Wicked Game: a Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (8 page)

God, I had to learn to get used to this.  I had spent nearly a week in the Blackwood mansion, and I still had a minor heart attack every time I woke up to strangers raiding my room.  

As an aspiring hermit, that wasn’t too fun.  

Add that to my list of things I had forgotten: what it was like to live with the Blackwoods, where “privacy” was a fairy tale.  I couldn’t even stroll out into the gardens for fresh air without a wild paparazzo sneaking from the bushes or shoving his camera through the iron gate.

I pulled the blankets over my head, only to hear the tinkling of porcelain against a silver platter.  

I peeked over my comforter.  At the foot of my massive California king bed was breakfast—a complete meal of eggs, bacon, toast, and a tiny cup of coffee in a floral teacup.  The only perk to living with Damien.  When I was living alone, I hadn’t had a proper breakfast in… what?  Seven months?  I’d been surviving on dry cereal and rice.  

Eagerly, I threw the blankets off of me and grabbed the toast.  

But I had barely crammed the crispy goodness in my mouth when I heard his voice:

“Damn, Cleo.  Slow down—you don’t want to get sick before the big day.”

Fuck.

Damien.

I glared at him where he leaned against my dresser.  I swallowed down the crispy toast, and it scraped my dry throat painfully.  

“Will you never leave me alone?”

“Of course not, wifey.  Till death do us part.”

He grinned at me, the same cocky grin I ached to slap off his face every time I saw him.  So far, Damien had made it his life mission to stalk me into loving him.  Or at least being a good fake wife.  Normally he was busy at work, but when he wasn’t, I was sure to find him behind me, grinning that cocky grin and mentioning something about how sexy my bunny slippers were.

I’m sure he thought it was working.

To the contrary—I was pretty sure every day brought me closer to homicide.  I justified it to myself by deciding I was just being a Good Samaritan, selflessly wanting to reunite the Blackwood father and son.  The fact that it was in death was just a coincidence.

“You ready, wifey?”

“Don’t call me that.”

My gaze darted to the slinky black dress one maid had hung on the wardrobe.  

Ready.  Of course.  

Today was my big day, the day I was officially coming out the public.  

“Interviews aren’t that bad, Cleo,” he said, sitting down on my bed.  “Just smile, repeat what we practiced yesterday, and try not to grope me too much.  Unless you want to.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Say what you need to to convince yourself, baby.”

I forced myself to stroll to the wardrobe, turning my face away from him so he couldn’t see the blush rising in my cheeks.  I had forgotten what an effect he had on me.  I had managed to keep my hands off him, but the memory of that last night together was making it harder every day.

As much as I hated him, and as much as he deserved it, I couldn’t deny that Damien Blackwood was one sexy motherfucker.  Especially now, with his tousled dark hair, morning scruff, and tense muscles straining against his thin cotton t-shirt.  Normal Damien was sexy, but morning Damien was panty-meltingly hot.  

I couldn’t let him see the effect he had on me.  

The only thing worse than wanting him this bad would be him knowing it.  

He was already planning to stick his hand down my pants.

The last thing he needed was an excuse.

I plucked the dress from where it hung and began wiggling out of my nightgown.  I paused, feeling Damien’s eyes on my back.  Ugh.  I turned to him with a frown.

“Do you mind?” I snapped.

“Mmm, no, not at all.”

My fingers ached to grab one of the crystal paperweights on the desk and fling it at his head.  I clenched them into a fist, forced myself to turn away from him, and counted to ten instead.  It probably wouldn’t look good on the interview if my “fiancé” showed up with a bloody bandage across his face and a story about how little wifey was a firecracker.  

And that’s what I had to focus on, wasn’t it?  Looking good in the interview.

My life depended on that now.  There was no way I could go back to normal, not now that every tabloid in the country (and out of it…) was obsessed with me.  It had taken me years to recover from my teenage life with the Blackwoods, and all that had been snatched from me the instant Damien announced I was his wife.  The only way out was to go along with it.  Like it or not, Damien had me wrapped around his finger.  I had to play Damien’s wicked little game if I wanted to escape it.  

I glanced at the black silk dripping down my fingers, and my thumb ran over the plunging neckline.  A pair of sky high heels awaited me, along with a diamond necklace that cost more than the house I grew up in.  My lips turned down into a frown as I glanced back at Damien.

“Do you like it?” he asked, nodding at the dress.  His voice sounded excited, like a little kid handing his mom macaroni art to pin on the fridge.  It was… cute, I realized weirdly.  “I picked it out for you.  And the necklace too, straight from Tiffany’s.”

“It’s okay.”   

“Cleo—” he started.  His voice changed.  Less giddy, more intense, like he was aching to tell me something.  But he choked mid-sentence.  

When I glanced back at him, he was sucking on his bottom lip and tugging at the collar of his shirt.  My gaze fixed on his mouth.  Jesus, I had forgotten how good those lips looked.  Which wasn’t half as they tasted.

God, Cleo!  

Bad girl!

Stop eyefucking your sociopath fiancé!

“What?” I asked, physically forcing myself to turn away again.  We were wasting time.  I had exactly one hour to comb the bed head out of my hair and slap on some makeup, and that wasn’t even counting all the time we would need to fight through the crowds on our way there.

“What?” I demanded, pulling my sweatshirt off.  “And if you’re going to ask if I need any help, the answer is no.”  

The last thing I needed was that man’s hands on me again.  I may hate him, but I couldn’t deny my monkey brain wanted to bang him against a wall so hard he forgot his own name.

“Nothing,” Damien said.  His voice was strange.  Halted and confused.  “We’ll talk later.”

