuck?”

“I’d have told you you’re the only
girl for me, sis,” Remington retorts, “But you’d know that was a lie.” Remington’s
voice in my ear startles me out of my shock and I jump three feet into the air.
His hand is suddenly resting on my waist, his breath soft on my neck. “Care to
join us?”

I spin around to face him,
bewildered and inexplicably humiliated.

“Remington, please, why are all these
girls in my bed?”

“You mean
my
bed. If you
really need an explanation, you can watch.”

I can feel the all-too familiar
sensation of my cheeks turning hot and red and tears prickling at my eyes.

Wait. Why should I be embarrassed?

I’m not the one that’s acting like
a disgusting sex maniac. God, where did all these women come from? Two hours
ago this villa was empty. Did Remington have them airdropped?

“No thank you,” I repeat, my voice
growing stronger. “And I will kindly ask for the last time that you take your
margaritas and your sex party elsewhere. Please. I need to be alone.”

Now Remington’s eyes flash.

“I don’t know who you think you
are,” he says, his voice dangerously soft, “But you are trespassing on private
property; property which I happen to own. If you want so badly to judge my
lifestyle and have your precious alone time, then you can crawl back into the
jungle for all I care. And take your father with you.”

“Remington!”

But he ignores the true pleading in
my voice and turns to the bed, wading in to the sea of beautiful women, accepting
an obscene amount of attention that begins to turn inappropriate alarmingly
fast. Let’s just say Remington’s boxers don’t last for more than five seconds,
and what I see leaves little to the imagination.

And he’s just as big in reality as
in my wildest fantasies.

“Oh my god,” I choke, shocked.

Remington’s eyes flicker up,
arresting mine. His gaze is defiant and challenging, an invitation and a dare.
And I just can’t take it right now.

Because you know what? If these
supermodels weren’t here, I’d probably accept that challenge. I’d probably take
him on. I’d probably jump onto the bed and jump his bones.

And god knows what would happen
then.

Completely humiliated, I have no
choice but to flee the room. My heart is pounding. My cheeks are so hot with
shame that they sting – shame at what I’ve just witnessed, sure, but mostly
shame that I am jealous. Shame that part of me wishes I were in bed with Remington
instead.

Stumbling down the stairs, I snatch
my backpack and race outside, no idea where I am going.