Prince Albert: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (29 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

GAIGE

"How was your day, darlin'?"  I pause in her doorway, leaning against the door frame. 
My
day consisted of the usual -- spending a few hours in the gym and then physical therapy -- but preceded by a visit to Delaney's office.  Screwing around with Delaney isn't on my usual list of activities, so I had something extra to look forward to this morning.  I woke with a spring in my step.  As much as I could have a spring in my step with this boot on my damn foot, anyway.

My mood was great until Chelsea interrupted us.  Chelsea and I went out once a few months ago -- a business dinner and that's it.  She's aggressive as hell and I got the vibe that she wanted it to be more than a business dinner.  I also got the vibe that she's wound tight as a spring, the kind of chick who might go all psycho, boil a bunny or some shit.  And that's exactly the kind of girl I stay the hell away from.  But she's good at what she does, so I haven't had a reason to ask Beau to reassign her. 
Yet.

The point is, I wanted to see Delaney's face when she opened the box.  And Chelsea walked in and ruined the whole fucking thing.

Delaney is bent over, one hand on the white bedspread that covers her bed, the other on the zipper on the inside of her heeled boots.  She positively oozes temptation, wearing a black pencil skirt, the fabric pulled tight over the contours of her ass, and matching "fuck me" boots.  Her hair spills forward, partially obscuring her face, and she finishes zipping her boot before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stands up, glaring at me.  "What are you doing here?" she asks.  "Don't you have to be in Vegas or something?  And don't call me
darling
."

"It's darlin', not
darling
, first of all.  And second of all, it's a term of endearment," I say, shrugging.  "You've been in New York too long.  This is me being polite, showing my Texan roots."

Delaney puts her hands on her hips and looks at me with her eyes narrowed.  "It's condescending," she says.  "And you're not even from Texas."

I step inside her room, looking around.  "I'm hurt that you'd say that, Delaney," I say.  "What would you like me to call you?  You hate
Delamey
, and now you don't like darlin', either?  And living in Texas the past few years makes me practically a Texan.  In fact, I should have your father take me shopping for cowboy boots."

"You can call me by my name like a normal person," she says.  "And you never answered my question.  Don't you have a flight to catch?"

"Shit, what crawled up your ass tonight?"  I walk past the photos she's already hung on her wall, her and her friends in various touristy places -- in front of the National Monument in Washington DC, the Lincoln Center, standing outside of a bar in New York City.  "Can't I check in on my stepsister before I jet out for this business bullshit?"

Delaney crosses to the other side of the room, standing in front of one of the photos protectively, her arms over her chest.  I really should tell her that the gesture does absolutely nothing to hide those tits.  In fact, it only pushes them up higher, giving me an even better view.  "Nothing crawled up my ass."

"You could have fooled me," I say.  "You were practically a ray of sunshine this morning, and now you're, well...
not
."

She gives me a look.  I know that look.  It's the one she used to give me when I'd rile her up and make her crazy.  It's the one that says she might be close to murdering me.  "I'm trying to make sure you're not late," she says.  "Remember, my new job involves managing you.  Why aren't you at the airport already?"

"I'm on my way," I say.  "The driver is waiting for me downstairs."

"So you thought you'd stop by and try to get under my skin before you left me in peace for the weekend?"

"I need to leave you something to remember me by," I say.

"I think you already did that."

"I know," I say.  "I'm disappointed.  I gave you the best first-day-of-work present ever and you have no reaction at all?"

"It was exceptionally mature."  She rolls her eyes.

"If you'd have used it, you might be less grouchy," I say.  "You haven't used it, have you?"

"No, I haven't used it," she says.  "How totally..."

"Filthy?" I ask.

"Disgusting," she says.

"Because it's my cock, or because we're family?"

"Do I have to choose one option?" she asks.  "And don't try to pass it off as if it was really made from your cock."

"It's mine," I say, reaching for my belt buckle.  "You can compare it to the real thing, if you want."

"Oh my God, no," she protests.  "Stop."

"That's just sad," I say.

"What?"

"That you've lost your sense of humor.  Old Delaney would have laughed at something like that."

"New Delaney is just as likely to laugh at your cock," she says, looking at me with one eyebrow raised.

"Then why all the hate?"

