Wicked Game: a Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (15 page)

Oh sweet hell.

I could feel his throbbing erection growing underneath me, pressing warm and thick against me.
 
I had to end this now before I did anything stupid.
 

He pouted at me.
 
“Are you still mad?”

“I am never not mad at you.
 
It’s my normal state of being.”

With another dramatic groan, he rolled off of me.
 
He grabbed the alarm clock from the side table and glanced at it.
 
Then he gestured at the blaring red numbers.

“While you’re being pissed off at me, I should warn you,” he said, nodding at the time.
 
“We’ve got to get out of here by noon.”

“Noon?
 
What’s at noon?”

“The charity ball?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
 
“It’s next week, and we’ve got to practice for it.
 
We’ve both got to get dressed.”
 
He leaned back with another grin, his gaze running down my body.
 
“You go first.
 
Do it slow.”

“Excuse me while I vomit.”

He sighed.
 
“Whether you like it or not, we’re still supposed to be ‘married.’
 
And part of being married is pretending to like each other.”
 
He leaned forward.
 
“Anything you want me to wear at the ball especially for you?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“A paper bag on your head.”

A pillow hit me in the face.
 

“Sure thing, wifey.”

“Stop picking at your gloves,” Damien whispered.

I couldn’t help it.  The pale pink silk of the opera gloves itched against my elbow, and the flouncy skirt of this dress threatened to trip me.  We stood on the second floor of the building, right in front of the massive doors that led to the grand staircase.  The staircase Damien and I would be officially “presented” at, and then he would lead me down in front of a crowd of thousands.

While I desperately tried not to trip over this godforsaken skirt.

While being blinded by these godforsaken floodlights.

While I wore godforsaken four inch stilettos.  

Fucking wonderful.

Even our week of practicing this walk and the presentation hadn’t prepared me for the reality of facing an entire museum full of people.
 
Now that the night of the charity ball was finally here, I was fighting the urge to run at every second.
 
Damien chuckled under his breath at the fear in my eyes.
 
I made a mental note to murder him in his sleep later when I was no longer seconds from a mental breakdown.
 

“Just trust me.  They’ll love you.”

“Yeah, especially when I faint and tumble to my death.”

He rolled his eyes.  “They’re here for the free food and booze.  Trust me, they won’t be paying too much attention.  Just follow my lead, and try not to throw up.”

Easier said than done.  I swallowed against my turning stomach.

“Thirty seconds,” one of the pages, dressed in a crisp white uniform, whispered to us.  Damien nodded, then patted my arm.

Damien and I hadn’t slept together since that night.
 
But I didn’t hate him anymore, either.
 
I wasn’t sure what I felt toward him.
 

He had changed, but I didn’t trust him.
 
I liked him, but I wasn’t stupid enough to love him.
 
The memory of him saying “Yes” to my question about loving me still rang in my ears, confusing me at ever moment.
 
A lie meant to keep us together for the sake of the fake marriage?
 
Or another one of Damien’s manipulations?
 
Or maybe he had convinced himself he really did love me in his own ridiculous little way?

My stomach turned again as I heard the roar of the crowd below us.

 
“If I die,” I growled at him in a whisper, “my ghost is haunting your ass for life.”

Damien snorted.

Lights blinded me as the doors split open, and the sounds of an orchestra and the rustle of skirts turned toward us.  

An ocean of people in tuxedos and ball gowns stood before us, more than I could count through my bleary eyes and pounding head.  The heat of the lights warmed my cheeks, and I desperately hoped the sweat wouldn’t stain the silk of my dress.  My eyes darted from one famous face to another: an actress, a diplomat, three different millionaire presidents of famous companies, and … oh sweet hell is that
really
George Cl—

The booming voice of an announcer thundered overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”  The vibrations rattled beneath my feet, and my week knees wobbled.  Every eye was on me.  Please, please, please don’t let me fall in front of the cameras.  “Presenting Mr. Damien Blackwood and Miss Cleopatra Bishop.”

The deafening applause of thousands of people met us, bouncing off the polished marble floors and golden wallpapered walls.  Damien’s broad smile shined out from beside me.  Ellison had told me to at least pretend to be happy, but my phobia of crowds was finally taking over.  My mind buzzed into panic mode in front of the crowd, and I wobbled on my week knees.

Oh God.

I was going to throw up.

“Mr. Blackwood and Ms. Bishop have cordially invited you…”
 

I tuned out, too wracked by nerves and my turning stomach to keep listening.
 
The announcer boomed that we were officially presented to the public as an engaged couple, and everyone present was cordially invited to our wedding in one month.
 
Damien’s hand squeezed mine, making sure I didn’t fall face forward down the stairs to my doom.

Wait, what did that announcer say?

Everyone was invited to the wedding?
 

I glanced at Damien with crazy eyes.

