My Stepbrother's Secret Baby: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance

My Stepbrother’s

Secret Baby

(previously published as Forbidden Arrangement)

ADDISON ALBAUGH

COPYRIGHT 2015 ADDISON ALBAUGH

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

DEDICATION

For Raylyn.

OTHER BOOKS BY ADDISON ALBAUGH

Step by Step

DESCRIPTION

I knew him once upon a time. Trenton Ellsworth.

His father promised my mother the world before trading her in for a newer model and leaving her to die of a broken heart.

We shared a brief summer together while our parents were married; me an awkward pre-teen and him a hunky college student who wouldn’t give me the time of day.

And then I forgot his name. I forgot all about him until our paths crossed again as adults.

And now he needs a favor. And I’m the only one he trusts.

But I can’t have a baby with my former stepbrother. That’s scandalous, right?

Shocking. Shameful. Disgraceful. Disreputable. Immoral.

But I don’t think I can say no. Not when he makes me an offer I can’t refuse.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part One

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

Part Two

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

TRENTON

“This is where I saw her,” I said to my assistant, Rolland, as I paced the pristine white floors of a department store on Fifth Avenue. Echoes of a piano playing Christmas music on another level flooded the space around us. “She was working here last Sunday when I stopped in for a pair of leather gloves.”

“Maybe she only works on weekends?” Rolland suggested. “What did she look like again?”

“Beautiful,” I said as I pictured her in my mind’s eye. “Smooth, milky-white skin. Silky, chocolate hair. Big, brown eyes. Full lips. High cheekbones. Coke bottle curves.”

Rolland stifled a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I said, shooting him a look.

“The way you’re describing her, sir,” he said. “It’s like you’re shopping for a wife or something.”

I tossed my head back as my lips curled into a smile and I raked my ringers through my dark chestnut hair. “I’m not the marrying type, Rolland. You know that.”

“Then why do you need to talk to this girl so bad?” Rolland asked. “You can have any girl in Manhattan. You’re Trenton Ellsworth. Why her?”

“Genetics. That and she reminds me of someone. Someone I haven’t seen in a very long time,” I said, scanning the store one last time as we headed back out to the blustering December weather that awaited us outside. “Did you call the driver like I asked?”

“Yes, sir,” Rolland said, scrambling behind me as we rode the escalator down a level. He was an older man, slightly plump with feathery tufts of gray hair he normally kept tucked beneath a fedora. He used to work for my father until my father died suddenly last year. Rolland was part of my inheritance.

I buttoned up my long, black wool coat as we headed out to Fifth Avenue where my black Town Car was waiting under the awning, clouds of exhaust filling the space behind it where shoppers walked with bags in hand. I slid into the buttery soft leather, heat hitting my face and a hot coffee waiting in a cup holder. My driver knew me well.

“We’re coming back here on Sunday,” I told Rolland as we headed back to my office uptown. “I’m going to find that girl.”

“I’m confused,” Rolland said, removing his fedora and placing it in his lap as he warmed up. “What am I supposed to say to her? What are you offering her again?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, my lips curling into a determined grin. “I’ll tell you exactly what to say.”

BRENNA

“That’ll be eighty-three dollars and eleven cents,” I said to the silver-haired elderly woman in the mink coat standing before me. Behind her stood an older gentleman in a suit and fedora with nothing in his hands. I didn’t even know why he was waiting in line. We had several associates out on the floor to assist customers, but he was staring at me, like he needed
my
help.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as she reached for her change with one trembling hand. She offered me a kind smile and then slowly turned to leave.

“May I help you?” I said to the older gentleman behind her as he stepped forward. His hands fidgeted as his lips opened, and he hesitated to speak.

“Yes,” he said, staring at my nametag. “Brenna, is it?”

“Can I help you?” I asked again, trying my hardest to hide the annoyance in my tone. “Do you need some assistance? I’d be happy to call one of our personal shoppers.”

Customers began to line up behind him. We were in the throes of holiday shopping season and people had places to go and things to see. They didn’t have time to wait in line behind this bumbling idiot.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the counter towards me.

“What’s this?” I asked, reluctantly picking it up. It said, “Rolland Goldstone, personal assistant to T. R. Ellsworth.”