Delaney exhales heavily.  "Maybe it would have been a better present for
Chelsea
," she says.

"Ah, so that's it," I say.  I turn and squint at the photos on the wall, trying to see if there are any boyfriends I should be aware of.  Not that I want to be Delaney's boyfriend. 
That's
not my fucking style.  I like my women boyfriendless.  I brush aside the brief realization that I just thought of Delaney as "my woman."

"What's
it
?"  Delaney tilts her head up.  She's wearing makeup -- eyeliner and lip gloss, her cheeks a rosy red that gives her a flush that reminds me of sex.

"You really do have quite a jealous streak, don't you," I notice.

"I'm not jealous in the least," she says.  "I just think you should be directing your little cock jokes toward someone who's more interested in them than I am."

"Sure you're not jealous, darlin'," I say, looking at her lips.  Those soft, plump, lying-ass lips.  "And I've never heard my cock described as
little
."

Delaney runs her tongue over her lower lip and I want to take it between my teeth.  Her lip-gloss gives it a sheen that makes it even more irresistible.  I bring my hands to the wall over her head, pressing them flat there so that I can't possibly grab her in my arms the way I want to and crush my mouth down on hers.  Instead, I just stand there, pushing my hands into the wall and looking into those bright green eyes.

"I don't care what you do," Delaney says, looking up at me.  "With Chelsea or otherwise.  So have fun on your Vegas trip."

"You should just admit you're jealous," I advise.  "It's not good to keep all that pent up anger inside, you know.  It leads to all kinds of problems."  I don't mention that this Vegas trip with Chelsea is exactly the last thing I'd ever want to do.  It was booked before Beau had assigned Delaney to me, and it's going to be a fan event.  I'd been hoping that if I swung by Delaney's room, I might be able to talk her into going and being a fucking buffer between me and Chelsea.  But it doesn't look like that's going to go the way I pictured.

Delaney groans.  "I'm not jealous."

"Liar."  I whisper the word, looking into Delaney's eyes.  Her pupils are as large as saucers, her own body betraying her. 

She laughs.  "You're one to talk," she says.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."  She shakes her head.

"It's not nothing," I say.  "I might be a lot of things, but I'm sure as hell honest."

Delaney raises her eyebrows.  "Never mind.  It was a long time ago, Gaige," she says.  "It's all water under the bridge."

"Darlin', nothing about us is water under the bridge," I say.

"I didn't come back here to restart something with you, Gaige."

"You and I are the fucking definition of unfinished."  I want to pull that skirt of hers up over that curvy ass and show her exactly how I want to restart things between us.

"It was finished that night," she says, finally looking away.

Now I slide my fingers under the edge of her chin and tilt it up at me.  Touching her sends a jolt of electricity ricocheting through my body.  I run my thumb along the other side of her jaw, trying to keep my desire for her under control.  I'm
trying
to be reasonable.  "The night you never showed up?"

She pulls away from me and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest.  "You mean the night I ran into -- what was her name, Bambi or something?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I was on my way to meet you in the guest house that night," she says.  "Until I ran into one of your bimbos on the way."

"I didn't fucking have any bimbos," I say.

"Some girl," she says.  "She knew you."  The way she says the last three words, practically spitting them out, tells me everything I need to know.  Whatever the hell she misunderstood about whatever girl showed up back then, she's been sitting on that for the past four fucking years.

I hear my voice soften, despite my annoyance at her for being so easily dissuaded back then.  "There were no other girls, Delaney."

She rolls her eyes.  "Sure, Gaige," she says.  "You're as pure as the driven snow."

"Exactly the opposite," I say.  Before Delaney, there were lots of girls, a parade of girls I displayed partially to make her jealous.  But the moment she kissed me that summer, it ruined me for anyone else.  There wasn't anyone, as long as she was there.  When she left, well, that was a different story.  Post-Delaney, I was sure as hell the opposite of pure.  I fucked every chick I could find who might possibly erase Delaney from my head.  "But when you and I were together back then, there were no other girls.  I might be a lot of things, but I'm no cheater."

"So some chick just shows up at your house, her panties in hand, ready to party?" she asks.  She shakes her head again, purses her lips.  She doesn't believe me.  "Anyway, the entire thing is irrelevant.  We weren't together; there was nothing between us.  You might not think it's water under the bridge, but I haven't given it a moment's thought since I left Dallas.  Chelsea is my boss and your manager at Marlowe.  So I'm looking out for you."