There was no way in hell I was waltzing in front of this crowd again.

Damien’s strong hand grasped my elbow, keeping me steady in my towering heels as my eyes adjusted to the blinding lights overhead.  A gasp choked in my throat.  

“You hear that applause?
 
They love you,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna die,” I choked.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You’re going to have to drag my corpse across the ballroom.”

“Then I hope your corpse is a good dancer,” he whispered as he pulled me forward.  I stumbled along with him.  The crowd parted in front of us as we reached the foot of the stairs.
 
I forced my gaze to stay forward instead of staring at the celebrities around me.

“Just follow my lead,” Damien instructed as he pulled me into the center of the room.
 
The marble floors were perfectly glossy beneath our feet, reflecting the flickering dim lights above.
 
The crowd had formed a circle around us, ready for us to lead them into the first dance.
 
I could feel my legs begin to shake at the idea.

I hated dancing.

Even if it was with Damien.

“Remember our practices,” he murmured under his breath.

I couldn’t answer.
 
I was nearly frozen with fear.

He smiled, leaned down, and kissed me lightly.
 
A small ripple of whispers was sent through the crowd.
 
They reminded me of the TV audience at Marlene’s show.

The strings started up, and the sound of the waltz began.

Damien’s strong hand on my waist pulled me into the dance.
 

I closed my eyes and let my feet lead me, tracing the steps we had been practicing for a week.
 
The more I pretended it was just Damien and me, the easier it got.
 
I was comfortable with him, I realized.
 
He annoyed the hell out of me, but I liked him.
 
He was probably the only person I could ever say that about.

Midway into the song, I managed to peek open my eyes.
 
Damien was grinning down at me, and I was caught by how beautiful he was.
 
His strong jaw was highlighted by dark stubble, and his eyes glittered in the dim light of the room.
 
He looked just as sexy in this tuxedo as he had in his funeral suit, and his dark hair was messy enough to remind me of his sex hair.
 
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I looked away.

But when I glanced behind him, I realized all eyes were on me.

“What are they staring at?” I whispered.

“Probably at the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“What?”

He raised an eyebrow again, keeping his eyes fixed on me.

I glanced down at the elegant dress and the sight of my face reflected in the polished floor.  My hair rolled down my shoulders in gleaming curls that were pinned with pearls and rubies.  My makeup was flawless, the bloody lips pouting perfectly and my eyes wide and doll-like with dark lashes.  Even my cheeks glowed with the rouge and bronzer the makeup artist had smacked onto me, drawing a blush out of my normally pasty white cheeks.

I was … pretty, I realized.

I glanced back up at him, and he met me with a glowing smile.

Oh.

“Whatever,” I muttered, feeling the blush rush to my cheeks.

“You have such a way with words, Cleo,” he said, sweeping me up into his arms as we waltzed across the room.
 

By now, other couples had joined us, and we were no longer the center of attention.
 
I breathed a sigh of relief.
 
I hated nothing as much as I hated being the center of attention—especially if it was with my ex-stepbrother.
 

But as long as he kept his hands on me, I would be happy.

My skirts brushed the floor as we danced into the night, occasionally stopping to sip champagne and have Damien introduce me to the most powerful businesspeople and celebrities in the world.
 
The further we got into the night, the more relaxed I became.
 
He kept his hand on my waist as we talked, calming me and keeping me steady as he led me through his bizarre world of rich, pretty people.
 

Oddly, I realized I liked it.

I liked it when Damien Blackwood touched me.

What on earth was going on?

Just before midnight, the strings began another waltz.
 
Damien’s eyes lit up, and he grabbed my waist from where we stood in the corner, resting against the wall.
 
I shook my head, giggling a little from the champagne.
 

“Can’t,” I muttered, shaking my blurry head.
 
“Feet hurt.”

He rolled his eyes at me but nodded.
 

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

“I’ll give you a few moments to yourself, then,” he whispered in my ear.
 
His stubble brushed against my cheek, and his warm lips touched my skin.
 
“I’ll be back soon, wifey.”

“Don’t call me—”

He had already swept away into the crowd, leaving me alone and looking silly as a small group of people turned to check out our tiny lovers spat.
 
I sighed and leaned back against the wall, lightly stretching my aching toes in the tight heels.
 
The night was almost over, meaning I would soon be able to slip into my bunny slippers and blankets.
 

This night was almost perfect.

Until Audrey Grace showed up.

My eyes popped open as her voice appeared beside me.

“Evening, Cleopatra,” she said, her voice honey-sweet again.
 
“Strange name.”

“Hello, Audrey,” I croaked.

Audrey.
 
First name basis.
 
Like we were friends.

I would never get used to being part of Damien’s world.

“You don’t seem too surprised to see me here,” she said, tapping her lip.
 
“I wonder why.”