“Never heard of you. Never heard of him,” I said, pursing my lips and looking over his shoulder at the growing line behind him. Ellsworth was the name of a man my mother had married once upon a time. He left her destitute and struggling after trading her in for a younger model. I was only twelve when he left us, and my mother packed us up and moved us to Chicago to live with my grandmother after she couldn’t find a job in New York that paid enough to support us. She died a year later. The doctors said it was undetected cancer, but I always wondered if it was really just a broken heart.

“My number is on the bottom of the card,” he said, pointing. “Please call me when your shift ends. Mr. Ellsworth would like to speak with you.”

My heart pounded in my ears. This guy was seriously freaking me out and I was about two seconds away from calling security.

“Please,” he said, tipping his hat to me. “You’ll want to hear what Mr. Ellsworth has to say.”

“Next!” I called out, ignoring him and slipping the card into my pocket before my manager had a chance to see. He stumbled away with a worried look on his face, as if he was going to face the wrath of a very angry, very mysterious T. R. Ellsworth, whoever that was.

I finished my shift and took the subway home, grateful to find a vacant seat to rest my weary feet. Working eight hours on my feet in those fancy shoes we had to wear really took a toll on me sometimes. Weekends I spent working the leather goods section of the department store and weekdays I spent working the cash register of a coffee shop near Columbia University. I made just enough money to cover my rent in an apartment I shared with a bunch of trust fund snobs from Connecticut whose sole intentions were to marry well and forget the rest. A pedigree and a fancy college degree would get you those things.

I’ll never forget the looks on their snotty little faces when I told them I was taking a year off. They looked at me like I had two heads and then exchanged glances as if to tell each other, “I knew she’d never make it.” Jealousy burned rampant as they continued laughing and living their carefree little lives with unlimited funds attached to the shiny little debit cards resting snug in their thousand dollar wallets.

They had no idea what it was like to take a bus an hour to high school and an hour back, all because you wanted a better future. I had to go to the good schools to get into the good colleges, and when I was offered a partial scholarship to Columbia, I about lost it. In a good way of course.

But all good things must come to an end – at least that’s what my grandma always told me. Columbia wasn’t cheap, and my scholarship only covered a portion of the cost. By my junior year I’d run out of financial aid and had no other choice but to drop out until I could save enough money to return.

America. The land of opportunity. Oh, the irony in that statement. When you boil it down, it doesn’t matter how hard you work. Everything comes down to the all mighty dollar. And it helps to be born with connections. If you didn’t have those two things going for you, you best hope you’ve got lady luck on your side. Somewhere between my junior and senior year, lady luck straight up abandoned me.

With my accounting degree in limbo, I was forced to take up two jobs that I was way overqualified for. All the good jobs were taken or required college degrees. Finished college degrees. Or they went to people who knew people. If you didn’t know people or have pulls in this city you were also damned.

But the last thing I wanted was to pack up and go back home to Chicago. I vowed never to return there permanently. I visited my grandma from time to time, but that was it. I had no business being there. Chicago had never been good to me.

“Brenna Annelise Winters,” my grandma would tell me, “you’re going to be somebody someday. Don’t let anyone or anything stop you from reaching your dreams.”

As I arrived back to my apartment after my shift at the department store, I kicked off my shoes and began unloading my bag and emptying my pockets. My fingers slicked across the cardstock business card in my left pocket. I’d almost forgotten about the weird guy who came in the store earlier that day.

“T. R. Ellsworth,” I mumbled. My mother’s ex-husband had a son, and I’d only met him a few times before, but I couldn’t think of his name. It was a lifetime ago. I dragged my tired self back to my room and shut the door, cracking my laptop open and pulling up a search engine. As I typed his name, over a hundred thousand results popped up. I clicked on the image page. “Hm. He’s pretty handsome.”

After reading a small bio on some socialite stalker’s website, I found out he was just some insanely rich white guy from a world of privilege, I tossed his card in the garbage right where it belonged. I’d had enough of rich white people thinking they could walk around like they owned the place. I refused to fall prey to the same scam my mother fell for.

I pulled his card from the trash and ripped it into as many tiny pieces as I could and sprinkled them all back in the trash.

“Nope,” I said, dusting my hands and not giving him a second thought. Ellsworth was a name I refused to associate with. Bad juju.