"You're looking out for me, huh?" I ask.  "That's it?"

"That's it," she says.  "Don't shit where you eat.  That's all I'm concerned about."

"I'm sure that's all it is, darlin'."  She's obviously lying.  I'm tempted to kiss her, but I don't.

"Have a nice flight," she says abruptly.  My cue to leave.

"I hope you can find a way to entertain yourself while I'm gone," I say.  I picture her using the dildo and the thought makes me rock hard.  Damn it, there's nothing worse than leaving for a trip with your dick as hard as a fucking rock.

"I will," she says.

I'm down the stairs and on the way to the airport before I realize that her "I will" sounded way too smug.  And she was all dressed up,
fuck me
boots and all.  I was so concerned about giving her grief, I didn't even ask where the hell she was going.  Trapped in the car on the way to the airport, I can't stop thinking about it.  And now I
really
don't want to be stuck in Vegas with Chelsea.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DELANEY

"Oh my God, how much did you miss real Texas queso when we were in New York?"  I dip a chip into the bowl and shove the entire thing into my mouth.  "I am absolutely starving."

"Here are your drinks."  The waitress sets our glasses and silver shakers on the table, and disappears as quickly as she arrived.

"Cheers to your first day at work," Daniel says, holding up his glass.  I met Daniel two years ago at Columbia – I literally bumped into him while he was on his way to an audition.  It turned out, he was from Dallas, and we became instantaneous friends.

"Even if it doesn't really count?"  I take a sip of the drink, a Texas specialty that's like a margarita in a martini glass, complete with olives.

"Shut up," Daniel says, sipping his drink.  "Who cares if your daddy is the CEO of the company?  That's how the world works.  At least your mother didn't have you auditioning for commercials before you could walk."

Laughing, I crunch on another chip.  "But the commercials from when you were a toddler were totally adorable."

"It's appalling that they're on the internet," he says, rolling his eyes.  "It used to be that people's shameful childhood experiences didn't live on forever and ever."

"They're cute," I insist.  "And besides, now it's saved for posterity.  When you become super famous, they'll use them in one of those throwback episodes: a glimpse into Daniel Beacon's childhood."

"Now I feel tons better," he says, waving his hand dismissively.  "
Cute
is just fantastic for my dating life, by the way."

"How is the dating life?"

"Oh, you know," he says.  "I'm seeing a few guys, no one special."

"What about the lawyer?"

"Too work obsessed, of course," he says.  "There's nothing new with my dating life.  I'll die a spinster."

"You're not going to die a spinster.  But if it's any consolation, you'd make a fabulous spinster," I note.  "I can see you being the gay version of the Dowager on Downton Abbey – bitter and witty and clever."

"I really need to date someone with a title," he says, sipping his drink.  "Like a prince.  Or an earl.  Oh, but I want to hear about the famous stepbrother."

"What?"  My voice goes up an octave.  "How did you know he was here?"

Daniel's eyes narrow and he sips his drink.  "You didn't think you could hide this from me, did you?" he asks.  "I read an article."

"You follow motorcycle racing?" I ask, my voice dripping with disbelief.

"No," he says.  "But I follow hot guys.  And Gaige O'Neal is hot as hell.  Isn't he?  Tell me he's lying around the pool sunning himself.  Oh, tell me he needs a cabana boy."

"Ugh, cut it out.  That's my stepbrother you're talking about."

"So what?" Daniel asks. 

"So, it's repulsive," I say. 
Is it obvious that I'm lying? 
"I don't think of him that way."  But my protests sound weak, feeble, and I have to take a sip of my drink to cover up my faltering voice.

Daniel studies me from across the table.  "First of all, you're not related.  Didn't you only meet a few years ago, anyway?"

"When we were seventeen," I say.  "Anyway, he's completely skeevy.  He's a total manwhore."

"You know that's how I like 'em," Daniel says, wiggling his eyebrows.  "Maybe he's just not finding what he needs, screwing all those girls."

I laugh.  "You want me to set you up, let him know you're hot for him?"

"I'll settle for the opportunity to ogle him as he lays out by the pool," Daniel says.  "You can even join us if you like."