His voice was at the door, already leaving.  It was followed by the creaking and soft click as he pulled it closed, leaving me shivering in the brisk air of my room, alone, shirtless, and confused.

Damien?  Leaving while the stepsister he was stalking was shirtless?

If I knew one thing about Damien Blackwood, it was that he could not exist in the same room as breasts without turning into a caveman.  But he had left.  For once in my life, Damien listened to me and gave me some privacy.  And it couldn’t be because he was a decent person, because I knew better than anybody that that wasn’t true.

I glanced down at my chest.  

What, were these not good enough for him anymore?  Spoiled fucker.

Whatever.  I had a mission.

I checked myself out in the mirror, practicing a few of the lovey-dovey faces Ellison had taught me to make at Damien while he (thank God) did most of the interview for me.

Cleopatra Bishop.  Ex-stepsister, loving fiancé, elegant society woman.

I took a deep breath and struggled my way into the dress.

Let’s hope nobody noticed my tramp stamp.

***

“
Cleopatra
.  A very special name for a very special woman!”

Marlene Williams, the most famous talk show host in America, tilted her head and flashed me a blindingly white smile.  We sat on her red plush couches in front of a live studio audience, Damien at my side and a camera pinned to the inside of my dress.  My head was dizzy, and I struggled to keep my breathing straight.  The hot lights blaring down on me were giving me a headache, and the smell of Damien’s cologne was turning my stomach.  I desperately tried to keep the Stepford Wife smile on my face as Damien subtly nudged my thigh.  

Damien had managed to carry most of the interview—“Yes, we met as teenage stepsiblings.  Yes, we’ve been dating for years but kept it secret because we like our privacy.  Yes, we’re definitely in love and not faking this in order to steal my dead dad’s money.”—but now every eye was on me.

I knew I’d have to talk eventually.

Didn’t mean I would enjoy it.

“Um.  Yes, I guess so,” my voice cracked out.  

I silently pleaded that it didn’t sound as ragged as it seemed.  Great first impression, Cleo.  Keep this up and they’ll think you’re a crazy cat lady he rescued from the streets.  My hands smoothed down the black silk dress, my fingertips stroking the soft cloth to calm myself.

“Just one more question while we have your time.  What first attracted you to him?” Marlene asked, putting a hand to heart.  “What made you think,
yes
!  This is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with!”

Five thousand dollars.

The cameras, dozens of them, turned to me again.  That probably wasn’t a good answer, at least if Damien was going for “genuine lovers” instead of “gold digger and sociopath businessman.”

“Damien is… um, very persistent.”

Marlene laughed, and the audience followed.  My breathing calmed just a little bit as Damien patted my leg.  I made them laugh.  Maybe I wasn’t going to royally fuck this up.  

“And he’s extremely good at what he does, he works hard and long and intense, and…”

The sound of laughter fluttered through the audience.  I glanced at Damien to see that he was waggling his eyebrows at the audience.  

Oh God, I moaned internally as I realized what he was implying.  

My cheeks began burning red.  

Sure, he was an animal when it came to sex, but the last thing I needed was an audience of strangers imagining me on my back in my stepbrother’s bed.

His arm was draped around my shoulders, and I felt his fingers creep up to rest on my thigh.  The audience ate it up, howling a few wolf whistles.  

It was part of the act, I realized.  He was playing the audience.  He was a natural at this.

If only I could say the same.

“And you, Mr. Blackwood?  What first attracted you to her?”

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Marlene,” he said, drawing his arm around me tighter.  
Marlene
.  Like they were best friends, and he was telling her a secret.  He really
was
good at playing them.  The cameras zoomed in on him as he looked down on me lovingly.  I almost bought it.  “When we first met at teenagers, I knew we had something.  She was smart, kind, hilarious… and gorgeous, obviously.”

Right, obviously.  The woman currently white-faced and sweating, desperately trying not to throw up in front of the cameras, was gorgeous.  Obviously.

“And of course,” he added, waggling his eyebrows again.   “She’s also very…
good
.”

He drew the word out scandalously long, and the audience laughed.  I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks again.  Goddamnit, Damien, I’m going to look like a tomato in front of the biggest audience on TV.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment we met,” he said, shrugging as if that should be obvious too.  “It took me years to find her again, but it was worth it.  I can’t imagine a life without Cleopatra.  It wouldn’t be a life worth living.”

The audience awwwed.  

Sweet, Damien.  Keep going and you’ll give them diabetes.

The producer at the side of the stage gave a hand signal to our hostess, and I took a deep breath of relief.  We were done.

Marlene turned back to the audience, telling everyone at home to stay right there because after the commercial break they’d reveal some brand new bikini season diet program.  I winced at the description of a tofu and carrot smoothie, but Damien pinched my leg.  

Right.  We have to play nice.  Be a good girl, Cleo.  Pretend like both carrot-tofu smoothies and your stepbrother do not absolutely revolt you.

Marlene turned back to us, her smile wide again.

“And thank you so much Damien and Cleopatra,” she said, standing up and extending a hand.  We both shook it as she gushed.  “It was an amazing opportunity to cover the most famous love story in the country.  I personally can’t wait until we get to cover the wedding!”

The wedding.  Ugh.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to think about it too hard.

The outro music began playing as we stood, Damien slipping an arm around me to steady me.  Behind the cameras, the producer held up ten fingers.  Ten seconds until we cut to commercial.  

Thank God.  It was over.  Finally  

But just one more thing—something Ellison suggested during our practice run as a way to seal the deal.  Every newly engaged couple kissed at least once, and right now was the best time to get a peck in.  He nodded at me from his place in the audience, glancing at Damien.

I turned to him like we had practiced, ready to give him a peck on the lips, and then scrub them viciously in the studio’s ladies room afterward with disinfectant.