"Well, you'll have to wait on that, because he's in Vegas for the weekend.  With my new boss, Chelsea."  The drink is making me a little tipsy, and I put extra emphasis on her name, punctuating it at the end with a dramatic eye roll.

"Ooh, this sounds good," Daniel says.  "First day at the job and we already hate the boss?  Doesn't she know you're the CEO's daughter?  How dare she get on your bad side?"

"She definitely knows I'm the CEO's daughter," I say.  "I'm sure that's why she hates me.  That, or..."

"Or what?"

"I don't know," I say.  If I tell Daniel that I think Chelsea has the hots for Gaige, he'll think I'm crushing on Gaige myself.  And that's not something I want to discuss, not with anyone.  "It's nothing.  I'm going to be stuck traveling with them to Japan.  I'm babysitting Gaige, basically.  Can you imagine?"

"Mmm," he says, closing his eyes.  "Wait.  I'm imagining it right now.  In this scenario, he's shirtless.  Uh oh, all of his pants were lost by the baggage handlers.  How unfortunate."

I reach across the table and slap Daniel's hand.  "Open your eyes.  You should be expressing your sympathy for me, not fantasizing about my asshole stepbrother."

"Traveling to Japan to babysit one of the hottest men on the planet?" he asks.  "Yeah, let me see if I can muster up some sympathy for you."  He pauses for a second.  "Nope, I just can't do it.  Sorry."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Aw," Daniel pouts and flags down our waitress as she passes, ordering another round of drinks.  "Fine.  We won't discuss your stepbrother and how sexy he is.  We'll talk about the boss instead.  She's a bitch, right?  Tell me all about what a bitch she is."

"She hates me, and --" I start, but Daniel interrupts.

"Wait.  Okay, we can get back to bitchface in a second," he says.  "Of course, I already hate her because she's on her way to -- where did you say she was taking my future husband?"

"Vegas."

"Okay, because she's on her way to Vegas with my future husband," he says.  "I will say one more thing, and then mum's the word, okay?"

I exhale heavily, downing the rest of my drink.  "Go ahead.  What?"

"So they call him Tool, right?"

I groan loudly.  "No way, I'm not talking about this.  No, no, no, no."

"What?"  He puts his hands up.  "It's what they call him.  You're acting as if I made this name up.  All I want to know is if it's as legendary as they say it is."

"Holy shit, Daniel."  I feel my face flush as I think about the
tool
Gaige left me in the office.  It's not in the office anymore, though; obviously I couldn't keep it there, so the box is carefully hidden behind some clothes in my closet.  I'm so tipsy, I almost tell Daniel what Gaige did.  Except I can't quite bring myself to do it.  I suddenly feel like holding on to this, my little secret.  "I'm not telling you about Gaige's tool."

He leans forward and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial level.  "So you know about it, then."

"I do not know about it!" I yelp, sounding defensive.  "I know nothing about Gaige's dick, thank you very much.  I'll leave that to whatever floosy of the hour he's hooking up with."

Daniel raises his eyebrows and leans back in his chair, cocktail in hand, surveying me.  "Floosy, huh?"

"That's right.  Floosy."

"Are you ninety years old?" he asks.  "And you're calling me a spinster."

"Floosy is not an old term," I protest.  "It's...okay, fine, it's an old term.  But it never goes out of style."

"So Gaige is hooking up with
floosies
," Daniel says.  "And maybe your boss, judging by your reaction."

"Can we talk about something else?" I ask.  I don't want to think about Gaige anymore.  And I definitely don't want to think about whatever he and Chelsea are doing in Vegas.  I'm sure the liquor is flowing like water, and Chelsea is doing exactly what she did with him in the office, her hand lingering too long on his arm.  Except this time she's probably wearing some skimpy dress and he's all over her.  I shake off the feeling of disgust I get when I think about the two of them together.

"You're a little touchy about this," Daniel says, studying my expression.  I avoid looking at him, grateful when the waitress interrupts us with our checks.

"What?" I ask, after she leaves.

Daniel shrugs.  "I've never seen you so touchy about someone before," he says.  "You're not into him, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, forcing a laugh.  "That would be insane.  Of course I'm not into him.  I don't even
like
him."

"Sure, doll," he says, still looking at me.  "Whatever you say.”